The Third Party

The waitress filled up the coffee mug with the same bored and expert air of one who has done this a thousand million times. The owner of the now steaming mug barely nodded his thanks before turning back to his view onto the street. This was one of his favorite haunts to watch people as they passed by. It was interesting to see the different methods they would employ in order to get to places. Some would scurry along, heads bent close to the ground, as they raced to an end they didn’t even know, hardly pausing to see what was happening. Others would stroll languidly, heads lolling as they took their time, making sure to catch every detail, but never really getting anywhere. Then there would be those who walked along at a steady pace, taking in the world but still moving forward. These were the most numerous of the crowd. But there was a fourth group as well. These passerby were not merely content to walk or to stroll or even to run. They found different means of getting through life, whether it was by using stilts or pogosticks or rollerblades or even on their hands. As they passed through, others would watch them curiously, parting as the outliers drove right through the throng. And so, in this way, human life progressed.

The door swung open; the first customers were entering the cafe. The first was an old man with thinning white hair and large rectangular glasses. His eyes were full of childish humor, and there was something about his smile that reminded one of family reunions during Thanksgiving. He didn’t say much, but you could tell he was always thinking. The next was a younger man, in his early fifties perhaps, with a leather cap and a quick-witted gleam in his eye. He was carrying a black book in his hand, and the words ‘Don’t Panic’ could be seen in peeling gold letters. After he came, a rush of others followed, some as young as a couple of months old, some as old as in their eighties or nineties. For some reason unknown, the man turned away from the window long enough to bow his head sadly as these people passed. They all seemed to be missing something, as if they had lost something recently and couldn’t believe it-or understand why. Following the crowd, a guitar held idly in his hands, was a man wearing brightly colored clothes and a gold chained necklace. He was absent mindedly humming a song while looking into the distance, as if looking for an old friend.

More and more people trickled in, sometimes in massive floods, and sometimes one or two at a time. A few mingled in the cafe, watching the sprawl of life outside, before joining the others by disappearing into another room. None of them seemed to notice the man in the corner, nor did they converse with each other. No one who entered the cafe ever left through the same door.

The last to enter were two people. The first was a woman, her head held high, but with that secret twinkle of warmth that betrayed a well earned sense of humor. She wore heavy makeup and obviously had had several procedures to make her look younger, but it also suited her, as if it was only an extension of her personality. The other was a man. He was a bit more shy than his companion, but there was something about his fatherly warmth that made one smile. One could also tell that this man was clever, far smarter than his stout appearance would suggest, and his face was that of a man quick to make a joke. But there was something else too. A deep and unending sorrow, as if he had lost something important and couldn’t find it again.

Once they too had left the cafe, the man finished his coffee and tossed down some change carelessly. He picked up his jacket from the chair and shrugged it on. As he readjusted the hat on his head, he paused to read the words hanging in the cafe.

We all are travelers,

Walking down an endless road

Who knows what bends and twists there shall be

How heavy shall be our load

And when we at last rest our feet

We shall have finally returned home.

Smiling to himself, the man passed through the back and followed the others. He would be back again the next day; if anything, Death was always punctual.