![Cut of Meat Twemoji](/j-occupied/attachments/thumbnail.svg) [Image credit: Twitter Twemoji](class:credit)


It was difficult to for my dad to find a parking lot that was not occupied. Even though this town was smaller than any suburb of the GTA, and this parking lot was surrounded by a single building, a highway, and acres upon acres of conifer trees. This particular steakhouse was apparently fully packed.

An old man was standing outside. He was balding, although to be honest my dad was balder still. My parents, brother and I approached him.

"So, do you remember me?" the old man asked in a thick Quebecois accent, even though this was legally Nouveau-Brunswick.

"No," I replied.

"Well, I remember you, I last met you when you were this high," the old man said, while keeping his hand barely above his belt. "Back in those days you ran around all over the place." He thus cemented his UNC status.

The old man was my dad's boss over twenty years ago. Twenty years. It was simultaneously unnerving and comforting to think that my parents and some others of their geologic era had an insight into a part of me I couldn't remember.

But that wasn't as unnerving or comforting as what came next as we sat down.

"Rachel?" a waitress said to my mom.

"Oh! Louise, is that you!" my mom said. She turned to the rest of us and explained, "She was my hairdresser back in the day."

They held a conversation for a few minutes, while my dad and his old boss did the same. Eventually the waitress took my order - a simple striploin, and a diet coke. I wasn't drinking the alcohol my dad's old boss offered his former employee, just in case I needed to drive back. I was tempted to order a great deal more, but the desire to stuff my ravenous maw was tempered by the knowledge that our host, my dad's boss, was footing the bill here.

Another waitress arrived with our beverages.  "Rachel?" she said to my mom.

"Oh! Taylor, is that you?" my mom said. She turned to the rest of us and explained, "She was my colleague at the school back in the day."

I sipped my drink while my mom talked with the second waitress. My dad, his old boss and oddly enough my younger brother were talking and talking amongst themselves, splitting the table into two differing cliques. I was largely silent, except now and again I would sometimes ask a cryptic question to the second clique. Neither tribe were in a hurry to get their striploins, T-bone steaks, filet mignons, or fiddlehead soup.

Eventually the soups and steaks arrived all the same, delivered by two waiters.

"Rachel?" they both said.

### Notes

This was written in 15 minutes during a Joy of Writing meetup. It's close to real life, but not exactly.

### Feedback from the Joy of Writing Group

+ liked "geologic era"
+ you're this high - but still they're taller