Somewhere in Ohio— As the campaign trail blazes on, there is one man who finds himself with an abundance of time to ponder the future—a future that includes, in his wildest dreams, the vice presidency of the United States. That man is J.D. Vance, the best-selling author, senator, and Hillbilly Elegy scribe, who has found himself on a peculiar journey through the heartland of America. But it’s not the long hours of speeches or the grueling debates that have him thinking about what his future might hold. No, it’s something far more profound: the tragic solitude of eating lunch alone.

Day after day, as the campaign bus rolls into small towns and big cities alike, Vance’s teammates—er, fellow candidates—unfailingly drift toward what can only be described as “the cool table.” You know the one. It’s where the political powerhouses and social media savants gather, exchanging quips, passing around Twitter trends like secret notes in high school, and comparing how many retweets they got on their latest zinger aimed at the other party.

And then there’s Vance.

As the others laugh and joke, Vance trudges over to the loneliest corner of the campaign cafeteria, tray in hand, a sad ham sandwich and a juice box his only companions. Sure, he’s got a lot on his mind—like how he’ll redecorate the vice presidential residence (does IKEA do official government decor?) or what kind of slogan will look best on a bumper sticker (“Make Hillbilly Great Again” has a certain ring to it). But there’s something distinctly unappetizing about dining in solitude, especially when the smell of camaraderie (and someone else’s Chick-fil-A) wafts through the air.

It’s not that Vance doesn’t try. He approaches the cool table, perhaps thinking, “Today’s the day I’ll be invited to sit with them.” But just as he opens his mouth to offer a tentative “Hey, mind if I join—”, the table suddenly gets crowded. Campaign managers appear out of thin air, pollsters materialize from the ether, and suddenly there’s just no room. “So sorry, J.D.,” someone mutters, not even glancing up from their quinoa salad.

Dejected but determined, Vance slinks back to his solo seat, using the time to ruminate on important matters. Like what exactly he’ll do when he becomes vice president. Will he reinvent the office? Will he use his alone time to mastermind policy? Will he ensure that no American, especially not a vice presidential candidate, ever has to eat lunch alone again?

But most importantly, will he finally get to sit at the cool table?

As the campaign rolls on, and the vice-presidential hopeful continues his solitary lunches, one can’t help but admire his tenacity. It takes a special kind of resilience to keep showing up, day after day, sandwich in hand, without even a single pity invite. If there’s one thing this campaign has taught J.D. Vance, it’s that you don’t need a lunch buddy to dream big.

But a few extra friends wouldn’t hurt either.