Brad Rateike: The quiet agony of being told to save a seat

There are few phrases in the English language that trigger a full-body shudder for me quite like, “Save me a seat.”

It’s innocent enough on its face, and there are times when it is just a practical suggestion. But for reasons rooted in a Broad Ripple breakfast spot that closed long ago (and perhaps because of my own lingering neuroses), those four words still carry the emotional weight of a subpoena.

For most of my 20s, I was single and subscribed to the belief that career advancement required showing up everywhere when invited, even on Saturday mornings.

A few of my colleagues spent the better part of three years meeting on Saturdays for breakfast at a nameless little place in Broad Ripple. The restaurant felt like our own secret until everyone else discovered it.

We had the same table in the back each week and would talk about topics that were “nice” to catch up on but not urgent enough to justify weekday time. It was a ritual, and rituals are comforting when you’re young and trying to figure out how to be taken seriously.

I tried to be on time; sometimes people showed up late. That was fine. But one Saturday, everyone was late.

The restaurant had grown more popular as the owners found their stride. Customers placed their orders at the counter and then scanned the room for open seats. And there I was … one guy, one iced tea, one table for four, face buried in my Blackberry as I tried to look casual while silently praying my colleagues would walk through the door before the crowd turned on me.

You know that feeling when you can sense people behind you, not saying anything, but definitely thinking something.

Well, someone flagged the owner who, despite knowing our group well, came out from behind the counter and, in my memory, delivered a public reprimand that rivaled a town square shaming.

I’m sure it was far more polite and far less dramatic than I recall, but in my mind, the crowd was seconds away from pelting me with produce.

I walked out just as two of my colleagues were coming down the sidewalk. I told them, “We can never return here … because saving seats sucks.”

They laughed like it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe it wasn’t. But I lobbied the group to move venues permanently, and we did. The restaurant closed years later, but I still miss their cheddar biscuits and gravy.

I genuinely understood everyone’s perspective that day. The owner was trying to manage a rush, the customers wanted a place to sit, my friends thought that I bailed, and I just wanted to avoid awkwardness at all costs.

But that’s the thing: Saving seats is almost always awkward. It puts one person in the position of defending territory they didn’t earn, on behalf of people who aren’t there.

To this day, I avoid asking anyone to save me a seat. If I’m running late, I hustle. If I’m on time, I sit where I can. And if someone asks me to save them a seat, I do it, but I don’t love it.

We all want to be the person who arrives just in time, maximizing efficiency. But remember that the person you texted to “hold something for you” might now be the one absorbing the glares, dodging produce.

So be on time when you can. Be gracious when you can’t. And if you ever find yourself saving seats, may your friends arrive quickly and the crowd remain calm.•

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Rateike is founder of BAR Communications and served as director of cabinet communications for President Donald Trump. Send comments to [email protected].

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