The Rules
Written for Shawk.
Old men and young men both come to the café, but they never mingle together. Perhaps it is politics, perhaps age, perhaps it is a mutual fear of catching one another's diseases; but the fact remains that the young students and workers stand together by the windows and front tables, and the old fellows cross their legs in the back by the stove, and they never acknowledge each other except to nod their heads when they accidentally meet going through the door.
Then, at some time, a shyish old gentleman who, despite his dirty clothes and rumpled hair, doesn't quite look like he belongs begins to come, setting up as far in the back as possible. He orders in a soft voice, only coffee, and gives the waitresses far more than they deserve. The other old men aren't quite sure whether or not they like him.
He has been a regular member of this queer club for perhaps six months when a new, scruffy-looking boy joins. The new fellow has a crooked, hideous face, and a raspy way of speaking that's a funny sort of gentle at the same time--he pays as infrequently as possible and always orders gin. There's a trouble with him, too. He doesn't observe the boundaries. He sits in the back where it's warm and drinks his gin and grins lopsidedly at anyone who tries to suggest, without actually saying so, that he isn't in the right place.
But they don't throw him out. There's something about him that makes them want him.
The shy old gentleman watches him closely, but never speaks to him, sitting back so far, drinking his coffee. The scruffy young fellow watches him, too, secretly, from his place by the stove, armed with his drink. The gentleman seems fascinated; the fellow, gentle. It seems, too, that everyone in the café knows they look at one another except they themselves, because there is a continual stream of bets going over when they will realise, when they will speak, how they are secretly related, &c. The willingness on the part of the other patrons to speculate is so strong that suddenly the young men and the old are talking together to discuss it. They are almost friendly with one another, because from conversations about the café's two oddities comes conversation about ordinary things, lives and homes and children and business.
At last, one day, the eyes of the old gentleman and the young fellow meet. The entire place falls silent. The fellow's large misshapen mouth twists into a smile, and the gentleman's face grows sober and sad. The moment seems to hold for a short time and a long time both at once, teasingly and terrifyingly stretched and tense. Everyone is hoping, and no one knows exactly what for.
At last, at last, the old gentleman looks away.
The tenseness ends, snaps. The fellow stands, a trifle unsteadily, and leaves, dragging his feet and leaving no money, as usual, only the empty glass and a half-full bottle. The gentleman bows his head, and finishes his plain coffee quietly, before leaving at the same time he always does.
The next day, however, neither of them return.
The next day, the old men retreat to their spots in the back, crowded around the warm stove. The young men move forward to the windows and stand about. Once again, the two parties maintain an unspoken agreement of separation. Once again, they never speak to one another.
And, owing that it seems it has always been that way, that is the way it remains.
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