A Fine Plan
By Zary Fekete
That’s when they came into the coffee shop. I was sitting at my usual table in the corner, leaning back in my favorite chair and reading. The classical music playing from the ceiling speakers filled the air with soft ambience, along with the smell of the coffee freshly ground from the roaster in the opposite corner. The usual buzz of customers that morning came and went, but I was the only one actually sitting down. That is, until they sat down next to me.
I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. Two men, office workers of some kind. One was thin and reedy with a high-pitched voice. His partner was heavier with a voice to match his girth. Laurel and Hardy you might say.
“Bastard,” Laurel said. “Cheap son of a bitch. Did you hear how he talked to me today?”
His larger partner just nodded.
“Idiot,” Laurel continued.
Intrigued, I set aside my book (Ulysses…I hadn’t been able to make hide nor hair of it) and tuned in more closely.
“Who does Nelson think he is?” Laurel added.
That helped me. What we had here were two fine men, probably from the municipal government building next door, on a break from some tedious series of meetings, clearly put under the pile by this Nelson. I edged my chair a bit nearer to the neighboring table to listen closer.
“He never gives me a scrap of credit for anything I say,” Laurel said. “And the one time when the boss backed me up two weeks ago, Nelson immediately pounced in two seconds later with three more suggestions to ride on mine so that he could still overtake my little moment there.”
Hardy nodded and slowly said, “He’s a wicked man.”
Laurel pointed at his partner in agreement.
The coffee grinder finished its programmed round, and the sudden silence that followed caused the men to glance up from their conversation, as if to see if anyone had overheard them. I put my eyes back on my unread book and waited, hoping there might be more to the story.
They continued to drink their coffee without saying anything, so I was left to my thoughts. I sipped my own coffee and allowed my imagination to conjure their whole existence. Laurel had a wife probably, maybe a couple of kids. Hardy was older and was most likely divorced. But he had been married and this gave him an outlook on life similar to his younger comrade. They were both solidly middle-class, advanced far enough up the chain to have a stake and a share in it, but not high enough to be able to coast along. They had to work at it, and Nelson wasn’t making it any too easy on them.
I sat back in my chair. Then I nodded vigorously. I could help them.
I had time now, didn’t I? And what kind of person would I be if I didn’t take notice and care in the plight of those with whom I shared this town?
That’s half the problem in life: People not helping each other. And I was a step or two closer to the problem now that I had listened to them unfold the situation as they have. Good God, I would be partly to blame if I didn’t step in now.
I was going to find Nelson, I decided. The municipal building was just next door, a typical cookie-cutter slice of modern industrial office space. Come to think of it, of course someone like Nelson would be in there. I could just see him plying his awful trade all day and every day from his desk behind one of those shiny windows on the third floor, the ones that always seemed to catch the sun and shine it right back into my eyes whenever I pulled into the parking lot.
Nelson was not out of reach. None of us were. He may simply never have been told—or shown—how things really are for those of us down below.
I shook my head and brought myself out of that daydream. Laurel had lapsed into a contemplative quiet, and Hardy had gone to the front, no doubt to order some more coffee or perhaps a snack.
Cautiously, I studied Laurel out of the corner of my eye. Lank hair hung over his weak brow. His vacant blue eyes suggested dismal defeat. And I believe they were slightly bloodshot which surely meant a pattern of drinking after work. Nelson—he drove Laurel to this, sure as hell, by God.
Enough. I already know it’s not worth the effort to try to bamboozle Nelson. No, I’ll have to come clean and tell him exactly who I am and what I’ve witnessed down here.
Mr. Nelson, no need to raise your voice, sir. I can hear you fine but it’s actually time for you to listen a change. I’ve heard your men downstairs. Good men, you know. Just trying to get by. Time’s hard, in case you didn’t know.
Of course, on second thought, it was clear this line wouldn’t work on him. A tough man, that Nelson. I pictured him with a jaunty mustache that might as well be twirling. He ate men like Laurel and Hardy and had done so already today.
What then? I might threaten him, I supposed. If I did, then Nelson would be amiable to talk. That would be the time to tell him what I’d heard here in the coffee shop. Ah, that wouldn’t work either, though. Danger breeds danger and threats only multiply.
Come to think of it, my best course would be to pull my chair over to my neighbors here and tell them what I could do for them.
Gentlemen, I’ve been listening to you for what seems like hours now. You need my help. I’m a poet and a writer of some merit. This means I’ve encountered many lives and a good many awful situations. Now what I could do is…
Just at that moment Laurel stood up and nudged Hardy who seemed to have fallen asleep. They scratched their noses and stood up. A moment later they left the coffee shop.
Well, what’s a man to do? I couldn’t very well move on yet with this weight of knowledge hanging heavy on me. Who else needs to know about this? Let me get some of this down on my paper here. Maybe I can share it around and see who else is on their side.
Yes, that’s a good thought. A fine plan.
Previously published in Periwinkle Pelican.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) from DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many, many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete