Tim

Tim’s tapping his left foot at record speed. Okay, I think, what’s his problem? You wanna know how I know his name’s Tim? I don’t know him, never met the guy, we’ve never even made eye contact. I know his name’s Tim ’cause the others keep repeating it. No idea what their names are. They both look like that Fortnite guy, Ninja, d’you know who I mean? And they just won’t stop repeating Tim’s name. Tim, they say, Tim, why is that? Or: No, Tim. Or: Sure, Tim, if you say so. How many more times are they gonna say his name, it’s getting on my last nerve. Tim, Tim, Tim, says the Ninja with the green baseball cap—that was around five minutes ago, I almost lost it. If I had a quid for every time, honestly.

Also, my coffee’s cold. I’m still gonna finish it, it wasn’t cheap, but it tastes like shit now. I’d like to stay here and listen to them, I’m starting to get a kick out of it. I look out the window . . . lots of cars, buses, bikes, a couple of school kids . . . but it’s as if they’re all see-through. Or seen to . . . I mean, like you can see right through them . . . whatever. Tim and the Ninjas just shouldn’t figure out I’m through . . . No, that I’m practically sitting at their table. So to speak. And that I don’t have enough to order another americano. I mean, I’m broke. Dead broke. As in, no money. Like none. Not just not on me, none at all, seriously nothing, like praying-that-my-card’ll-work nothing. Shame there’s no space at their table. The Ninja in the green baseball cap—the one who’s obviously got a job—I think he’d have paid for me. Actually I’m sure he would. But not Tim. Tim isn’t even paying for his own drink and feels absolutely shit about it, you can tell by the way he fidgets, the way he scans the others, the way he drums his fingers on the tabletop. Tim, can you stop that?

Tim gets up—again, he’s off to the toilet—again, every twenty minutes—almost on the dot. Tim, the two Ninjas say, are you off again? Slow down, Tim! I know what’s going on in there. Every twenty minutes? A few seconds each time? What else could it be?! I scratch my nose. The Ninjas chuckle. Can they read my mind? If you can read my mind, one of you should . . . Yeah, I know it doesn’t work like that. Of course I do. Green-cap Ninja just happens to sneeze at this exact moment. Honestly.

I take another sip because I forget how bad it’s going to taste. My lips stick to the edge of the cup as I discreetly let the swill dribble back in. No one noticed. No idea why the old lady over there is staring at me. I stare right back, and I think: Excuse you! I stare right back and I say—never mind, it’s not like everything you think needs to be said out loud, right? I must have left the teabag in too long. Tea? Or coffee? Or has the milk gone off? Well, if the milk’s gone off, someone’s gonna get what for. The second time this week! How’s that even possible? As a taxpayer is it really too much to ask to occasionally be able—I mean, without food poisoning . . . for crying out loud! Unbelievable.

He’s back. Fidgety Philip, I mean. OK, that’s not his name . . . it’s . . . his hands are wet, he rubs them on his trousers. They’ll be dry soon. His hands. He wants to tell the others something, he hasn’t said anything yet, but you can see it in his eyes, they’re wide open, revealing his eagerness to speak. I can tell. Here we go, I hope he doesn’t notice I’m listening too. He turns his chair around, swiping his back against the tablecloth, and for a moment the Ninjas are super slow . . . But the cup doesn’t tip over. That’s good, it would have been a proper mess otherwise. The slo-mo Ninjas reach for the cup, catching it right before it collapses and vomits over the table, and then what’s-his-face can sit down. He sits so quickly that at first, I think he fell on the chair, and it makes me jump.

Listen, I wanna tell you something, he says.

I touch the cup with the tips of my fingers, something or other is keeping me from picking it up. Instead, I drum my fingernails against the faded flower pattern on its side, it sounds shrill. And hectic. It would be good for me to stop.

Tim, someone says, (Tim!) Tim, you know what?

Tim isn’t listening. I look at the green baseball cap, which by now is lying on the table.

Hello, Tim? Anyone home?

He’s back—was only gone for a second—glassy-eyed, staring upwards, left-hand corner of the café, head tilted to one side, mouth slightly open. I look as well, same corner, trying to find the thing he discovered. Or is it still lost? What’s going on?

Tim! Weren’t you about to tell a story? Amirite or amirite?

Tim looks at the Ninjas, shaking his head, as if he’d never seen them before. Did he say anything about a story? He didn’t say anything at all, did he?

I already know what happens, says the capless Ninja. What’ll you give me if I get it right? I know it off by heart, Tim. It’s like the fifth time you’re telling it.

What?! Wait a second, slow down.

. . .

OK, here goes: Once upon a time there was an old man, right, Tim? He was penniless, living on the street and all, begging just to get by. And one day someone had a go at him. Amirite?

Tim nods, but the way he does it takes me a minute to recognize it.

Actually, it was two guys, right? They beat him black and blue. Pow! Bam! Bish! Until the old man starts bleeding. But check this out, here’s the crazy part—it isn’t red liquid dripping out of his wounds, it’s money. That’s right, money! Pound Sterling!

Tim looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. To be fair, it’s a pretty weird story. I’d look that way too.

And Tim, d’you know what happens next? They hit him on the head—fifty. They kick him in the shin—twenty. They figure out pretty quickly that slitting his cheeks isn’t worth it, they only get coins. So beat him again: Pow! Bam! Bish! The old man bleeds so much cash, the guys start to dance—in the middle of the street! Who wants to be a millionaire, they think. Millionaire? Billionaire!

Tim’s tapping his foot again, faster than ever before. It’s written all over his face: How come they know my story? He sniffs and wipes the back of his right hand under his nose. He sniffs again.

What d’you think of that, Tim, eh? You know what happens next, don’t ya? The old man’s lying on the ground, barely moving. He’s lying in a pool of money. The bills just keep flowing. And what do all the dudes walking down the street do? Yes, dudes, you’ve been talking about guys all this time too, so what? They have a quick look and then keep going. They just keep fucking going! No reaction at all. They don’t even film it. They will have seen nothing. The old man is lying there, probably about to die, it’s completely obvious, but no one does anything. Then one of the attackers says: OK, that’s enough, time to stop. But the other one says: No, and kicks the old man in the face. That’s how the story goes, isn’t it, Tim? That’s what you wanted to tell us, right?

Suddenly there’s a woman standing in front of me, she has a tattoo on her arm that’s secretly moving. A tattoo snake that stares at me with her razor-thin pupils. I don’t want to stare back, but she’s trying to take my drink away, so I shoo her away. What d’you think you’re doing, I add. The cup isn’t even empty? I know she works here and probably means well but still. This here is mine, I’m going to DRINK EVERY LAST FUCKING DROP!

Calm down, Tim. Stop shouting, what’s wrong with you? The capless Ninja frowns for the first time. He looks like my dad now. If he starts the whole boomer thing, I’m outta here. Enough is enough, my dad would say. Isn’t it though? Just look at this shit. Cars, buses, bikes, a couple school kids . . . Why aren’t any of these fuckers stopping? Why aren’t they helping? What’s wrong with all of you?

Tim, Tim, Tim . . . can you hear us?

I just want to know how the story ends, to hell with Tim. What’s with the old guy on the pavement bleeding money? Was he bitten by a snake?

Sure, Tim, if you say so.

I don’t say so, I know so! Can we stop acting as if all this is normal? Yeah? There’s a man lying on the pavement. He’s bleeding to death. And no help far and wide! What the actual fuck? What have we come to? How is it possible to live here? To witness something like that? Without completely losing it? How do you stand it? Why don’t you intervene? Why aren’t you saying anything?

Sure, Tim. You’re right. Absolutely. What would you do?

. . .

My hands aren’t wet anymore. It’s not . . . no way . . . why’s everyone staring at me like that? Don’t they see the snake on that woman’s neck?! With one hand I point at her, using my index finger. I’m reporting you . . . repointing . . . reporting her! The Ninjas take a look and don’t see anything. Losers. With the other hand I search my pocket . . . is it there? It’s there—there it is! . . . and exhale. At least that.

I’m going to the toilet, I say, and get up so fast I almost drag the tablecloth up with me. But it doesn’t matter because the Ninjas react quickly, and everything’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

Everything’s going to be fine.