table for one

by JD Clapp

I turned 55 today, double knuckles, racing headlong into they call the Golden Years. Shit, with the ways things are going, fool’s gold maybe. Happy fucking birthday to me.

I look out my studio window down to the street to see if the rain has stopped. Just a drizzle now. A young gay couple walks by, talking, their breath hanging in the air in little clouds. I’ll pull on an extra layer tonight. Twenty years ago, two gay guys holding hands in this neighborhood was an invitation for an ass-kicking. I don’t give a shit who you fuck or love. Fly your freak flag. But goddamn, things got expensive since the gays and artists started moving in. My rent is going sky fucking high when my lease ends next year. No idea where I’ll go then, but I can’t worry about that shit now.

For a cold, wet night the street is alive. There’s that Drive by Truckers show at the Grant Theater later tonight and some poetry reading at the Vellum Bookstore. Normally, I’d go to the Trucker’s show, but the last show I went to left me busted up inside.

Last October, I saw my favorite band, Lucero, at the Grant. I’ve seen them dozens of times over the years. I wasn’t the only gray beard with long-faded ink at the show, but I was drunk and alone like I always am these days. Walking home that night, something shifted in me that no amount of booze could wash out of my skull—damn near everything and everybody in my life I gave a shit about was gone.

I vowed not to do that to myself again.

But tonight, I got to get out of this box, out of my head. With the rainstorm, I haven’t been out of the apartment for two days and it’s my damn birthday. So, I’m gonna do something for myself. I’ll walk down to Pietro’s and eat a real meal, maybe even order a bottle of wine. Fuck me, I haven’t had wine forever…a handle of Old Crow goes a lot farther when you’re living on disability checks and an atheist prayer.

I pull on a red long-sleeved t-shirt and my best jeans, set my nicest black checkered flannel on the chair by the front door. I get out my special occasion bottle of Buffalo Trace and pour my first whiskey of the night, pop another Zyn, and sit on the couch. I close my eyes and think about spending the cash on dinner. Eating alone. Should I go or not? I sip the booze and sigh. Fuck it, I’m going.

I struggle to get my boots on and the laces tied. In the mornings it’s the shakes, but at night it’s just because my hands are shot from two decades of pulling lobster pots and cutting big tuna on the boat. Never paid much mind to arthritis pains and stiffness until Jimmy sold the boat a couple years ago and I “retired,” too broken down to work a labor job again.

On the way to Pietro’s, I walk past the Grant Theater. There’s a small crowd of diehards mingling out front waiting for the doors. I overhear the typical one-up conversations: “I caught them both in LA and here on their last tour, those LA shows are always better… “I saw them back on the Decoration Day Tour when Jason was still in the band…” I smile to myself. Sure, you did buddy. You were fucking ten back then, you tool.

Then I pass a young woman who could have been Danni ten years ago and I feel a pang of desire mixed with real regret. Her last words to me come back. “We were a beautiful broken thing, a wonderful lie.” I never knew what the hell she meant, never got the chance to ask. I need another drink. Now.

I push through the Pit Stop’s double doors and grab a stool. There’s a few neighborhood old heads inside, asses firmly planted on their usual stools. And then there are the pre-show, pre-gamers crammed into the booths around the pool tables talking music and life.

I catch Shelly’s eye. She walks over.

“Usual, Jake?”

“Double. No beer tonight,” I say.

She nods, grabs the Evan Williams, pours me a heavy-handed double and slides it my way. I let it sit and look around. Except for the regulars, everyone is at least twenty damn years younger than me.

“You going to that concert?” Shelly asks.

“Nah. Grabbing dinner. It’s my birthday,” I say.

“Well shit. Happy Birthday, old man. That’s on me.”

I thank her, down the drink in three pulls, drop a fiver on the bar for her, and head back out onto the boulevard.

The twenty-something hostess at Pietro’s is seating some well-dressed couple at a window table. She comes back to the front and stares at me blankly. I don’t know if she’s bored or thinks I’m going to ask to use the shitter.

“Table for one,” I say.

She gives me the thinnest smile, grabs a menu, and leads me to a two-top back by the kitchen. The place is half empty. As we walk toward the clatter of the kitchen, a few couples having dinner glace my way then return to their conversations and meals. Table for one…fucking loser.

The waiter, another woman who could be my daughter if I had one, is nicer than the hostess. She takes my order—wild boar ragu, a Caesar salad, a bottle of their cheapest Chianti.

I eat slowly, enjoying the food and wine. My mind goes back to Danni. Why did I have to see that girl tonight, of all nights? I do my best to push away the black dog trying to claw into my thoughts. I consider seeing if I can pick up a ticket to the show on my way back. I’m sure it’s sold out, but I don’t want to go sit in the bar or my studio tonight, alone with my damn thoughts like every other night. Then, when I pay the bill and I know I can’t afford anything else this month.

I walk back toward my place, pass the Pit Stop again and fight the urge to go in for another round. As I approach the Grant, I can hear the opener playing some folky punk tune. I can’t remember who it is, but they sound damn good and I wish I was inside.

When I near the theater doors, a hipster couple in their 30s standing by the doors catch my eye and say hello.

“Enjoy the show,” I say.

“You going?” the woman asks.

“I wish… but I lagged on getting a ticket,” I say.

She looks at the man. He smiles at her, shrugs.

“Our friend just bailed on us. Do you want his ticket?”

“Thanks, but I’m a little strapped right now,” I say.

“No…I mean for free…He paid for it and told us to give it to someone. It’s just going to go to waste,” she says with a smile.

I don’t say anything at first because I simply don’t know what to say. I feel a wave of warmth building in my chest, heading toward my eyes. And I wonder, what’s worse, being alone in a crowd or alone in my little box of an apartment? Fuck it.

“Sure. I think I got another show in me. Thank you.”

Photo of JD Clapp

BIO: JD Clapp is a writer based in San Diego, CA. His creative work has appeared in over 75 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, trampset, Blood + Honey, and Bull. His work has been nominated for several awards including the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions. He is the author three short story collections: Alterations (2025), Poachers and Pills (2025), and A Good Man Goes South (2024). His debut novel, Grit Before Grace, will be published by Cowboy Jamboree Press in fall 2026.