In the Café

There is motion all around me. The world is moving. I do not want it to move, I am here, sitting, trying to read my newspaper, but I cannot focus. The world is too distracting.

Two tables over, a young man sits down. The café has been empty up until now. I can hear him talking to the waitress, even though I’m trying to ignore him. From what I can pick up, he’s giving the poor girl a hard time. I know this girl! She went to school with my daughter. Who does this kid think he is?

Always, the sun rises and sets on people who do not permit others to enjoy the light of day. Always. A long time ago, I was young and full of hope that such people only needed their eyes to be open. But, as the world moves, I find that my eyes are always filled with tears. Always.

He’s received his coffee now. Hasn’t even thanked the waitress. Alice, I think her name is. Bright girl, she had a miserable life, but was always a bright girl. I always wanted my Joelle to be friends with her. People like her, people like me, we always need someone to reassure us that there is still decency in people.

I can feel the pulse of the city around me. It makes me dizzy—so fast, unrelenting. Life was not meant to be this way. When was the last time two people met through their eyes?

I’ve abandoned hope of reading my paper, now. I’m just giving the impression of reading so I can focus on the young man two tables over. He is slurping his coffee down noisily—do they not teach etiquette anymore? I glace over and see that he is dividing his attention between his phone and his coffee. It’s saddening—two tables over is a dirty little child dressed like a man.

When I grew older, I stopped worrying about people. The world moves so quickly—it is the people like me, the gentle souls that try to hurry the stragglers along, who need to be worried for. The others; the selfish, the crude, the unjust; they just keep on walking—they don’t stop for anyone.

Halfway through his coffee, he’s picked up his phone and has started a conversation with…heaven knows. He is loud. He is uncouth. He is histrionic. I’ve seen thousands like him—unsure of himself; he leeches off the graces of others. I wonder what he is saying:

“Oh yeah, you should totally come… oh yeah man, it’s empty… I mean there’s an old grandpa behind me, but you can ignore the way he smells… laughter Oh yeah, he smells like crap… laughter You’re coming? Oh great.”

He hangs up, sadistic grin on his face as he looks back at me with malicious glee. I’m ashen, shaken, hurt, and insulted. Why did the brat come after me? I’m neither old, nor dirty! I’m wearing a Burberry trench coat! I have shoes that cost more than that kid’s house, for God’s sake! He’s come after me?

Instantly, my head goes into turmoil. I have no mercy, no love. I am cold. I am vengeful. How can I make that little churl squirm?

I’m not violent. I am not bellicose. But, I have means—I can put on a show that they’ll never forget. I’m excited. I call my driver to pick me up at the curbside. I pay my bill. As I’m leaving the café, I leave two hundred dollar bills on the kids’ table (his friends have arrived) and comment: “I don’t have money for showers.” I keep on walking, but I’m certain their eyes are on me. My driver opens the door for me (I’m being picked up in a Bentley). I am getting in. I pause; strain my hearing towards the table. I hear three words: “Crazy old fart.” I am driven away.

The world moves endlessly. It is too fast for me, I wish it could stop. But the world does not stop and, so, I am in my car being driven away. I am in motion; I’ve left my tormenters behind me. But, I haven’t escaped. I have been wounded and I need to recover. They’re the ones who are moving—they don’t care. They just keep on walking; they don’t stop for anyone. They don’t care about anyone. I have driven miles past them, but I am the one defeated.



-Marc