The Cafe Suite: Table 4 Order# 21

The Cafe Suite

 Table 4 Order# 21

Strange how he found himself in unusual places.
Small cafe. Plain. On River Street.
Strange for him to be here. But then again, he wasn’t so ordinary himself. A bald hair product salesman. Salesmen wear suits. He wore nylon slacks and a GloWeave, button down shirt. Deck shoes completed his ensemble. Male. Unusual.
He was Mr Barren. Or so a badge told the people who carred to look.
Brief case full of a line of hair straigtening, restoring, curling, colour treating, moisture restoring, oil reducing hair products. He could satisfy anyone and everyone. Yet he sat alone. Strange.
He thought about everyone in terms of his fantasy; who could they become? Potential. The hair salesman fixed his tie and sat there, the stranger in a plain cafe. River Street.
He touched his head, where hair should have been but wasn’t. He turned his attention around the room again. He could match the products in his brief case to each person within four seconds flat. He ordered a drink.
Not coffee thanks. Tea.
The waitress brought him tea.
He shifted his attention to her. She looked back. He thought, Shine Serum #403. Matched.
Something, something, something she almost said. He turned away and she said nothing. Strange, she thought. She said strange as she walked away.
He felt the heat from the tea. No milk yet, but he drank it anyway. He stopped. No milk. He recognised an absence.
He became aware that to his left, sat a woman who could, no, should use Curl Intensive Shampoo. She was huddled around her drink in conversation. Beside her, a simple case: Hair Nurture #71. He smiled, wondered if the potential clients noticed.
In a small, plain, coffee shop, he sat.
Had he serviced them before? He didn’t know. Isn’t sure. Strange.
He moved in his seat for no reason in particular. Stopped. Moved again. He felt eyes on him. One deep breath to relax.
This time he stayed still. His briefcase was full. He had enough for everyone in the room but no one seemed interested. No one was interested.
No one.
The waitress returned, he ordered more. An order for a weak coffee was placed. The waitress left again. She starred at him, not sure what to think, but she was thinking. Wondering.
No doubt. No doubt.
He thumbed around in his wallet for a time. He had money. He had checked.
He could hear everything in the cafe; everything. Every echo. Spoons touched the bottom of cups. Now stirred. Now placed back on the saucer. Sitting there. Still sitting there. Spoon bumped and then rattled by a cup on a saucer. Cups touched lips, lips touched cups. Cups back on saucers. Spoons moved again. He heard everything.
Mr Barren placed a ten dollar note upon the table. More than enough. Tip too.
There was a smell now. It has always been there but he has only just noticed. Mocha. Strong rich beans. Javanese, having travelled several thousand kilometeres so he could breath in their smell. In that moment he was in Java.
He could hear things. Smell the coffee and now he could know both form and image. He had learnt something other than hair. He only knew hair.
He picked up his brief case, full of product. Written on the side is ‘Change your hair, change your life!’ but he doesn’t get it. Mr Barren stumbled over a chair infront of him. He clutched his cane and tapped his white stick way through a maze that was this small, strange shop.
He was purgatorying.
Strange how he often found himself in the strangest of places.
Stranger still is that he did not see the child staring. At him. Nor the mother lean in and speak.
Sshh Chris. That is Mr Barren. He believes he is something he is not.
That’s strange mummy, replied the boy.
The waitress spoke. What’s strange is that a blind man’s fantasy is hair product. Then aloud, I’ll see you next week Mr Barren.
He grunted his way onto the footpath.
Tap. Tap. Tap. He was gone.