The Hell of the Socially Awkward Man

Not as personal as you might think, or perhaps it is, this story was inspired by the weird hypothetical scenarios and fortunately-never-occurring dialogues that come to fruition only in our heads (or, at least, my head). Lighter in mood than some of the others writings, I have thought about doing a follow up.

I pick up the few items and put them on the counter.

“Just them, please.” So far, so good.

The man behind the counter scans the items and then begins shuffling things under the counter. What’s he doing? He must be getting me a carrier bag for my items. I hate bags – well, unnecessary shopping bags, anyway. Your hands get overfull, everything ends up really cumbersome. Besides, it’s bad for the environment. They charge in most European countries, even charge in some of the shops here. That’s because, environmentally speaking, like I said, it is bad form. Of course, the charge is just to give credence to the myth that big shops care about the damage done to the world. It’s all for show. But that doesn’t mean that you should take a bag you don’t need. It means you should not take a bag because it’s right, small fee or otherwise. Now, I’m not saying don’t take a bag if you really need one, just make sure you do really need one.

So I put my backpack on the counter and have a look. It is pretty full. However, I could easily hold my book and then the three items that would be awkward to carry in my hands will fit comfortably into my bag. Problem solved, no bag needed. So I tell the man behind the counter that his searching (he’s been under there for about half a minute now; how long does it take to get a bag?) is no longer necessary.

“I don’t need a bag, I’ve got space in here if I carry my book.”

“Hmm,” he says smiling, half way between confused and amused.

Why did I qualify that? What was wrong with ‘I don’t need a a bag, thanks’? Oh well, it’s done now.

And he’s still shuffling!

A bleep goes under the counter.

I realise he hasn’t been looking for a bag. They normally ask first, he didn’t ask. Obviously, he wasn’t looking for a bag. I realise now that one of my items doesn’t have a barcode. They have a barcode for it under the counter.

Oh, shit! What does he think of me? Do I now sound impatient, waiting for a bag I didn’t want? Or that I just unnecessarily explain every detail of the processes my mind goes through? Maybe he thinks I was trying to draw attention to my book. As if I’m proud that I read. It’s not even a literary book or particularly intellectual. Most my workmates have read it, not all of them are especially heavy readers. Why should I be proud of it? But he might think I am. Whatever he thinks, he’s not going to be impressed with me. How could I fuck up just buying three measly items in a shop?

He asks for the money. I pay the man and abruptly leave the shop, carrying the items and my book in my arms. I’ll sort them outside, I just need to get away from the embarrassment of this scene. I fiddle awkwardly with the door, the items wriggle tenuously in my arms. As I get outside, the items fly out of my arms and the door slams behind me.

What the hell have I done? After making such a fuss about not needing a bag! Because of my bag. Which I did not use. And then I proceed to drop all my stuff in front of the attendant I had just conversed moronically with. The shame of being a spectacle lies at my feet. I bend down, put the scattered items into my bag and walk off, ready to die.

Upon reflection, I can see how ludicrously melodramatic the above sounds. However, this constant introspection runs through my head mercilessly. The tragedy is that I am the most socially awkward person imaginable. It’s just that nobody knows it but me. I know the guy in the shop may have considered me a bit odd for all of 20 seconds and, for him, that would be the end of it. But the embarrassment I felt in that situation will plague me throughout the day. It will come and go in waves. It will creep up on me when I least expect it. I will be sitting there, having a cup of coffee or whatever, thinking of nothing and then suddenly I will reflect on my own ridiculous behaviour. Sometimes the mental shame triggers a physical reaction – rough shaking of the head to rid myself of the thought or a light punch as a further form of self-abuse. I will analyse, deconstruct and analyse once more in an attempt to exhaust the memory but most of the time I will just bring about an even greater sense of bemusement at myself.

The thing is, around people I know well, I am perfectly at ease. I know these people, they know me and my quirks and I rarely suffer any embarrassment. Also, in formal meetings, where you have to act professional and sensible (in a sense, to be somebody that you are not), I understand the rules and can play the game. However, those social interactions that we go through almost everyday – the friendly till attendant; the person at work you sort-of-know that talks to you by the kettle; encounters with family members you’re not too close to; or friends of friends when your mutual acquaintance goes to the loo – in these situations I panic inside so much that I just want to run away and/or hide. But then I know that the behaviour will be so bizarre that I’ll become some sort of pariah. It really is an intolerable burden.

However, today is going to be different. It has to be. Today I am going to ask out the girl who works in the coffee shop. She’s sweet, charming and her quirky personality appears to suffer the same tension of trying to be comfortable while being an oddity – a tension I think she manages to control well. She always wears her hair up and when I saw her tattoo of Ryu mid-dragon punch on the top of her back, bottom of her neck, my fall into besottedness was complete. We have exchanged a few words at the counter and she seems so happy and helpful that I can’t help but hope. I know it’s her job to be happy and helpful but I feel that she is a touch more accommodating with me. So today I need the confidence to bite the bullet.

As I leave the tube station I stride confidently, purposely down the street. My head’s held high and my face is set in contented-smile mode. I know nothing can faze me, as long as I can get there with no interruptions.

“Good morning!” someone booms in my face. Where the fuck did they come from?

It’s a chugger. Hipster glasses, short hair and a big, ill-fitting coat. Shit! I can’t tell if it’s a feminine boy or an androgynous girl. I’m out of my depth and all they have done is offered a greeting.

“Can I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”

He/she already has one up on me, it knows I’m a bloke. I’m stunned silent in my uncertainty. He or she takes the hesitation as a sign to continue.

“Did you have a happy childhood?” Jesus! That’s a bit fucking personal. And why is their voice in a husky, gender-neutral tone? Why do I not know what you are? Where the fuck am I? I look at the coat – something to do with kids.

Oh, not bloody kids. Their cause is so emotive. And they get loads of support anyway, they don’t need my help. So many people give their money to children’s charities because it’s a completely uncontroversial cause. ‘Do you think it’s okay to beat a child senseless and feed it nothing but dog food?’ ‘Of course not!’ ‘Then give us some money or that’s what will happen.’ Ridiculous! So I try to give my money to causes that I think are less supported but worthwhile. I’m giving money to a water aid charity because they help countries where a child’s birth is a dreaded sentence to a life of dehydration. A life of fear that the very stuff you consume to keep you alive might end up killing you. Somehow, this charity is less compatible to soft middle-class families and their ‘proper’ sensibilities. They’d rather see kids hugging teddy-bears, happy their faces are no longer being slapped. I also give regular donations to a charity supporting Chinese dissidents. China is a massive country and a vital economy. Its people deserve a say. The implications could be massive! World changing! Better than some bloody snotty-nosed kid’s charity. Anyway, you get the point – not bloody kids.

“Erm, no. I’m sorry,” I say and walk away.

“Thanks for listening,” he/she calls at me, sarcastically.

Why did they have to do that? Why shame me as some miserly bastard just because I don’t want to endure a pointless conversation? It’s not that I’m opposed to charity or to chuggers, I do donate. However, I give enough money to causes that I consider to be worthwhile. She – or he – can’t understand that. Plus, I have somewhere to be, someone to meet. Granted, she may not be expecting me but I was on my way – today’s the big day. It’s not right to stop someone totally focussed on something and distract them with an unclear gender and questions about their childhood. Besides, I don’t want to stand in the street and translate my unambiguously insensitive opinions into something rational and acceptable. I should have handled that better. Where were my manners? A sincere sounding, though utterly unmeant promise to come back straight after running a very pressing errand – that would have done the trick. Anyway, it’s not like I can go back and say ‘sorry I was so rude. I was thrown by your in-between-y sex.’ I’m such a freaking moron!  

I am pounding my head as I walk down the street thinking these thoughts. My veneer of confidence, obviously a very fragile veneer, has dissipated resoundingly. I have to calm down. I think about the girl in the coffee shop. Her smile, showing a slight gap in her front teeth, a minor imperfection that just adds to her endearing projection. Her small frame. She looks cute. She’s irresistible. I have to make a move today.

I arrive at the Crazy Bean Café.

Where yummy mummies that won’t touch anything that’s not organic sit with their children that have names like ‘Sun’ or ‘Immemorial’. (‘Oh, Immy has just taken rice-milk! So much better than that hormone-ridden bovine milk that other parents subject their children to.’) I did genuinely hear one of the mums bring in a two year old called ‘Plum’. I just hope she wasn’t a Ms. Duff.

Where students go to talk about their art projects, so absurdly post-modern. (‘Ah, yes…it’s called Energy. I have two encased lamps. One has a near-never-ending, high-energy light-bulb that is on constantly. The other holds the most ecologically-friendly bulb that has been constructed so far. However, this bulb is broken , a cracked hole at the top. They are encased side-by-side in transparent boxes in a dull room. A host of moths are in the case with the dead lamp. The powerful, effusing radiance from the neighbouring case draws the moths and they repeatedly find themselves hindered by an invisible barrier. It’s being recorded and the final piece will be a sped-up video of the moths failing in their futile dream of reaching the light and eventually dying. Obviously, it’s a critique on decadent Western society and our hypocritical attitude to developing nations…’) In fact, that’s probably still too coherent.

It is also where I go. After stepping in once for a coffee and witnessing the girl of my dreams working behind the counter, I cannot go anywhere else. I put up with the ridiculous people in here because of her. In truth, I also like to marvel at the complete lack of self-awareness these people have. I appreciate a moment to bask in their bizarrely perceived superiority. I envy it.

So, in I go and there she is! She emanates a warmth as soon as I see her. My stomach turns. Is a coffee a good idea? Maybe make it a decaff, it will place less havoc on my insides. I am at the counter.

“Hi, there!” There is an undeniable flash of recognition in her eyes. “How are you doing today?”

“Great, thanks,” I lie, still nursing my guilt about my previous clash with the cross-gendered chugger. I smile a smile I hope is not too strained. “And yourself?” Return question, good start, begins a rapport.

“I’m at work,” she says bluntly but still smiling.

Of course! She’s at work! No one likes the drudgery of the coffee shop, especially filled with these pretentious idiots. What a stupid question!

“Still,” she continues, “can’t complain really. What you having?”

“Flat-white coffee, please.” Then I remember, “Decaff.”

“Real coffee a bit too much for you?”

She’s teasing. Still, there’s a truth in that line. What sort of pathetic man can’t even handle a regular coffee? What is wrong with me? Abort! Abort now! Before you get any deeper, just stop trying to do anything but get your coffee. Your eunuch coffee. Just shut up.

“What sort of milk would you like?”

Oh! This fucking hippy caff! What happened to sodding milk as milk? Maybe I can redeem this. “What do you have?” I ask nonchalantly, casually.

“Ooooh…” she thinks. “Regular, skimmed, semi-skimmed, goat’s milk and then there are your non-animal choices: soy, rice, hemp, cashew, almond, oat and quinoa.”

“Wow.” I say. Is that it? Is that all I have as a returned line?

“Every milk under the sun.”

Think of something witty to say, now! Pull it back. But what? ‘Do you milk the nuts yourself?’ maybe? No, that might sound perverse – ‘milking nuts’. ‘How do you milk a quinoa?’ No, that might sound like a genuine question, maybe even disapproving of there being such a milk. Now, I’m taking too long. Just say something!

“Just good, old-fashioned, full-fat cow juice, please.” What the fuck was that?! Cow juice? Good, old fashioned? I sound like a wanker.

She clips her heels together and salutes. “Yes, sir. Order understood.”

Oh, thank goodness, she’s ignored my bumbling line and lightened the mood with a little joke. I feel the calm returning. But wait. What if she was subconsciously suggesting I was a bit bossy, a bit forthright?

“There you go: one flat-white, filled with cow juice.”

Oh shit. She didn’t ignore my line at all. How could she ignore it? I know she’s trying to be friendly but I just want to die. I pass my money, £2 exactly.

“Thank you.”

Is that it, then? Nothing? Where’s the wit? Where’s the charm? I’m so awkward.

I sit down and sip my pathetically weak coffee while I replay the scenario in my head. There must have been a line somewhere about milk. ‘More than what my milkman offers’? No. Lame. Something about ‘Mother’s milk’? Christ, no, sounds dangerously incestuous. ‘It’s amazing the things you can milk’? Maybe, with a slight amused incredulity. All right, it’s not at all funny but it’s light-hearted and it keeps things open for a possible response.

However, in my absolute disillusionment in myself, there is also a tingling of optimism, of hope. She was friendly, she was flirty. Wasn’t she? She teased. She saluted. These are good signs. Aren’t they? Granted, I may have been a bit stuffy. A bit, I don’t know, blegh. (I know that’s not a word but it sums me up) but she was nice to me. If I had been a bit more talkative, could we have got something going? 

Maybe it’s not too late. I could still go up to her as I leave, give her some money for a tip. Say that seeing her brightens up my day and she makes a fine cup of coffee. See how she responds. Then, if she responds positively I can ask her if she’d like to, one time, maybe join me on the other side of the counter. We’ll go somewhere where the coffee’s made for her. Maybe she’ll say yes. I have to grow a pair and just do it.

One more swig of coffee. Take the mug back to the counter.

I stand and walk towards the exit, manoeuvring a passing of the counter as I go.

I’m edging closer. She’s just served someone. She’s going back to the washing up.

The guy that has just been served is walking at me. He’s seen someone he knows behind me.

I side-step to the right, nearer to the counter.

He passes on my left. I am now at the counter, filled with a nervous energy.

I look at the back of her head. Ryu in mid-air. He’s punching the sky in celebration of my victory.

I put the 50p tip on the counter. I look at her.

“Thanks very much,” I call. I am already walking away. Has she turned around?

“Thanks,” she calls back.

“I left a tip,” I say as I walk out the door.

I am a fucking failure!

Why didn’t I draw her attention? She was doing the washing up, she would have appreciated the distraction. She called out ‘thank you’. Maybe she turned round. Why couldn’t I have been more decisive? More confident? More charming when I came in? This is the hell of the socially awkward man. I walk away, frustrated and ashamed.

Fucking ‘cow juice’…