Z-Tejas

Sitting on the patio outside Z-Tejas, I’m thinking about atmosphere and space and relationship-spider-webs, and even though I know I should analyze my own response to space, I am most intrigued by the people around me. My eyes are drawn to the hostess inside the restaurant, standing behind her wooden podium: her shield against the crowd swarming around her. I can’t hear what she’s saying or what people are asking her, but I wonder if she appreciates her opposite magnetic charge to what seems to be everyone else in the restaurant. She is the nucleus around which wait-staff and customers revolve, and it seems she has the power to throw them back into revolution on the course of her choice. If, like in Ersilia, there were strings drawn between relationships (in this case superficial and temporary relationships) the restaurant would approximate the shape of an iconic spider web and she, the only person on staff wearing white and black (as opposed to just black), would be the center. So, stomach full and strangely warm (thanks to the heaters on deck) I sit on the outermost strand of the web, watching the hostess direct traffic.

Speaking of traffic, I’m playing with my ability to focus hearing on 6th street down below and the birthday dinner across the patio. When the conversation falls into boring and clichéd anecdotes, I shift my hearing and focus on the cars. Soon the noise is so overwhelming that my breathing rate increases. I pretend I can’t take in anymore, I’m drowning in the noise of the cars, the hum of the engines become a collective roar, and it’s as if I can feel the weight between the tires and the pavement. And then I snap it off, and I realize that the loud chatter balances the noisy street so that neither the talking nor the cars should, naturally, overwhelm the guests. If I listen closely enough I can hear the doors squeaking open and closed as waiters dash through. So focused on noise, I try to pretend that I’m August Rush, and I can organize all of these sounds into a symphony that would make Stomp green with envy. I realize my brain does not work like that and I resume to eavesdropping on the table across the room.

As a person occupying the corner-most spot of the patio, my perception of the room is strangely contradictory. I can see that the “ceiling” is very tall, and actually not a ceiling at all. The roof is totally transparent, but still present because of how close the beams are to one another, the vines growing through it, and the beams holding it up. The patio is large enough to where it shouldn’t be intimate: I’m clearly sharing this space with multiple people that I do not know, and I’m close enough to hear about Susan’s surprise party at work, but somehow my specific area retains some degree of personality and security. The heater is immediately beside me, so that I can see it in my periphery, but more importantly feel warmth on the top of my head and back. This one object is making my space unique and intimate for me, within a room that would normally feel too public to get so comfy in.

While I wouldn’t trade it for my toasty back, I wish I had some more light. My main source comes from the lamppost down by the street and the confident red glow of the “Z” on the sign sprouting out of the flowerbed. I have no idea what kind of seafood enchilada I’m eating until I fork it into my mouth. What if I wanted to start with the salmon and save the shrimp for last? Or what if there was a particularly burnt piece of food that I would ordinarily pick around before scooting it to the edge of my plate? I have to trust the cooks more than usual, though I am only mildly aware of this: I’m starving and it smells delicious.

On the subject of smells, I have a confession to make. I wish the guy standing down on the sidewalk smoking were sitting next to me. I love the smell of cigarette smoke! I can’t help it. I’ve never smoked in my life but the smell evokes a powerful nostalgic feeling in me that I can’t avoid. For the time being I enjoy the brief traces of smoke, regardless that they come attached with icy wind.

Now I’m thinking about what relationship-strands I would be attached to, or more specifically, which strands would be attached to me. (And I do not disregard relationships with non-humans.) I am connected with my waiter and to the man smoking on the sidewalk. I’m connected with Susan because I can hear her, and I’m connected with my heater, because it’s keeping me warm. I’m connected to the cooks because they made my food, and I’m connected to the patio because I’m sharing it with the other diners. I’m connected to the street, and the cars I can hear. I’m connected with roof and it’s ambiguous permeability. And I’m connected with the hostess and the activity around her, because she’s what I’m facing and what I’m seeing and what I’m thinking about. I am connected to everything I sense. It seems we are all the center of a web.