The workmen sitting at the counter look my way when I enter the cafe. They stare at me, their eyes alive with malice, mouths compressed into lines as thin and sharp as razor blades. They sense the pity I feel for them, for the way they live, chained to grinding labor that dulls their minds, keeps them poor but makes their handlers rich. They know I have escaped the torment and toil that is their fate. They resent me bitterly for my freedom.
The gray-haired server behind the counter puts her hands on her hips and stares at me with eyes so old I can see the Romans crucifying Christ in them. She blinks, and I watch the Romans hang Christ on the cross again in those tired, defeated eyes.
The cook comes out of the kitchen, stands next to the server and glares at me. “What do you want?” Anger makes his voice ring like a crystal bell.
“I want some breakfast.”
“Do I have to serve him?” the server asks. Her anger stabs at me, sharp and piercing as a switch-blade knife to the gut. She too resents the freedom I have from the miserable and mindless labor that is her daily burden.
“Do you have the money?” the cook demands.
“Yes.”
“Don’t take any shit from him,” the cook says and goes back to the kitchen.
The workmen turn away and resume gazing into cups filled with bitter black coffee that is the only comfort life grants them.
“Sit over there,” the server says. I go to the booth in the corner. She follows me. I sit down and scan the menu. The server stands silently by, pen poised, waiting. I order bacon and eggs, then point at the next booth. “There’s a dog sitting in that booth.”
“Yes, there is.”
“It’s reading a newspaper.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What is it doing here?”
“Having breakfast. And reading the paper.”
“Is that normal?”
“Yes, it is.” She walks away.
I put the fingertips of my left hand on my temple and feel the temporal artery pulsing rhythmically. The throbbing artery tells me I am alive and not trapped in some surreal hell-scape a spiteful and revengeful god has conjured up just for me. Then I think I may be going mad and that alarms me. If I lose my sanity, I will be the same as everyone else in this god-forsaken and barren world where everything, even life itself, is quantified by and measured in dollars.
I watch the dog and wonder what it thinks of the news or our politics. I decide not to ask.
The server brings my order, fills my coffee cup and goes away. The dog finishes its breakfast, licks the plate then gets out of the booth, folds the newspaper and trots off. It does not leave a tip.
The server returns and refills my coffee cup. “The dog stiffed you. Didn’t leave a tip.”
“He never leaves a tip, but he gifts me a tidy sum every Christmas, so it’s all right.” She goes away.
I finish my breakfast, pay the bill, leave a generous tip, go outside, put my fingers on my temporal artery and feel it throbbing.
I am still alive. And I am still free.
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