I Do Mind! I Do!

The other night my family went out to eat at a local Mexican restaurant, and the hostess asked if we minded being seated "in the back." The way she said "in the back" made me think that perhaps we would have to crawl through a drainage pipe to get there, but being the agreeable sort that I am, I unthinkingly said, "That's fine."

I regretted it immediately. While we waited, I speculated as to what horrors would confront us "in the back." Would there be chairs? Tables? Exposed wiring hanging from rusted nails? Perhaps we would be expected to scavenge our own appetizers from the dumpster behind the meat-packing plant. I looked around for other diners headed for 'the back', anxious to form an alliance to ensure the safety of our guacamole supply.



"We should never have agreed to sit 'in the back,'" I said to my wife. "Now we have no one to blame but ourselves." There would be no point in complaining once we were back there.

"You say you don't mind," the waiter would snarl, befuddled and a bit put out. "Why do you say you don't mind, if you do mind?"

Why indeed? I would have no answer for that. And there we would sit, tossing tortilla chips at rabid monkeys and trying to build a table out of cardboard and packing foam.

As the hostess came for us I wanted to say something, anything, to get out of my commitment to sit "in the back." But what? It's not like she was unclear about what she was asking me. They ask you that question for a reason: Because most people do mind sitting in the back. They mind it one hell of a lot, to tell you the truth. But some people -- maybe they're a little crazy, maybe they have a death wish -- some people don't mind. And there's no switching sides. You don't suddenly go from being someone who doesn't mind to being someone who does mind, just like that.

What kind of explanation could I offer for my sudden conversion? A minute ago I was all, "Screw my family's safety! I want to be Mr. Tough Guy, hanging out 'in the back' with the crack whores and guacamole pirates!" And then just like that I develop an overwhelming need to sit somewhere with modern sanitation facilities and fresh salsa? No, that wouldn't fly. The fronters would never accept us. We'd always be the Table that Thought They Could Make It In the Back But Then Chickened Out.

We took a collective deep breath and headed toward the back. The fronters averted their eyes as we walked by. We passed the bar, the kitchen, the bathrooms... and kept going. As the bright light of the restaurant's main dining room grew ever dimmer, I silently whispered a prayer for protection against the hazards and travails we would soon face. Before I knew it, we were there.

It turns out that "the back" was a lot like "the front," but slightly further away. Hence the name, I suppose. I had the enchiladas.