We Should Get Lunch

===LETTER FROM PORTLAND===

Last night, I had been to see a movie with friends; afterward, we went to an amazing garden bar called Elefant. And it was there that I happened to run into someone.

Let's call her Harriet. Why shouldn't we? That is her real name.

Harriet and I used to be close friends. We would get together once or twice a week—for a drink, a dance, a party, a movie, a play—whatever. We were close like that for about seven or eight months. And we had a lot of fun! We would get drunk and stay up late into the night painting/writing, go to weird Portland events (Zombie Walk, Santacon), etc.

But then, toward the end, I realized something. I was always the one making the calls. In fact—I'm not exaggerating—I never once got an unprompted phone call from Harriet. No invitations, no chit-chats, no just-checking-in's, nothing.

It wasn't like Harriet was in high demand. In fact, I never saw her in the company of anyone except her out-of-town boyfriend, who (to this day) visits once or twice a month. She was unemployed, a freelance illustrator and artist. She had free time to spare.

Perhaps it's unreasonable, but I was offended. OK, fine: some people are antisocial. They don't call. But I expect a bare-minimum effort from friends. Come on.

At the time, I mentioned all this to Harriet. She expressed (what seemed like) genuine sorrow and guilt. Weeks passed; still, she never called. When it came to our friendship, I was the only one putting forth any effort.

So—as a kind of test, one day—I stopped calling. And of course, that was the end of it. Presto. Right there. Harriet never even called to see what happened. One week, we were hanging out as usual, and the next week, nothing. That was three months ago.

Anyway, Harriet was at Elefant last night. I'm there with three friends, and she's with (shocker) her goofy-looking out-of-town boyfriend.

At first, I consider not saying anything. We're seated rather far apart, and I don't think she has seen me. But then I think, no, that's a rather heartless, French thing to do, snubbing someone. The very least I can do is go say hi, let her know that I'm over it, she needn't feel guilty for not calling, etc. etc.

So I walk over and say hi. And the conversation goes EXACTLY as I predicted it would. Harriet mentions how very busy she's been (bullshit, you unemployed freelance artist), how bad she feels for not having called (really?), what's been going on in her life (not much). And then she comes out with this amazing, ridiculous little phrase:

"We should get lunch!"

Should we? Should we? I mean, really, we have each other's digits. We're both hungry every day at about noon. We live in a city full of inexpensive, amazing restaurants. If it hasn't happened by now, do you really think it's gonna happen?

My favorite part of that statement is the conditional tense. We should get lunch. It is not an invitation ("Let's go out to lunch!"); and it's not an attempt to schedule an appointment ("Are you free tomorrow at one?"); it's more like a mission statement. It made me want to answer with something similarly vague and unrealistic:

"There should be world peace!"

- or -

"Movie rental stores should sell condoms!"

- or -

"You should wear deodorant sometimes!"

I didn't let it bother me for long. I went back to my table and had another glass of sangria. Later, I thought about how it reminded me of this amazing bit of standup from Jerry Seinfeld. So I'll leave you with that:



JR