The Marvelous Mr. Cundari?

There's a warm feeling of recognition when you're actively being pushed to leave your box of solitude. Are they friends if they're not forcing you to act against your self-imposed guardrails? To me, it means your presence is wanted. Wanted in a way that, without you, their own night would be nothing more than an empty post-shift bar hang. I feel gloomy every time I'm forced to join the rest of the group, especially with a Costco pumpkin pie in my fridge and my recent attachment to the TV show, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. Of course, after the intersection of a pint or two of beer and a good song, my gloom turns into a curiosity about what comes next.

For a monthly tradition, we'll go to a goth night so we can lurk behind the attractive and young people the International brings in. I'll see a girl or two there and daydream about who they are, what kind of interaction we could have. Nothing sexual for the most part, but a nod to their ability to stand out in a very strange and alternative crowd. I look around. What are the men wearing? Why are everyone's pants so baggy? I scan who's talking to whom. I try to define the line between the confident people among those who interact with one another. I try to find similarities. Who came with whom? People watching, but with a purpose. Sometimes, if you want what's around you, you have to be exactly that. But there are limits that I have, specifically how I style myself, how I interact with strangers, and most importantly, how I carry myself during a night out. 

I don't like their haircuts. On them it works, but I like my hair. I don't like how baggy the jeans are getting. I like a simple, regular to loose fit jean or pant. I don't care for the big and blocky shoes. I like my Chuck 70s, my Nike Blazers, and most recently, my Tony Lama boots. I am not much of a risk-taker when it comes to how I present myself. I find a style or fashion choice and stick to it. I am too picky to add more stress in the morning when I clothe or style myself. However, I noticed how the guys with that textured fringe and a taper fade, loose jeans (the looser the better), oversized t-shirt with a flannel, bright white shoes, maybe have their arms covered in small tattoos — are not watching things unfold around them. Yes, in a way, I am comparing myself to them. But I think it's much less harsh than I make it out to be. In a way, it helps me appreciate the signature things about myself. It leads me to believe that I am myself. I like it that way, and I appreciate my own deflection of trends to attract the opposite sex. Maybe I appreciate the idea of staying timeless. 

Usually, after goth night, there's an afters somewhere in a dingy location — anywhere between the eighth floor of an office building or a decrepit warehouse. I don't usually see the textured fringe boys there. It's a Friday night, technically 3 A.M. on a Saturday morning. These are the people I'd expect to see at goth night. The scenes are reversed, and I find this to be fascinating. Oddly enough, I don't see similarities between myself and the people at these things either. I am not boldly assuming I am a one-off, but I'm not charting on this outré spectrum of rogue Utahns. 

I enjoy my time among all of these people. It keeps me in the know of who's who and who is doing what. At the warehouse afters, I force myself to enjoy the music that cripples my sense of hearing. Occasionally, the DJ will put on a sample I enjoy, so my inner qualm with the man spinning is settled. It's not the music I'm there for. It's more about being around genuine offbeat characters. People who could be in bed, yet chose to express themselves around others. A lot of them dress the way they do for themselves. It's not someplace I feel at home, but I can understand why people choose this method to relieve the pain life tends to cause.

The main reason I like to go out on these nights is where we end up after the lasers and haze clear out. I will convince whoever I go with, plus whoever tags along on the way, to take a twenty-minute drive to a twenty-four-hour Belgian waffle diner. One waitress. One chef. Four or five in the morning. There's a rounded corner booth open — perfect size for our group. They're out of sourdough for my usual eggs Benedict, so I opt for the rye bread. It's not the same, but I'm too hungry to care. The food comes quickly, too. They know why we are there, and they know it is of extreme importance to fill our stomachs before things turn for the worse. I devour my meal. There's a glass cabinet with shelves of different slices of pie, right next to a well-kept fish tank with a chubby goldfish. Last time, I got apple, so this time I'll get the cherry. The waitress kindly asks me if I want her to warm it up. I tell her that it'd be a sin not to warm that pie up and add a dollop of whipped cream. A minute goes by, and it's right in front of me. I'm the only one eating pie. I do not care. Everyone else is missing out. It is surely not the best pie I've ever had, but it's a moment I can look back on and remember how happy I was. The same waitress has been there every time I've been there. After my pie, she tells me she'll comp my pie if I can break into the men's bathroom with a spatula. I gave it a try, but I didn't want to break the door. She comped my pie anyway. It wasn't my Costco Pumpkin Pie, but I still got my pie, and this was much better. I feel at home — more so than anywhere else.