The Waiter
This is a short story that I wrote for a competition. It’s actually based on an earlier piece of writing of mine called Coffee Shop Philosophy. I kind of just added a bit at the start and a bit at the end to turn it from simple observation into an actual short story.
I don’t know how good it is. I got third place with it, which I was pretty happy with. But then there’s those people, you know, who consider everything that’s not winning to be losing.
You know those people who sit in cafes with their laptops? Well, I work as a waiter in a cafe and I see them all the time. Some of them are actually genuine. They’re just having a crack at multi-tasking by combining work with lunch. But then there’s the others; the posers. When you’ve been waiting tables as long as I have, you get to be quite good at spotting the difference. Most of them are pretty harmless; a bit pathetic, but basically harmless. Every now and then though, you get one that really pushes your buttons. Like Callum.
Callum comes in to my work every day without fail and he always has his computer with him. He never misses an opportunity to brag about the progress he’s making on his “amazing philosophical piece”. Funnily enough though, from my observations anyway, it seems as if he spends more time talking about it than he does actually writing it. The most annoying thing about Callum, is that he insists on taking up a six seat table because he “needs the room to work”. That wouldn’t be such a problem, except that he stays, literally, for hours. If it gets busy and we want the table, he’ll order another coffee and refuse to move, claiming that, as a paying customer, he has every right to sit where he chooses. Unfortunately, maddening as it is, he is right and there’s nothing we can do about it.
Every afternoon, when I take my break, I sit and watch the guy. It’s actually remarkably entertaining watching his facial expressions and imagining what he’s thinking and writing about; so entertaining, in fact, that I decided that today, I was going to do something about it. I brought my own laptop to work and, when it was time for my break, I pulled it out and set myself up at a table not too far away from where Callum was seated. I faced myself directly towards him and simply wrote what I saw (filling in the gaps with my imagination, of course). I even made up my own version of his “amazing philosophical piece” based on what he’d told me about it.
This is what I wrote…
Callum is sitting out the front of a busy coffee shop. His only companion is his laptop computer. There is enough light coming from the screen for it to reflect itself in Callum’s glasses. There is also enough sunlight for Callum to be able to see his reflection in the computer screen. He can see his glowing glasses, and realizes that these two reflections are playing off each other into infinity. Callum finds this very deep. He has thoughts abouthow he is a reflection of his work and his work is a reflection of himself. Then the waitress comes over with his order. Amid the slight confusion of finding room at the table for his decaf latte and apple-cinnamon muffin, Callum’s previous thoughts slip quietly out of his mind. By the time Callum turns back to his computer screen, they are long gone and silently praying that he won’t remember them and drag them back out. They are quite aware, although he is not, that they really aren’t very good.
Callum is a writer. He is very aware of how lofty this role is. He is also very aware of his own intelligence, and the importance of his words. He has a gift, which he is intent on sharing with the world.
Callum reads over what he has written so far:
Maybe there is a God. Maybe there really is a purpose behind everything that happens to us and everything we do. Maybe.
Or maybe our lives are really made up of chaotic events, meaningless mundane occurrences and equally meaningless catastrophes and triumphs. None of it happens for any particular reason, there is no greater power, no greater will, nothing guiding or governing us. We are here as a result of a random chain of events that just so happened to bring about our existence. We are arrogant enough to think that we are special, important, that there must be some great, powerful, perfect being who loves us and cares about us. It helps us to get by. It’s nice to think that you are special. People would rather feel nice and special and wanted and safe, than to actually open their eyes and see what is around them.
Acceptance is a frightening thing. It’s scary to know that one small thing, one tiny action, can set off a chain of events that leads to an incredible tragedy in someone’s life. Likewise, if one small link in that chain was broken, an entirely different outcome could be observed. Every action sends out a wave that affects everything around it. The really tricky part, however, is the fact that every inaction does the same thing. There is no way of controlling it. Life goes on as it chooses, as we choose, as the people around us choose. We have control, and yet we don’t. We are all headed blindly on towards tragedy, occasionally tripping over success and thinking it is something we have earned.
Any random occurrence or seemingly unimportant event can form the starting point. Each little event joining on to the last in a cycle of cause and effect, linking up into chains, which inturn spiral on and out of our control, sweeping up all sorts of things in their path. It is amazing the things we set in motion with decisions that, at the time, seemed so unimportant.
The thing that makes it scary is, that if there’s no god, no great all-powerful being, then there’s no-one to pray to; no-one to step in and make everything right; no-one to tell you which decisions are going to lead to tragedy and which ones will lead to happiness. There’s no-one to protect you from other people’s decisions either. You are on your own, in the middle of a world of chaos. And even if, for arguments sake, you manage to defy the odds and make the best decision every single time in your life, you’re still going to suffer as a result of other people’s bad decisions. You’re stuck in a game that can’t be won.
So what do you do? Pass the time before your health meter inevitably runs out and you die. That’s what we’re all doing here. Just passing time. And whatever you choose to do with your time, you’re no better than the lowest pedophile or serial killer or drunk. We’re all equal, in the end.
That’s all he’s got so far. Callum is trying out existentialism. He read a couple of articles on the internet and feels that he’s got the gist of it. He’s a smart guy, so he catches on to things pretty quickly. He’s planning on branching out into metaphysics soon. He likes the way it sounds when you bring it up, casually, in conversation.
Callum takes pleasure in a delightful little ripple of smugness. He knows that smugness is frowned on, but he enjoys the feeling. And why shouldn’t he be proud of his intelligence? He’ll be damned if he’s going to apologize to anyone for it.
He leans back in his chair. Then, suddenly, a frown creeps across his face. He’s spotted something. Something odd. He’s being watched. He glances behind him, briefly assuaged by the idea that perhaps it is not really he who is being watched. He sees nothing of interest and turns back. In doing so, he makes outright eye-contact with the observer, who smiles and immediately starts typing. Callum’s mouth hangs agape. The observer quickly finishes typing and looks up again, patiently waiting for Callum’s next move.
Callum, however, does not move; he can’t. His body is frozen, but his eyes betray the fact that his mind is whirring. He recognizes the observer. It’s a waiter who works at the cafe. But why? Why is he watching? And, more to the point, why is he writing everything down?
Callum tries to sneak a look at the observer without being noticed. He, of course, is noticed and his laughable attempt at covertness is recorded with a tap, tap, tap of the keyboard.
Callum looks back down, his body frozen once again. Only his eyes dart around. He is trying to settle on a course of action. He can feel the steady gaze of the observer burning into him. He hasn’t done anything for a while and so the observer sits, patiently waiting. Callum knows that the moment he does something the typing will start again. He can’t take it. He leaps up and turns his back on the observer as he hurriedly packs up his things.
He almost spills the remains of his coffee all over his computer but manages to save it just in time, getting the drink all over his bag instead. Callum leaves in an incredible hurry, apparently completely forgetting that he has not yet paid.
The observer is stunned. He hadn’t planned for that to happen, he hadn’t really planned for anything to happen, come to think of it. He’d just done it on a sort of whim. He considers feeling bad about it for a moment, but then remembers that this guy has run off without paying. That’s stealing. He shouldn’t be feeling bad, what he should be doing is calling the police and giving them a nice, detailed description of the thief.
The observer smiles at this thought. After today, he somehow doubts that he’ll ever have to deal with Callum again. His smile broadens and, while still typing the words of his last sentence, he begins slowly to close the lid of his laptop.
mawaho
It’s a winner for me. I enjoyed the story a lot.