The tiny café huddled despondent among the huge city buildings, it’s decisively yellow paint glistening in the first golden rays of the day. He could see the rain drops clinging, jewel-like to the name, “The Breakfast Club”. Outside the sidewalk that would bustle in a few short hours was quiet, the concrete oblivious to whether it was midday or midnight. His face smirked upwards at the sight of the flower planter to the right, the city had put in new blooms that would give the crowds flashes of gentle aquamarine and light-hearted pink through the springtime. If he stopped walking, he could almost hear the heartbeat of the city, quiet, like the ticking of an old grandfather clock.
Washed out under the overcast sky, the café hunched in itself, fighting against the drizzle. Hundreds of people rushed by it, outside on the crowded street. The half a dozen customers glanced up as the door hung open, heralded by a bitter blast of April showers. Much like the outside, the interior of the café was warm and cherry, with bright lights and colorful walls. The customers returned to their conversations as the door swung closed behind him and the breeze was forgotten. He looked rather ordinary today, but that was the point. He did not want to stand out in his best Westwood suits today. Today he needed to get some work done. So he was dressed simply in jeans, a cotton t-shirt and bomber jacket, his attaché case replaced with a slouchy backpack.
He slid into a booth as all around him other diners talked ever louder, competing with one another to be heard above their collective din. He removed his elbows from the table top and sat a little straighter. What must they talk about in their ordinary lives? Relationships, the ebb and flow of social understanding between one person and the next. So and so was sleeping with her tennis instructor, but had hardly touched her husband in months. Work, the constance repetitive punching in and punching out, never going anywhere, no promotions, no incentive to keep going except to survive and pay the rent. There were other topics of conversation, each as boring as the next. It set his teeth on the grind setting as the shifting alliance of talkers and listeners, performers and audience members upset his internal harmony.
He called it his intolerability test. From the corner of his eye he caught a young woman starting at him from the corner of hers. Her lanky mousey hair falling into ribbons about her color-drained t-shirt. In her hands she held a small carbonless guest pad and a black ink pen; medium point, 0.7mm which delivered a bold, smooth line to assist with constant neat handwriting. She was the waitress. She spoke to him with the usual manner of pleasantries before hurrying away. He was no one to her and she was no one to him, just another customer. That was the way he liked it.
He pulled out his laptop as he waited for the food that she would inevitably bring. He opened it and put in the passcode to his email account. There were always a multitude of them, some rather boring, others pleasantly interesting but just as much above his notice as below it. That was the benefit of running one’s own business, he selected only the privileged few to help. No one could say that he was discriminatory, not in his line of work. If he didn’t want your crime, he didn’t have to take it and no one would be any the wiser.
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