Invisible

Invisible

The waitress had bleached her hair about as blond as she could get it;
a greenish golden, uniform in tone, saved by the warm olive of her
complexion and the luscious depth of her dark brown eyes.
Her head popped up between the stacks of plates on the self-service
counter as Jake stared with hungry eyes at the choice of food. The
selection was bewildering. Her sudden appearance and curtly delivered
question, intimidating.
"'Pot o' tea please," he responded meekly.
"Udder end!" She impatiently replied as she turned back to where
frozen chips fried ferociously in the oil behind her.
Jake shuffled on, as some Italian comment sailed ahead of him to the
waitress on the till. He'd never studied Italian, so perhaps it was
unfair of him to assume the remark was to the effect that he obviously
had very little money. Perhaps it was only his paranoia, his hang-up,
but the girl who clattered the teapot onto his tray, shoving a basket
of prepackaged u.h.t milk portions his way, seemed to have an arrogant
air. And the one sitting up at the till counted out the handful of
small change with haughty disdain. As he picked up the tray he felt
their eyes in silent conference exchange knowing glances.
How long would he be able to make this tiny cup of tea, served in a
miniature metal pot, last, he wondered. A half hour, an hour. Could he
eek it out until the rain stopped?
He cursed his shaky joints as he carried the trembling tray over to a
table in the far corner of the establishment, where he'd be out of
everyone's way, somewhere forgettable, where he could be
invisible.
That would be a useful trick! Like that tv programme he used to watch
with the kids. He clasped the metal teapot for a second in both hands
to warm them through, then poured the thin brown liquid into the tiny
cup. He struggled with the plastic foil on top of the u.h.t. milk
portion for a good few minutes before it finally tore, splattering its
cheesy-smelling contents all over him. He didn't dare go back for
second ration, for fear of drawing attention to himself and his
fumbling. No. He made do, pouring the last remaining drop into the tea
where it clouded for a second and then disappeared like an unrequited
dream, a brief glimpse of what might have been, was meant to have
been.
The first sip of tea dribbled out of the side of his mouth, trickling
down his unshaven chin. The second warmed his tongue, his teeth, his
throat and then all of him. Warmth that spread up to his face like a
light had been switched on.
They used to all sit together and watch that show of an evening, while
the wife finished the washing-up and made him a fresh cuppa. Those were
the days eh? Invisible! He'd just about be able to get by if he could
pull off a trick like that. Come in a place like this and help himself
to steak, chips, and apple crumble for afters. With custard! That'd
show 'em!
The man at the next table burped with gastric satisfaction, lifted his
mammoth frame from the seat, picking up the copy of the Sun he'd been
reading. He rubbed his stomach with digestive affection, squeezed
through the narrow gap between the table and the seat, spotted Jake as
he turned to pick up his paint-spattered denim jacket. His hands were
large and rough, his arm, tattooed with the image of a naked blond
woman and a St George's flag.
Jake cowered under his gaze, wishing he could be invisible, dwelling
on the word 'invisible'. Then he happened to notice the workman blink
stupidly to himself, shake his head with a puzzled look before
leaving.
A few skinny chips, a morsel of gristle and the crust of an apple pie
remained discarded on the tray the workman had left.
Invisible eh? He must be! If he believed it...
He waved to the caff's other patrons, to test out his theory. They
didn't see him; not the young pierced couple who were paying for a
couple of kit-kats and cans of coke, nor the suit by the window reading
The Times, nor the snooty waitresses, the secretaries on lunch hour,
not even the manager swanking around the caff like some maitre
d'.
Jake crept up from his seat, one eye on the faces of the other patrons
who snogged, read papers, or yacked away at one another. He lunged at
the leftovers, cramming the gristle into his mouth.
But he was invisible! Why rush his meal? And why settle for
scraps?
Creeping silently, Jake glided over to the counter, slipped behind it
right up to where the greenish blond was smiling at some young fella
who was giving her the eye. He wouldn't have minded a piece of that
himself, could have quite happily grabbed her arse from where he
hovered by the chips. But he remembered himself. Invisible he may be,
but he'd give himself away if she felt him there, or heard him. The
mischievousness of the thought was enough to satisfy him. May be he'd
get a feel on the way out, once the rain had stopped.
Jake helped himself to steak and chips and a fresh cup of tea. It
reminded him of how Vera used to cook for him (before her interests
roamed elsewhere... before that Jonathan appeared on the scene... well,
it was all past now...)
But this was heaven! All he could eat and nothing to pay! And they
couldn't throw him out, could they? They'd have to find him first! He
laughed inside himself, had to stop himself from cracking up in
toothless glee. He couldn't make a sound, and the strain of containing
his mirth made it all the stronger. From now on the possibilities were
endless. He'd no need to go back to his doorway tonight. No. The Ritz
would do him. He'd always wondered what it was like in there. Used to
promise Vera he'd take her there one day, just for a night, but he'd
never had the money.
Chewing on his food he watched the other diners. The secretaries
talked all at once in what could hardly be called a chat, each vying
with the others to be the centre of attention. The young couple,
slumped against one another, giggled and snogged, giggled and snogged.
He wondered how they didn't get fastened to one another with all that
metal jutting out of their faces. Anyone'd think they'd get tangled up!
They had a packet of ten B&;H open on the table in front of them.
Jake fancied a fag to help him digest. He moved over to their table and
took one gently out the pack.
This invisible business was just what he'd needed. He felt like a
twenty-year-old, like he could live his life all over again. If he'd
known what he knew now, well things would have been a lot
different.
He lay on the seats opposite the young pierced couple, back propped
against the wall of the caff, watching as their tongues danced around
one another's lips, noses, lip-rings and nose-rings, occasionally
stopping to pass bits of kit-kat mouth to mouth.
Romance. That's where he'd gone wrong with Vera. He'd lost her, and
his boys, for lack of romance. Then, with a generosity of spirit he
hadn't felt since long before she'd thrown him out one rainy day many
Februaries before, he found himself wishing these two, with their
knotted hair and pierced skin, all the romance life could bring, losing
himself calmly in the moment...
Until his thoughts were disturbed by the thud of a falling weight, the
loud crash of a tiny metal teapot ricocheting of a table, and the
screeching of the greenish-blond waitress.
In the far corner of the caff, the greenish blond held her hands over
her mouth. Tears flowed from the depths of her luscious dark brown eyes
as she muttered Mediterranean hysteria over some old tramp whose
lifeless body had slumped onto the table, colliding with a small metal
teapot and a tiny cup of cold, cloudy black tea.