To Keep Coming Back

The two sat across from each other by the open double doors and watched as the passersby wove past a man begging on the other side of the street. In the day that side would be flooded with sun and too bright for anyone to sit long, but in the evening the shadow of an oak would stretch and cover the pavement and the man would beg in the shadow of the tree where it was cool, and he could see the passing faces.

On this side, where the two sat by the doors that were kept open to let the last light into the cafe before the yellow bulbs were needed, day workers met and drank now that their respective labors had ended. The man begging across the street had become a fixture during early evenings at the cafe.

“His wife died, you know?” one of the two talking said.

“How?”

“Lack of money.”

“Sick?”

“In a way.”

“How can it be in a way?”

“There are different sicknesses.”

A coffee sat cold on the table between the two talking and cans of beer they had brought into the cafe from a shop down the street sweated in the setting light. Across, the man sat on a rough mat on the pavement with a box in front of him reading ‘For Coffee’ in markered letters.

Further down the street from the man, where the intersection with the oak-lined avenue was, passed the first blue patrol lights of the evening.

“They’ll move him on,” one said.

“He will find another spot.”

“No, he will wait and then come back.”

“Then they will book him.”

“Probably, yes.”

The other was silent a moment. He had watched the man for some time and knew that he had not collected much and did not do much for attention, and so was only a block to be maneuvered for the passing people.

He rose and crossed over the street to the man.

“Here,” he said, holding out a five-dollar bill.

The man looked blankly at him and took the bill without speaking, then stood and began rolling up his mat. The one who’d given the bill crossed back over and sat down with the other again.

“Now that should be all of him,” he said.

“You misspeak often, you know?” said the one who’d watched the other give charity, and who now watched as the beggar crossed over and into the cafe.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Is he without the right?”

“The beer here is expensive.”

“So?”

“He can just as easily do what we do.”

“Of course.”

“It is a waste.”

“It is his wont.”

The man left the counter with a glass of beer and his rolled mat and went out to where the fenced terrace crowded the walk with cigarette smoke and many conversations. In the corner of the terrace was a round table just outside some of the open doors, and the man began asking its occupants to vacate so that he could sit.

“He doesn’t value help,” the one who’d helped him said.

“That is unimportant.”

“And he’s a problem.”

“Why? It’s where he always sits.”

“They’ll tell him off.”

“Is that what you see?”

“Why did they give him the spot? He only takes away space from the rest of us.”

“I told you, it’s where he always sits.”

“You think they know him?”

“Few do.”

“Well I’m not one. I wouldn’t want to know a man like that. It’s a bad thing to look at.”

“Then why do you look? He doesn’t look at you.”

“I wish I hadn’t helped him.”

“Go ask for it back, then.”

“Do not make fun of me.”

“I’m only saying, let him alone.”

“He’s already alone.”

“Careful, now.”

“Okay, okay,” the judging one said, wishing not to be unkind. “It is only that he is the type I worry for.”

“He is okay. He has a beer and his place and good sun now,” the kinder one said.

“But, surely he’s miserable.”

“Yes, but he has his place.”

“What does that matter?”

“It serves his memory.”

“His memory of what?”

“What do you think?”

The questioning one did not respond. He watched as the beggar drank his beer slowly and stared at the late sun making orange himself and the empty chair across from him, and could make out a slight smile on the man’s face. A different man approached the table through the crowded terrace and, with his hand on the chair, said something to him, and then paused a moment and left without taking it.

“I don’t think it’s a healthy thing,” the questioning one spoke again.

 “It is what he has,” said the other.

“It’s all he’ll have if he does not put in an effort. I’ve never understood that sort of thing. Would she want this?”

“She cannot want any longer.”

“You are too literal.”

“It’s just a thing I understand. You are too young.”

“We are the same age, man.”

“Yes, but not really. You are younger than I, and younger than the man over there. And I understand to keep coming back.”

“You understand what you hold onto. I am different. I do not let it stay around.”

“What would stay around you?”

The one who did not like the beggar smiled with his hand over his eyes and shook his head.

“Perhaps you’d like an empty chair to talk to as well,” he said.

“Don’t be offended now.”

“I’m never offended,” he said, standing up. He began looking through his wallet. “I’m only tired of this. We come
here too often and I am bored of it.”

“Then by all means.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He placed enough on the table to cover the coffee and left the cafe. The other, the one who felt himself older, remained and watched the beggar continue sipping his beer. There was not much sun left and soon, when the yellow bulbs came on, the beggar would leave as always.

By now, many of the day workers had already left the cafe. Only the beggar and the man watching him remained among the crowd of those who were just beginning their evenings. The man watching also sipped his beer slowly, keeping in rhythm with the beggar. He was not rushed to leave like the other, or bored or without the enjoyment of sipping his beer slowly and watching the blue descend on the cafe and the yellow bulbs begin. He was glad that the beggar had his table to sit at and the chair across from him and that he always came back to the same place at the same time and that it seemed a thing he could not change. It was okay that he did not change. It was a part of him, and it would be a disservice to lose that. He wouldn’t lose that, because then he would not be him and only a beggar on the pavement, and without so much right to be uncourteous or unhealthy or ungrateful, and without the final orange of the evening to light the chair across from him, and would be likely to never come into the cafe again.

Author’s Biography

Benjamin Ebert is an American minimalist short story writer based out of New Orleans, LA. His published work can be found in Zoetic Press’ Nonbinary Review. As well, new writing will soon be appearing in Vocivia Magazine, Samjoko Magazine, and miniMAG.