That holidays—especially the fall and winter type—can be fraught with anxiety, loneliness or other nasty concepts has become a staple of modern American consciousness. On the loneliness front, I’ve been lucky to have plenty of family support when it comes to major holidays, though, like a lot of people, I’ve experienced at least one exception. In my case, it was a Thanksgiving in 1991, when I found myself adrift with nowhere to go. But here’s the thing: Though 16 years have passed, the memories of that day linger more than all the other "normal" Thanksgivings combined. That’s due a little to the awkwardness and the—yes—anxiety associated with what transpired, and a lot to how being deprived of my comfort zone led to a startling happy ending. In fact, the memories are so acute that my brain can process them on demand like a well-oiled machine.
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Step one: Get invited by an acquaintance of a friend to a Thanksgiving bash with seven other "adriftees." Naturally, I am hesitant. Eight losers in one house sounds like a bad reality TV show before such weirdness existed. But I am won over by the incisive and charming instructions from the uberloser, i.e., the host: "Bring anything you want, as long as it’s not a turkey." A nontraditional Thanksgiving meal—that sits well with me.
Step two: The inevitable meet and greet. Though every one of us knows at least one other person, it’s as if eight strangers sitting far apart in a Greyhound bus station suddenly decided to get together and share bits of their sandwiches and candy bars. The meet and greet location—the kitchen, of course—is swimming in manufactured and perhaps genuine kindness. There’s only one big cog: A guy in a black t-shirt and red sweater vest gives off the distinct impression, as strong as the odor of overdone turkey, that he’d rather be lonely.
Step three: Discover the true meaning of the host’s instructions. There is a turkey, and there’s nothing in the air to indicate that it’s overdone. She just didn’t want to end up with eight of them. I am delighted. A nontraditional Thanksgiving meal—what was I thinking? I can feel my loser aura vanishing.
Step four: Who are you, my grandmother? The host begins ordering everyone around before we get a chance to really talk. Obviously because I am a man and shouldn’t be handling the food, even the scalloped potatoes that I brought, I am assigned to set the table in the dining room. Hardly a complicated task. I’m struck by how I’m about to have a nice meal for very little effort.
Step four: Watch from the sidelines as seven people, like seven servants serving themselves, bring in all the food. The variety is stunning. No dish has a duplicate, despite the host’s general instructions. Besides my potatoes, there’s stuffing, grilled asparagus, bread, some sort of mystery casserole (it looks delicious, actually), roasted squash, carrots, and of, course, the turkey.
Step five: Random seating. Or a sinister divine plan. Thanks, God, for putting me right across from t-shirt and sweater vest guy. Thanks a lot.
Step six: Dig in. The casserole, and everything, is indeed delicious, and everyone, including my black and red shadow across the table, seems deliriously hungry and happy to have the cure right in front of them. It’s uncertain what sort of dinner conversation there will be, but right now hearty eating is taking complete precedence over talking.
Step seven: Find myself having a long, interesting conversation with the guy in the cool sweater vest. Satiated hunger, it seems, has wiped the misery off his face. It turns out we both lived for a while in Amherst, Massachusetts, and have an abiding and perhaps unhealthy obsession with Emily Dickinson. And then I have a long, not quite so interesting but very fun conversation with the woman next to me about the virtues of late-night grocery shopping. And then…
Step eight: Discover the true meaning of Thanksgiving. Well, not really, but I’m having a genuinely good time and don’t even care when the host orders us to retire to the living room with her and play some stupid games.