Posted April 5th, 2003 by Michelle

In the middle of the busy Saturday lunch shift, my friend Heather came up to me and said, “What’s up with table 12?” We refer to people by their table number, and the man on table 12 was alone, immersed in the menu, and had his cell phone to his ear since he sat down. Heather and I were at the computer, which is not in sight of table 12. I asked her what she meant, and she said, “He’s touching his duffle bag and praying. What’s in that huge bag?” I crossed over to take a look, and realized that he looked Arabic. Oh, boy, I thought. What to do? I did not want to judge him on his appearance, I did not want to jump to conclusions, but I have to admit that from that moment until the time he left I was a little terrified. I kept an eye on him, on the door, on his bag. He was sitting in the very front of the restaurant, and his enormous bag was just under him. In the end, he left without a fuss (and after leaving a mediocre tip) and I think I was more relieved that my ugly fears were totally misguided than relieved that he didn’t blow the place up. The thoughts crossing my mind- what would I do? If I am the only one here, will I throw myself in harm’s way to save all of these people? Would this wall, just around the table, hold if a bomb goes off? Would we be safe jumping behind the bar? All of these questions raced through my mind. It reminded me of the terrible vision I had at the end of yoga class a couple of weeks ago- in it, my mom and I were at my restaurant and someone came in with a bomb. I dragged her first behind the bar, and then through the kitchen and up the stairs to another exit… and I don’t really remember what happened at the end. My fear, with her here, is only that I can run faster.

I tell you what, though. I didn’t think about my butt for at least fifteen minutes.

On that note, I’m off for a bath.