You've Got To Know When To Fold 'Em

The other day I wrote about friends, and how, sometimes, there is that moment when someone crosses the line from being just someone you know to being your friend. But there are also, I've just learned, those who come right up to the line; who you hope are going to cross it; you want them to cross it; you're waving them in. And then, instead, they retreat.

Last night I was out with one of those people, and, well, he retreated. Which makes me a little sad, because, though I've only known him for a few months, I think he's smart and interesting, and he knows a lot about music, and so I judged him worth getting to know better.

I've been told, by those who love me and by those who don't, that I'm too judgemental. It's a characteristic of Leos. But we are also, if you believe in horoscopes, and I'm not saying I do, loving and loyal, stubborn and sassy, brave and bossy, and generous. Of course I love "sassy." Enough to be able to bear the pejoratives that come with it.

OK, so I can be judgemental. I try not to be. And I really, really try to keep my judgemental thoughts to myself when I have them. But when you're out with a friend — a male friend — and his mother shows up, and he's obviously enjoying her company more than he is yours, I can't help but wonder if maybe it's time to throw in the towel.

It was, as you may have guessed, Gentle Reader, a karaoke event. I expected the person in question to be there, seeing as how this is his local, and it's because of him that I've been to this bar three or four times before. I know some of the people there, but he's the one I know the "best," if you will. And so we sat together.

Sort of.

I had arrived early, to get a table in the back room where the singers sing. My favourite table, the one with the red leather bench against the wall, was taken. There were only one or two people at each table; they were saving seats for their friends, likely. So I sat at the only empty table, in the middle of the room; two square tables pushed together so there were eight chairs around it, counting the ones on each end.

A few minutes later, my Not Quite Friend arrived, came to my table, took off his coat, put it on the chair across from me, and sat himself down in the chair that was as far as it could be from me without actually being at another table. Though I've never experienced this particular... configuration before, it felt somehow strange. Like having someone sit in the back seat of your car while you're driving, as if to say, I'm not going to ride shotgun because I'm not your friend.

About a half an hour later, his mother came into the bar, and joined us. This may strike you as odd. Perhaps you, too, are too judgemental. I had met her previously, and already formed the opinion that she must have had him when she was nine years old, which means I'm likely closer to her age than I am to his, which only adds to the general weirdness of the situation. I had this Dream On moment where she says to me, "What are you doing hanging around with my son? You should come over to my house and we'll bake cookies together."

She sat beside me, directly across from him. And for the next two hours, the two of them leaned across the table and chatted like a couple of schoolgirls. They even shared an order of fries. I swear, I'm not making that up.

So I went out back to the smoking patio for a cigarette with the bad kids.

After a few minutes I heard the KJ call my NQF's name, and so I said to the other kids, I guess I'd better go back in. Because that's what you do when your friends are singing at a karaoke event.

"Is he your brother?" asked Jim. Jim had seen me at this bar in the past. Once or twice with my not-brother, once or twice without.

I laughed. "No! Why did you think that?"

"Because of the way you were sitting in there."

Then Rob says, "I thought you were a couple, and that you were having a fight."

"Sorry, guys, wrong on both counts. We're just friends. Sort of."

I went back inside. Not long after that, Mom and my not-brother got up simultaneously, and put on their coats. I suppose they had discussed leaving, but I hadn't been able to hear their conversations because the music was too loud. And, you know, because they were sitting at the other end of the table. I watched them go to the bar, to settle up their tab. Suddenly I felt a little pathetic, sitting at that big table, all by myself, in the middle of the room.

Then Jim came and sat beside me. Not across from me and at the other end, but right beside me. "Where's he going?" he asked.

"I don't know. Home, I guess."

"He's an idiot."

I didn't get what he meant at first. "Oh, no, that's his mother," I explained.

Jim looked at the two of them, then at me, then watched the two of them leave.

"Did I mention, he's an idiot?" he said again.

I wanted to agree, but I'm working on being less judgemental.

Go to next story in sequence. Or, skip ahead to this story, in which it becomes clear that Sass doesn't know when to fold 'em.