The Waiter.. Chapter One

I started to write a story, just as an excercise to see what would come out without any planning, plotting, character development or anything like that. Just typing.. in one sitting. What came out was this:



The Waiter - Chapter One



I am here, I am waiting. I didn’t choose the place, or the time, but I am here, waiting. At least the bitter coldness of February is temporarily subdued, and the subtle warmth of the winter sun is becoming noticeable on my black wool jacket. I tuck my hands in my coat pocket and shrug my shoulders in an effort to block any cold entering the opening between my jacket and my chin. Why would he choose this place? A few others are around, the homeless types. They must have slept here during the night. Drug and alcohol addicts, some sitting, some lying down, all of them barely living. They have blank stares, starring at the rotting leaves on the ground. In this park the leaves aren’t cleaned up, they are left to rot. No one cares about this park. Why would they? It’s where you come to decompose. It stinks of expiration. I don’t feel sorry for these people, I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. Why the hell would he choose this place? A café would have sufficed. I could sure use a coffee. There is a great café not five minutes from here. The coffee is always fresh, and they use real cream, so thick it’s almost whipped. They even bake their own muffins. Blueberry bran muffins, right out of the oven, served with butter, real butter, not that fake margarine shit. I bet anyone of these destitute freaks would kill for one of those muffins. If I had a watch I’d look at it. I’m sure I got the time right. 9:00am. When I walked by the steam clock it was 8:45am, that was about a quarter hour ago. He’ll be here any moment now. I hate waiting. Waiting makes you think. Thinking makes you feel. Feeling brings guilt. I don’t feel, I can’t feel. Feelings are for the weak.. and guilt is for the dead. If I felt guilt, I’d be dead. Where is he? I hate waiting.