The old man wandered down from the hills and into the city. He had about him that air of backwoods backwardness that makes city-folk so uncomfortable. After he’d walked a good ways, he sat down on a bench near Benton Park and watched the pedestrians go by.
As he watched them run from one destination to another, the old man’s worn brow creased with confusion. His head swiveled as he watched the young people dashing to and fro. A few cars raced by on Benton Road, and the old man seemed quite confused by these as well. He stroked his long, gray beard thoughtfully, and pulled down his furry hat against the chill December wind.
He’d been sitting there for about twenty minutes – occasionally attracting confused looks of his own from the people who jogged by him – when, suddenly, the clock on the tower at the corner of the park struck one. It gave one rapid chime; not a bell-chime, but a sharp, electronic sound with a tin edge that sounded like two pieces of tinfoil brushing against one another. The man stared up at the clock, and was still staring long after the chime had faded. His eyes were drawn to the letters “CTk,” which were printed very large on the clock’s face.
After a while, the old man got up from the bench, re-adjusted his hat, and crossed through the park to a little restaurant he’d seen on his way into the city. He followed the sidewalk past the wooded back corner of Benton park and found the diner, called “UpStreet.”
Inside, people chattered loudly over hamburgers and hot dogs. The old man’s eyes widened with surprise as he listened to the great rapidity with which they talked. All of their sentences seemed to be compressed into long, rambling single words.
“DadHadAnotherHeartAttack…” overheard the old man as he passed an overly-chipper couple. He seated himself at the counter and yanked a napkin out of the dispenser to wipe his cold nose with. As he did, the waitress flitted over, regarded him with concern and confusion, and disappeared again. As she trotted – actually, it was more of a jog – away, the old man looked up to make his order, but by then, she had hurried off to another customer. The old man cast a weary look in her direction, and waited for her to return.
She did so suddenly, hopping up to the counter with her little pad and pen already in hand.
“HelloSirWhatCanIGetYou?” It took a moment for him to figure out just what the woman had said, and in that time, she began to tap her foot impatiently. The tapping seemed too rapid, and it made the old man uncomfortable.
“I’d like a cheeseburger, dear.”
“ThankYouComingRightUp.” He sighed at her when his back was turned and closed his eyes, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers.
Suddenly, the door flew open behind him, and a pair of young women burst in. The old man ducked, thinking that only a pair of stickup-artists would throw a door open that violently, but the women simply galloped over to a booth in the corner and began talking excitedly. By now, the old man looked very bewildered, and extremely ill at ease. He took off his furry hat and started idly picking at the lining.
Suddenly, his cheeseburger arrived. The waitress practically threw it at him, and slammed a bottle of water on the counter next to it, then hurried off again. He took a cautious bite, made a face, and put the burger back down, then attempted to flag down the waitress. She already had the irritated look on her face when she drew up to the counter.
“YesWhatCanIDoForYou?”
“This burger is cold,” complained the old man. In the time it took him to say that, the waitress’s indignant look deepened.
“IfItWasHotYou’dHaveToEatSlow!” Before he could reply, she was off yet again. His appetite somewhat diminished, the old man slapped a five-dollar bill onto the counter and left without collecting his change.
