"I'm the restaurant manager", said Jalani as she gently pushed Carlos to one side and turned to face the customer who had remained seated throughout, stony-faced.
"But the spitting was...", protested Carlos in a stuttering voice. Jalani interrupted him without looking in his direction, "Quiet please, we'll discuss this later".
The customer remained where he was, spoon still in hand, overturned cup and spilled coffee where they had come to rest. "This pudding is bitter, it is old", he repeated enigmatically, "I demand my just desserts!"
Jalani was sharp, very alert. She had known Carlos for six months and considered him to be an excellent waiter with great people skills. The current situation was unlike him and she'd never heard anything other than positive feedback from those whom he had served. This customer was clearly agitated but he wasn't out of control. After reflecting for a moment she decided to make an offer, "Ok sir, you will not be charged for the meal. If you would be so kind as accept our regrets and leave right now, I will take care of this from here on".
There were some other diners about and all eyes were fixed the customer who sat still and unmoving, no response. Pin-drop silence! A full minute went by before he finally stood up, eyes locked on to Carlos who was staring at the bowl of dessert in his hand, shaking in fear. "You piece of shit, I would smash your face in right here if it wasn't for your manager!"
With that, he picked up his phone and walked out of the place.
"What on earth was that all about Carlos?" asked Jalani at the end of the shift when at last the two of them were sitting in her office.
"It's a long story", said Carlos after a pause, I'll try and make it short.
I had been at it all day, dashing around town and getting worked up over all the drama and bullshit. I have issues you see, and I don't take to stressful situations very well. Although polite enough, I don't much like other human beings either. I was also starving by this point and popped into a World Cuisine diner where I had a plate of something hot and spicy. After that I ordered coffee and sweet.
The waiter who brought me my coffee and dessert was different from the one who had taken my order. I'd not noticed him earlier, and this was just as well, for when I did see who it was, I wasn't able to stop myself reacting in the manner that I did.
I had been engrossed in my phone when dessert was brought over to me and had only looked up to acknowledge the service. That is when I saw that the waiter was Carlos, my childhood and school 'best friend forever'.
He did not recognise me at first, which was unsurprising, as three decades had passed and my appearance has changed considerably. I am not the awkward, clumsy and overweight introvert I once was; my bearing is confident and I no longer swallow insults as I once did.
Carlos' insult had been stuck in my throat for over 30 years, undigested and raw.
"The fat is dripping", was what I heard myself say when my mouth opened after the initial freeze of recognition, "Isn't it my old friend Carlos?"
The insult wanted to be spat back out. Venom and sarcasm.
There was a pause during which time Carlos' brow went from the smoothness of boredom to the dark crinkliness of worry as his neurocircuits started to blink with recognition.
I have often wondered about it but I do not know what Carlos' relationship to this common memory of ours is - indifference, amusement, guilt, embarrassment, regret blah blah. I don't really care any more. Besides, he never once contacted me to apologise or explain. Not once!
How would a person feel if, as an adult, they were to revisit a childhood scene in which they had stolen their 'best friend's' personal diary - the notebook into which he confided his fears; his pain; all the wretched details of a lonely and miserable life; as well as the names of those who had hurt him and how they had done so? And what if this diary were then butchered into a satirical pamphlet entitled 'The Fat is Dripping', which was plastered all over school and surrounding neighbourhoods...what then?
And what of the shy, already traumatised 16-year old who discovers himself to be the explicit laughing stock of the entire school; all age-groups making jokes about his dreams and dramas; caricaturing his pitiful accounts of being hurt by the insensitivity of others; scoffing at the adolescent poetry written to girls he fancied or fantasised about?
What then became of that boy for whom a few days of this was sufficient material for three sincere, yet unsuccessful attempts at suicide; that boy who, betrayed by his closest friend, ended up leaving town altogether, never to return...what of him Carlos?
So yes, I spat back the insult - it was a gut reaction, instinctive. I vomited it out. The glob of spittle landed bang in the middle of the pudding Carlos was carrying and his hand dropped the cup of coffee he had been about to place on the table beside me.
It really was all I could do not to lay into him. I gathered up the self-control to walk away. I take a lot of satisfaction in this!
"I couldn't bring myself to explain it to him", concluded Carlos in a pained voice. "Initially I just hid - ran away coz I couldn't face him. After all that happened he'd never believe that I had only taken his diary as a prank. I had never intended to do any more than just read it myself and poke fun at him when we were hanging out with a spliff together."
Carlos put his head in his hands and let out a groan before continuing, "That was the day the nasty gangster dudes cornered me and went through my bag thinking I had drugs on me. They found some weed sure enough, but they also found the diary!"
Note: Mercifully nothing like this ever happened to Barge, although he did keep diaries.
