The Mazda coming out of the alleyway almost took off his front bumper. There might have been a bit of contact even. His reaction time was slow and the two cars were going the same basic direction.
The Mazda kept going, even blew the fresh red at the end of the block.
Halfway through mumbling “asshole” Bryan realized he didn’t care.
He parked behind the restaurant. One space open. He was glad of that, didn’t feel like parking around the block. If that was the case he might skip the order altogether.
There was a line. Of course. People talked about the new place like it was the only restaurant in town.
The girl at the counter kept blowing loose hair out of her face.
Bryan turned to the TV.
Pistons.
Couldn’t tell who the opponent was. They changed jersey colors all the time now.
Pelicans?
Who were they? It had been a long time.
The girl who blew her hair kept apologizing. Every third word was sorry.
People grumbled.
People yelled.
Bryan stood, then sat back down.
He had heard a name called, she would call his.
Probably.
He checked his phone. He could check his bank balance on it now.
He smiled. He had a bank balance. Weird.
The smile caught his inner lip on a jagged piece of tooth. A refugee. A survivor, or part of one anyway. He stopped smiling.
Dozens more sorrys.
More complaints. He tuned out conversations he hadn’t tuned into.
Watched nine black guys and a seven-foot Latvian trot up and down the court.
He used to know all the player’s names.
Knees and hips walked past him as he sat in the black metal chair near the door.
He heard the girl call names, none of them his. More knees and hips and plastic bags full of food passed him. More grumbles.
He stood.
The girl blew her hair out of her face. She made eye contact.
”The cook’s wife went into labor. I’m so sorry. The owner is on the line, cooking. Just a few more minutes...I think.”
Bryan nodded, sat back down.
Took out his phone, looked at his bank balance. 14.13. He had a bank balance. Unbelievable.
Being able to look at it on his phone was just a bonus.
The girl approached him.
“Thank you so much for your patience. Really. I appreciate it.”
Bryan nodded. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t patience.
The girl was Sylvie Whitman.
Wow.
He wanted to tell Sylvie Whitman he used to snort crank with her brother Brian. Two Brians. Different spelling. Same nostrils of disaster.
He wondered if Sylvie Whitman hated her brother like his sisters hated him. If she ever did she probably didn’t anymore. Funerals will make you forgive people.
The basketball game was over when Sylvie Whitman called “Tertling.”
Brian stood, pulling his cash from his pocket.
“Thank you so much for your patience. It’s been a rough night.” Sylvie Whitman’s face brightened. “But a new life is coming into the world tonight. That’s a good thing, right?”
Bryan wanted to tell her it wasn’t patience. He wasn’t sure if a new life was a good thing.
“I put some baklava in the bag for you,” Sylvie said, “On the house, for waiting so patiently and not complaining. I really do appreciate it. Thank you.”
It wasn’t patience. It was something else. He wasn’t sure what it was. He wasn’t sure what baklava was either, but he walked to his car, with baklava and a bank balance.
***
Photo by Joanes Andueza on Unsplash
No, not patience. Peace. That peace that passes all understanding. Bank balance. Great.
A lot to think about. He doesn’t really interact with the world, just deals with it as it comes at him.