Michael?

Now that Katie and I are both back at work simultaneously, our evening schedule has a new sense of reform to it. We plan out dinners ahead of time. The first one home begins the preparation of dinner while the other curses the traffic to holy hell. Dinners are planned thoughtfully, with careful consideration given to nutrition and preparation time. And since we’re once again a double-income household, all we eat is steak. Porterhouse Steak stuffed with Maine lobster and dollar bills.

Ok, I lied.

It’s Rhode Island lobster.

However, since the ground beef didn’t entirely thaw for burgers last night, we decided to take advantage of our surroundings and order out. As you may have noticed, many traditional “sit-down” restaurants have developed some sort of curbside service, by which they can load your food into some enviro-friendly Styrofoam, place it in a paper bag, and meet you in your car at one of a few designated parking spots right near the lobby. (Losers in this scenario – the handicapped. Enjoy being another 10 feet from the door.) Sometimes, they’ll even take your card there for payment, run inside and return to your car with a receipt. It’s just like buying gas in New Jersey, but 73% more delicious.

However, it’s completely ridiculous for me to get in my car, descend the four levels of my spiraled maelstrom of a parking garage, drive 50 feet out the front of the complex, U-turn, and pull into one said spot at the nearby P.F. Changs. I don’t care how delectable their lettuce wraps are or which of my high school friends lives and breathes their cuisine, I’m not wasting fuel on such a venture.

What's that? Try walking? Oh, right.

In the 50 feet between my apartment and PF Changs, something strange was afoot. First off, as I walked out from underneath the garage overhang, I heard crickets. Actual crickets. God made crickets not becayse of their role in the food chain or even their ecosystem; God made crickets to signal the ominous.

Maybe I ordered the wrong chicken dish?

After making a brief, ill-fated phone call, down came the rain. A steady drizzle for the last 30 steps to the walk-in, take-away entrance to Changs is nothing. I don’t need an umbrella for such a minor inconvenience. I’m tough and on a mission for dinner.

Inside, the transaction went well enough. I handed them a card, they handed me food from the Far East. (Sidenote: I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’d appreciate your thoughts here. When you pick up food and pay with a card, there’s often a line to leave a tip. In standard sit-down scenarios, this is extra money you are paying to the wait staff that transported your food from the kitchen to your table. Here, they’re transporting your food from the kitchen to, well, the hostess stand right next to the kitchen. Do you leave a tip? If so, how much?)

HERE’S WHERE IT GETS WEIRD.

Since it was raining out, and two people were about to enter from the wetness, I did the nice guy thing and held the door open for them. The first person, a girl short enough to be completely out of my line of vision passed by, and may have said thanks. The second person, a guy, did offer his gratitude, along with a killer double take. He looked at me, smiled in recognition and said –

“Hey! S’Michael! Great to see you!!”

I responded, “Good to see you too!!” (with matching levels of enthusiasm, although I don’t know why.)

The reason I put the S’ before Michael there is to indicate that he was reminding me of his name, not identifying me as Michael. Here’s the problem, though. I’m good with names. No wait – I’m awesome with names. And yet, I have no idea who this guy is.

So Michael, if you’re reading this, apologies. Who the frick are ya?