Trigger Warning
The café wasn’t much to look at. A brick building with tall windows and an outdoor seating area full of small tables, some covered with umbrellas. A short wood fence around the tables separated them from the busy stone paver street beyond. A few cars passed by but mostly bicycle riders peddled by in an incomprehensible pattern that only they understood. Somehow, they managed to miss one another, cars, and people along the way. Further on was another sidewalk with a wide canal beyond. Hardly anyone was sitting inside the Café on a shimmering sunny day that warmed everyone’s soul.
I sat down at a small table outdoors. After a busy travel schedule through Holland, it felt good to slow down and relax in Belgium.
“What is your specialty here?” I asked the server, knowing most everyone spoke English.
“It has to be the mussels,” he responded very matter-of-factly.
“I’ll have the mussels and a Duvel beer, please!”
I noticed a man was sitting by himself with a small French Bulldog on the floor below him. He was an older fellow with a light grey, well-trimmed beard. He had piercing blue eyes and slightly jowly cheeks framing a sharply curving nose. He wore a light blue shirt with an open collar and a driving hat with a herringbone pattern. The dog was down by his feet, drinking from a water bowl provided by the restaurant. He had no leash on, but the dog appeared to be well-behaved. I slyly watched the old man for a few minutes. On the table was a single glass of beer, untouched. Drops of condensation moved down the face of the glass, forming a small pool of water on the wooden table. Being a warm day with bright sunshine, I couldn’t help but wonder why he had not taken a sip. The beer just sat there and retained its foamy head as all the best Belgian beers do. His eyes darted this way and that, observing every small detail around him with his head hardly moving at all. Imperceptibly, he turned his head and noticed a couple at the next table leaning in close, talking in whispers to each other. Just beyond the low café fence, there was nearly a bike crash. No one went down, but he duly noted that bad bike etiquette was the cause. Ever so slightly turning his head the other direction, he observed four older men at a back table near a wall covered with climbing flowers. He knew this was their weekly routine and watched them talk loudly with the confidence of regulars. Try as I might, I never caught him looking at me, although I’m sure that he did. I wanted to say hello, but nothing in his posture or makeup suggested any invitation.
“I bet this guy spends his whole life watching other people do things. How European,” I thought.
I redirected my attention to my now almost-empty beer (it was magnificent) and the mussels, which were halfway eaten (they were even better).
“Can I have another Duvel and maybe some bread?” I asked the server.
“Of course, you wouldn’t want to waste any of the sauce,” he said.
Curious, I asked him, “Does the man with the driving hat come here often?”
“Yes, he comes every Tuesday, but we really don’t know anything about him. He keeps to himself and his dogs,” he said.
“Thank you,” I responded.
Looking over, I noticed the second French Bulldog, who had been hiding on his lap under the table.
“What a lovely day to be sitting outside at my favorite café with my two best friends in the whole world. I still enjoy spending time in the city that I have loved since I was a little boy. Today is particularly active. The near miss by the bikes was exciting, but I am most fascinated by the man sitting diagonally across from me at the next table. I know he is secretly observing me,” the old man thought.
He then turned towards the reflection in the window and caught him looking his way.
“I can almost see his mind turning round and round in an effort to figure me out. This could be a unique day indeed,” he thought.
The second Bulldog’s head peeked above the table, and he patted him on the head.
“Be a good boy, Harmon. No squirming around today, please,” he told him.
Harmon wanted to be down on the ground, and the old man placed him there. He picked up his sister, June, and set her on his lap. Harmon, now loose on the floor, began to poke around, looking for food and good smells and whatever else dogs are constantly looking for. After a drink from the water bowl, he approached the table behind them and sniffed about everyone’s ankles.
“All right, you stay still,” the old man said as he got a short leash out of his bag.
He was practically juggling both dogs now as he snapped the leash to Harmon’s collar while barely keeping June from sneaking a drink of his beer. After a few moments, everyone was under control, and he resumed his day job of observing the Café’s guests.
“He must be American,” the old man thought, looking across at him.
He was wearing a black baseball cap with “High West Distillery” on it.
“Must be a big drinker. I think most Americans are,” he thought.
Looking further, he noticed that all his clothes, including his shoes, had logos or lettering that described a brand. Patagonia T-shirt, 0R – Outdoor Research shorts, and OC – On Cloud shoes were visible and prominent.
“I guess the Americans really like to show off their brands. I wonder if he ever feels like a walking billboard?” He thought.
The old man nudged June off the table and returned to the reflection in the window.
“Look at the size of that bowl of mussels. That dish is meant for two people. It’s only lunch, and I bet he is going to eat it all,” he thought, feeling superior about only ordering a beer and not even drinking it.
As the old man was enjoying his silent evaluation of the American sitting next to him, Harmon had an idea of his own. With his owner’s attention elsewhere, he meandered a little further from the table, expecting at any moment for the leash to tighten up, ending his expedition like usual. But this time, the leash didn’t tighten up, so he moved a little farther away and now saw that the leash had slipped out from under the old man’s foot, where he thought it was secure. Not wanting to attract any attention, Harmon sat motionless on the stone-paved patio to see what would happen.
“Maybe I’m invisible today,” he thought while holding his breath.
He managed to catch June’s eye on the table and tried to telepathically urge her to attract the old man’s attention. He’ll never know for sure if the message got through or not, but at that moment, June hopped fully up on the table and addressed the untouched beer by sticking her tongue as far down into the cold, foamy liquid as possible. This accomplished two things. Junes’ thirst was quenched, and her mood improved noticeably.
“No, June, that’s my beer!” the old man shouted as he grabbed her.
The action up on the table provided Harmon with the opening he’d hoped for, allowing him to run headlong toward the busy street right outside the café’s seating area.
While the old man had his hands full with the now thirst-quenched, delighted first dog, the American watched as the second dog on the ground made a break for the street. He moved nimbly through the rows of tables toward the low fence separating the outdoor seating area from the sidewalk and the street beyond.
“I don’t think this is going to end well,” the American thought as the second dog reached the fence, only to stop, as he tried to figure out a way to get through to what would surely be an oasis of scraps to eat, ankles to sniff, and an infinite selection of directions to go.
“I don’t even like dogs,” the American thought as he, for some reason, jumped up from his seat and crashed down between the rows of tables towards dog number two.
Making quite a commotion now, the sudden movement attracted the attention of the old man. His eyes first went to the American lunging toward the fence and then drifted to see one of his two best friends, Harmon, trying to get through the fence and out into the street, where he would surely be immediately run over. Picking up June, he spilled the rest of the beer on the table, and the glass shattered on the stone pavers. June noticed more beer on the table and wriggled out of the old man’s grip to lap up more of the cool golden liquid before he grabbed her again and made his way toward the fence right behind the American. By the time he made it, Harmon had squeezed himself through an opening in the fence and was now out on the sidewalk, standing perfectly still as the bikers sped past him with barely a notice. The American was now trying to climb over the fence, and just as the old man arrived, he lost his balance and fell forward, taking a section of the fence with him. One of the fence posts got caught up in the old man’s belt and pulled him over with the fence as well. As they both tumbled forward onto the sidewalk, June wiggled loose of the old man’s grasp and, after a fleeting moment of being airborne (which she enjoyed immensely and now thinks she can fly), landed on the pavement next to Harmon. As he fell, the American reached out his right hand and grabbed Harmon by his collar, then landed face forward onto the sidewalk. The old man, still attached to the fence, hit the pavement next, and he reached out with his left hand and grabbed June by the collar. Two small dogs had caused only a minor disruption to the intense bike traffic, but when the two men landed, bike traffic came to a complete stop. Rows of bikers were backed up four and five deep, all looking down at the two men, each with a small French Bulldog in their grasp.
After a moment, they both rolled over onto their backs, still clutching the dogs. First, they checked to see if all their parts were still intact, then looked up at the sky to confirm they were still conscious, and finally looked over at each other. They locked eyes for the first time, paused for a moment, and roared with laughter.