Z-Tejas Dos

It’s not so difficult, if I close my eyes and tilt my head up, to imagine that I’m sitting on the beach somewhere, the sun warming my face. I can almost see the light beyond my eyelids. The umbrella only slightly shades my toes, but I don’t mind. Toasty is good. The hiss of far off waves is a soothing white noise that, if I focus, acts to drown out the chatter around me.

The unmistakable “whoosh” of a vehicle followed by an impatient honk jets past me, interrupting my reverie, and I open my eyes…begrudgingly.

I am aware of my actual surroundings again. The hungry blue flames licking the wire mesh of the propane lamp emit the heat that is my sun. The gaseous hiss serves as my waves, and the sanguine glow a few tables down is the summer that I long for, but it’s only the Z-Tejas sign.

Like all of the other outdoor diners, I hunch further into myself, willing my scarf to be thicker. Even though it’s extremely cold outside, by Austin standards, none of us seem to mind. Somehow, the atmosphere, or maybe the food, or maybe the company is worth the dropping temperatures. I personally enjoy Stevie Ray Vaughan’s presence over the speakers. So Austin.

I sit at the far corner table - the prow of the patio. Facing outward, I sense the busy-ness behind me; I hear their conversations and allow them to cover the lull in mine. I am separate, but I am also a part of them. I see the pedestrians in front of and below me. Some have a determined attitude and continue toward their destinations somewhere on Sixth Street. Some have the eager look of hunger in their eyes, and, presently, they turn to sojourn up the narrow stairs that lead to the restaurant immediately behind me. The drawbridge-like path, the music, the runway lights hung from the slatted ceiling, and the assurance of happy babble lead them up to the patio.

Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip. I can’t bear to see someone else trip.

Another group has ascended the steps and joined our ranks, and I cannot help but feel happy as a part of this eclectic assembly. Do they feel it too? Our common interest in the food has made us all brothers for the night. And when our waiter returns, I realize what happy brothers we all are.

When I tire of blatantly staring at the arriving and departing guests of all ages and professions, I let my eyes drift past to the large oak just beyond the sidewalk. How long has it stood sentry to the fluid moat of cars only a few feet away? How long has this house-turned-restaurant stood in comparison? Following the trunk upward to its craggy arms, I spend some time looking through the tree to the apartments across the street, on the other side of the stream of traffic. How often do they stare in hatred in my direction? Or are they proud, like me, to belong to such a place? This space seems so open and impersonal, but I am safe and cozy at my table. Maybe it’s more private because it’s dark, or maybe it’s less public because we all share the common idea of ownership of our tables. We take comfort in each other’s presence, but we have no desire to trespass into one another’s livelihoods, aside from the occasional eavesdropping that we simply cannot help or pass up.

Currently, the beginning chords of “Happy Birthday” filter through the tables. The general hem-haw subsides as respectful listeners send out their own birthday wishes. I don’t hear the end of the song as I begin to think that I wouldn’t mind spending my birthday here this year. Maybe then it will be warmer and we will get dessert so that we can stay a little longer. I think I'd like a different table, though, so that I'm less on the outskirts of the group. Things can be so different depending on the point from which you see them.