My newfound hate for margaritas…

My newfound hate for margaritas is all the more surprising when you consider the fact that I haven’t had one since, oh, say, 2013. 

In fact, I believe the margarita I drank in 2013 is the only margarita I’ve ever had. I know this because it was served to me at a Mexican restaurant in Los Angeles after the server lit a flame on top and it burned for at least a minute after setting it down. This was amusement enough for me and my not yet 21 year old brain.

I took the liberty to photograph the margarita and post it to my Instagram with an ill-advised Drake lyric. 

Sadly, I can’t find the picture I posted and that Instagram account has long since been deleted.

This is the last margarita I recall drinking.

Anyway, several nights ago, I was at work. Rounding the floor. Bussing tables that needed bussed. Stopping to chat with guests as I went. Directing my team. And keeping an overall pulse on the restaurant itself. 

It was a rather ordinary night aside from one simple detail: earlier in the day, our frozen margarita machine broke.

Not quite a catastrophe but an inconvenience nonetheless. 

Near the end of the night, one mother and daughter arrived in search of our frozen margaritas. When they arrived and learned our frozen margarita machine was broken, the mother, in particular, was disappointed. 

The mother told me she loved our frozen margaritas and had been looking forward to one foursome time. 

After we talked for a few minutes, I offered her an alternative that she was satisfied with. 

Eventually, she and her daughter sat down, I rounded and asked her how she liked my suggestion. She told me it was good. 

Her daughter was home from the University of South Carolina for the summer. She was getting ready to return within the next few weeks. They were spending quality mother, daughter time and margaritas made that time all the more pleasurable. I told them how glad I was they were spending time together and that they enjoyed my suggestion. 

I began my journey back to the kitchen.

I walked inside where a woman whom I’d noticed minutes earlier was sitting at the end of the bar. I hadn’t acknowledged her up until this point.

As I walked past, she made comment to the  tennis match playing on the television in front of her. 

I don’t recall what she said and it’s not important to what I’m going to write next.

I turned and began conversation with her. The tennis match featured up and coming phenom, Nick Kyrgios. It was the second time in as many days that I saw him playing on TV.

. 

“I’ve seen a lot of this guy lately.” I replied to the woman.

“Yes. He’s been winning a lot.” she replied.

“He’s good. And he’s a rebel. Ladies love that. Did you hear what he did at Wimbledon?” I asked.

I explained how he broke some legacy rule that states players must dress in a monochromatic outfit of white. I told her how he wore red and black Air Jordan 1’s on the court and the tennis world was up in arms about it.

Still standing with dirty dishes in my hands, we discussed more about Nick. 

Next, we discussed her nephew who plays tennis on scholarship at a division 1 school. She told me her nephew claims Nick will be the big thing in tennis for many years to come. 

We discussed how neither of us ever played tennis growing up. I told her I’d played just about every other sport besides tennis.

“My mom believes in the value of sports like some people believe in religion.” I told her. “If there was a sport my siblings and I could be involved in, she signed us up.”

“That's a great mother,” she said, “I’m a generation X-er. We were ‘latchkey’ kids. Our parents were never around. It’s really a miracle any of us turned out alright. All they did was work.” she said.

My natural curiosity compelled me to ask this generation X-er (which means she’s in her mid-50’s) if she lived in the area and if she’d been in the restaurant before. 

She told me she was in Nashville on work for the next few weeks. 

“A few weeks?” I asked, “Do you do freelance work or something like that?”

She laughed, “sorta.”

“Ok. So what kind of freelance work do you do?” I asked.

The restaurant continued breathing around me. Guests coming and going. Employees serving food, clearing tables, and preparing to close. As I stood talking with the woman at the bar, the night was coming to an end. The rest of the guests were polishing off their meals and putting finishing touches on conversations with those around them. 

“I’m a writer.” she said. 

As a writer myself, I’m fascinated to meet other writers in public. There’s something hardcore about meeting someone who first and foremost identifies themself as a writer. Many people write. It’s not sacred in this way. Yet, when you meet someone willing to identify themself as a writer without hesitation, it can be startling. There’s this self-esteem thing that I’ve noticed writers have about not feeling confident in their work so they avoid telling people they write. I'm no stranger to this.

“I know enough to know this is a question I know you’d rather not be asked but I’m gonna ask it anyway. What do you like to write?” I asked. 

I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t expecting to hear what I heard next. 

“I’m a screenwriter. I write TV and film” she said, “I’m in town writing on a show.” 

“I see. Written on anything I’d know?” I asked. 

“Hmmm…. I’m not sure.” she said. 

“Well, let’s find out.” I said. 

“Umm… ok. Have you ever heard of the TV series ‘Sex and the City’?” she asked. 

My eyes rolled. 

“No.” I said.

“Or what about the movie ‘Bring It On’?” she asked. 

“You’re kidding. My younger sister watched that movie once a week when we were growing up.” I said. 

“I wrote them both.” she replied.

Somewhere in the middle of that, I told her my name was Mack and she told me her name was Jess. If you care enough, you can look her up with a few quick google searches.

Jess went on to name a few more TV shows and films that I was vaguely familiar with but I could barely hear her because I was so taken back by what she’d just told me.

My head began to flood with all the questions I wanted to ask but, due to shock, I couldn’t really come up with words to ask.

This is because finding a real life writer who’s had not only moderate success but mega, box-office success (her movies have grossed over $500 million worldwide) is like being that stupid Lucky Charms leprechaun stumbiling upon that pot of gold. 

She approached the conversation with modesty.

I started talking about Nora Ephron, one of my all time favorite people and writers who also wrote screenplays such as When Harry Met Sally. She told me about her signed copy of Nora’s classic novel Heartburn and how it’s framed in her home. 

I was prepared to talk for as long as she would entertain me.

I lost track of everything.

Until, while I was in mid-conversation, the woman whom I’d talked to about the frozen margaritas earlier came walking up to me.

She and her daughter had finished their first round of margaritas and were ready for seconds.

“Excuse me, sir. I hate to interrupt but my daughter and I would like another margarita, please.” she politely said. 

I agreed to get her more margaritas and, in my pursuit of additional margaritas for the mother and daughter, I was pried from what had the potential to be the most interesting conversation of my life.

As I was fetching the margaritas, the general minutiae that takes place while a restaurant closes was taking place and it grabbed ahold of me. 

I was asked by at least 3 separate people for 3 different things all while I was getting the margaritas. 

Before I knew it, I was on a life raft of other managerial responsibilities, slowly drifting away from the only thing I really had interest in doing.

As I was helping god knows who, do god knows what, I looked down toward the end of the bar where Jess was sitting. 

From across the room, we made eye contact as she stood up. 

I smiled and waved because I knew what was going to happen next.

She smiled and waved back. 

Then, she turned and walked out the door. 

Never to be seen again. 

I vowed, in this moment, an eternal hatred for margaritas. 

Frozen or not.