a retelling of a weird moment that happened that when my friend rose and i visited our other friend aviv in massachusetts last spring.

It’s a warm saturday evening. We’re getting back to Lowell late. Everything is closed except this one establishment. So we gamble. We order online from the commuter rail as it trundled slowly into the North Billerica station. As we alight the cozy softly lit train to the harshly lit platform. We’re feeling optimistic. We hop into Aviv’s car, and they drive us down the quiet roads of Lowell. They drop us off at the Chinese restaurant on an old-town-y feeling road. Most of the shops are shuttered, but we can imagine the warmth that spills out of them during the day when they’re open, how they animate the street. Aviv drives off back to their building just a couple blocks away, and says they’ll meet us there.

Rose and I look at the restaurant, look at each other, shrug, and walk across the street. Rose goes in first and talks to a waiter, explains that we’re picking up an order.

As I walk in I’m awash in unexpected sensory inputs. To my left is a 4 man band of older white men, playing rock from the 60s-80s. Think John Melloncamp. Center left is a bar, tended by a middle aged friendly looking Chinese guy. He’s talking with customers at the bar with an understanding smile on his face.

After waiting about midway deep in the restaurant behind the barstools but in front of the empty seating area, I approach a waiter to ask if they have a restroom. He says yes, and gestures next to the band. I walk in front of the band, who at this point is performing a rendition of some John Melloncamp sounding song. They’re not talented enough to pull off the keyboard or drums for Tom Petty’s Running Down A Dream, but if they were, they totally be playing it at this moment. I smile an apologetic smile as I walk in front of them to get to the bathroom door. I open the door expecting a single stall, but instead I’m in a small hallway, with a door at the left end with a USPS logo that says “USPS employees only.” I figure oh, they share a bathroom with USPS, makes sense, both are small buildings. I turn to my right to find the ladies room. Expecting written labels or pictograms, I’m instead greeted by two framed photos on two doors. To the right is an action shot of Tom Brady playing for the New England Patriots. He’s tackling someone and there’s chaos behind him. It’s an idealized portrait of what a man should be on the field. Brave and courageous yet calculating, unstoppable but agile.

I pivot my head left, to the other door. I sigh, reach for the handle and turn it, stepping into bathroom marked as “Marilyn Monroe.”