close encounters of the nice kind

One of our favorite volunteers at the Center worked her last day yesterday as a summer intern. Meg and I see her on Thursdays and Fridays, when she comes in to help with the kids (this requires a rather lion-like courage in someone like Carolyn, who wasn't especially comfortable with small children. She is, however, our favorite volunteer. Capable, entertaining, wry). She's the well-built, active, blonde soccer-player kind of girl. My favorite breed of athlete.

Two days previously she had come in to visit me while I, kidless, was cleaning toys with bleach in the all-consuming boredom of someone who works in a separate wing of the building from anyone else all alone.

Carolyn was being run ragged by her other jobs at the Center and said, "Two more days...I can last two more days."

I asked, seemingly at random, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"You drink?"

Her face lit up. "Yes!"

I was merely going to suggest, "Drink more," but then said instead, "Want to go out this weekend?"

Of course she agreed, and by yesterday boss Meg was roped into the going-out plan as well. So the three of us met at my apartment and headed -- where else? -- to the Fiddler's Hearth, where we parked ourselves at one of the sidewalk tables to enjoy the mild outdoor temperatures. I had told them of my crush on The Waiter Who Walks Into Things, and sure enough, he waited on us at the outside table. He's tall and skinny with a big goofy smile and no ass, and he comes by his nickname honestly. When he took our orders, he sat down in the extra seat at our table looking a little tired, so we grinned and said, "Take a load off!" He laughed, told us what the specials were, and went to get our drinks.

Whatever scent he was wearing won him extra points. Since I refused to ask him what it was, Meg and Carolyn rock-paper-scissored to see who would do it. (At this point I was greatly embarrassed by the soon-to-be surrender of someone's dignity.) Carolyn won the privilege, asked the next time he swung by the table, and was brusquely answered with a "whatever's on sale" before he disappeared back inside.

Well. Meg looked at me and said, "I think you should go for the bank teller."

Yet twenty minutes later he descended on our table with a glass of something, plunked himself down, and said, "I'm taking your advice, ladies." He stayed and chatted for five or ten minutes, asked our names and where we worked, told us stories of the homeless people that frequent the sidewalks outside the Fiddler's, and bounced back up to get to work. He did this several more times throughout the night, asked what our plans were, and told us that oftentimes the people who work at the Fiddler's head to Corby's after the Fiddler's closes.

Well...we all know me. When the Fiddler's closed, I decided I was hungry and tired and we didn't go to Corby's. Perhaps some other night. I can only handle breakthroughs one small step at a time.

At least now I know his first name: Joe.