the waiter

Hello, two stories on a theme...

WAITER
I was meeting N, the woman who refuses to date, for an after-work drink. She wanted to meet in Clapham. And had suggested one of those well-known, but entirely indistinguishable, wooden-benched, wine emporiums.

I arrive early and, with a glass of wine in hand, grab a seat by the window. Halfway through my drink, a table-waiting Jason Bourne, surreptitiously appears at my side and, in one movement, slips a little silver tray under my elbow. He disappears before I can utter a word. On the tray, a piece of neatly folded paper. I know it's not the bill – I’d paid at the bar. Hmm. Something tells me this is not legitimate bar business.

I open the hand-written note:

“Hi, my name is Andro” it reads, “and I am a trainee hairdresser at XXXX, on the XXXX and I need a model to work on. I couldn’t help but notice your roots needing doing and would like to offer you the chance to have your hair coloured by me. 25% discount. Just come into the shop at XXXX. Many thanks, Andro”

I look around. And there he is, standing shyly by the kitchen door. He waves his fingers at me. I respond back with a ‘thank you for noticing’ half nod/smile. I want to let him down gently but don’t know what unspoken sign would impart 'I’m sorry but I already have a hairdresser.'

Albeit one I'm, apparently, overdue to revisit.

WAITERS
I'm editing a book of poetry for a friend. We arrange to meet one morning, last week, at a trendy-looking pub in downtown Camberwell - which is somewhere between our respective neighbourhoods. We're meeting at 11.30am. Which seems a tad early for a pub but it looks like a good place for coffee and chat and free WiFi, should we want it. Not that I was bringing my laptop. Not to Camberwell. A place where the great, the good, the not-so great and the damn-right dodgy all fight for a bit of pavement space amongst the numerous yellow police boards asking for witness information. Some of the pubs have been gentrified, hinting of urban renewal and a brighter tomorrow (at least, for some), but mostly, it's a neighbourhood in hard times, and it shows.

I arrive a bit early and try the pub door but it’s locked. The staff are inside and they look surprised in a way that suggests this pub is not opening for 11.30. I sit on the bench outside, waiting patiently. People look at me funny as they walk past but then, I am sitting outside a pub, on a weekday, waiting for it to open. I am being watched. I look up to the window to see two of the staff peering down at me. I guess I don’t look like your typical alcoholic. And then a man arrives, who does. He too tries the door and is incredulous to find it locked. “Can you believe it’s closed? I’m gasping!” he complains to nobody in particular.

His whole demeanour suggests he isn’t exaggerating. He jumps, companionably, onto an adjoining table. He assumes I must be gasping too. He seems amiable, if tetchy. He’s a little too close. “I haven’t been able to get a drink for a few months” he volunteers rather darkly, I study his tattooed face for a moment and decide against asking why. He cranes his neck to look in the window again. A Celtic design stretches across the back of his head.

We sit in relative silence for what seems like an age. Both waiting.

I feel uncomfortable but he's completely unaware of that. “I’m not from around here, you know, I’m from North London,” he offers by way of an explanation. Pedestrians walk by and instinctively avoid eye contact with us both. “The pubs open much earlier there” he adds cheerily. I crack a smile at that.

Suddenly the doors open. My new companion springs up “ 'ere love, you can get a drink now. I’m gasping, I tell ya” and with that he marches in.

Within ten minutes, my friend arrives and we get down to work. I forget about my bench companion - but hope he eventually found his way back Up North.