Breakfast Crowd

By Robert Bishop

 

IThe workmen sitting at the counter looked my way when I entered the cafe. They stared at me, their eyes alive with malice, mouths compressed into lines as thin and sharp as razor blades.

They sensed the pity I felt for them and for the way they lived, chained to grinding labor that dulled their minds, kept them poor but made their handlers rich. They knew I had escaped the torment that is their lot in life. They resented me bitterly for my freedom.

The gray-haired server put her hands on her hips and stared at me with eyes so old I saw the Romans crucifying Christ in them. She blinked, and I watched the Romans hang Christ on the cross again in those ancient eyes.

The cook came out of the kitchen, stood next to the server and glared at me. “What do you want?” Anger made his voice ring like a bronze bell.

“Breakfast,” I said.

“Do I have to serve him?” the server asked. Her anger stabbed at me, as sharp and piercing as a switchblade knife to the gut. She too resented my escape from the mindless labor that life imposed on her.

“Do you have the money?” the cook demanded.

“Yes.”

“Don’t take any shit from him,” the cook said then went back to the kitchen.

The workmen turned away, disappointed that I wasn’t told to get out.

“Sit over there,” the server said. I went to a booth in the corner. She followed me. I sat down and scanned the menu. The server stood silently by, pen poised, waiting. I ordered bacon and eggs, then pointed at the next booth. “There’s a dog sitting in that booth.”

“Yes.”

“It’s reading a newspaper.”

“Yes.”

“What is it doing here?”

“Having breakfast and reading the paper.”

“Is that normal?”

“Yes.” She walked away.

I put the fingertips of my left hand on my temple and felt the temporal artery pulsing rhythmically. The throbbing artery told me I was alive and not trapped in some surreal hellscape conjured up for me by a spiteful and revengeful god furious with my escape from the toil and spiritual degradation that impoverished the people who labored all their lives.

Then I thought I might be going mad and that alarmed me. If I lost my sanity, I would be the same as everyone else in this heartless world where everything, even life itself, is quantified and measured in dollars.

I watched the dog and wondered what it thought of the news or our politics. I decided not to ask.

The server brought my food, filled my coffee cup and went away. The dog finished its breakfast, licked the plate, got out of the booth, folded the newspaper and trotted off. It did not leave a tip.

The server returned and refilled my coffee cup. “The dog stiffed you. Didn’t leave a tip.”

“He never leaves a tip, but he gives me a tidy sum every Christmas, so it’s all right.” She went away.

I finished my breakfast, paid the bill, left a generous tip and went outside. I put my fingers on my temporal artery and felt its steady throb.

I walked away from the cafe, knowing I was still alive, and still free.

 

Robert P. Bishop from US is an army veteran and former teacher, holds a Master’s in Biology and lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in ActiveMuse, Ariel Chart, Bright Flash Literary Review, CommuterLit, Fleas on the Dog, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Lunate Fiction, Scarlet Leaf Review, Umbrella Factory Magazine and elsewhere. He has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize.