Orlando’s Café was a dreary downmarket affair, hardly Mr Barings’ idea of a meeting spot.
Pimply youths lazed idly behind the counter, a toothless black woman drowned in a million shopping bags and a blonde floozy hunched over her cup of coffee whilst her boy, one irritating snot nosed tyke waddled from aisle to aisle thumping anything with his fists.
Worst, a lovey-dovey couple, shared a Sunday with a single spoon, breaking off from time to time for a quick peck on the lips or an ear splittingly giggle which made Barings long for a shotgun.
So Mr. Arthur Barings, aged fifty-eight, bald, stout, possessing an
increasingly arthritic body had been summoned to this hole, by his meek and
timid son. God knows what Nick meant by “being true to one’s self” and since it
was the start of a new year, he had explained in the email that he had made a resolution
to change his life for the better.
Of course,
of course Mr. Barings yawned and looking around, found that Nick was nowhere in
sight. He checked his infernal mobile device, confirmed that yes, the time and
location were correct, and honestly hadn’t he beaten the virtue of punctuality into
his boy. Lateness was an unforgivable sin in his eyes. But texting back got a
response from the lad saying that he was already there. Nick was in this dive
and Mr Barings hadn’t spotted him? Was he invisible, was he hiding?
It was then Mr. Barings cursed himself for making too many assumptions, for the couple he had assumed were teenagers, on second examination (crow’s feet, receding hairline) showed themselves to be the parents of the snotty tyke when the woman called out “Jeremy we’re going now” and the kid followed his parents out of the café.
Which left Mr. Barings staring at the blonde tart with her back to him.
Ah. Right.
Now a memory long repressed but always accompanied with a dab of guilt and self-loathing surfaced in Mr. Barings’ mind. Years ago, he had come home to find Nick standing by the mirror in his parents’ bedroom, wearing Mrs Barings’ Sunday best, his face smeared in makeup. Had Nick been a girl no doubt this would have been cute, but by god no boy of his was going to be a tranny.
An argument ensured, Nick was indignant saying if girls could wear boots and trousers why couldn’t boys wear dresses and Mr Barings had lost it. He could still hear the resounding smack as his large hairy hand whacked his eight-year-old son’s face sending a mouthful of blood onto the carpet.
Nick had curled up into a weeping ball as Mr. Barings glumly awarded himself father of the year.
Back in the present, the blonde woman rose from her table, breathed in heavily and spun round to face her father. Mr. Barings issued a “Jesus Wept!” at the nauseating sight.
