An Afternoon at the Cafe de Flore (or, The Bum's Dog) Flash Fiction
An Afternoon at the Café de Flore
((or; The Bum’s Dog) (1998 AD))
I left our hotel on St. Germain, Boulevard, walked down to the Café de Flore; it was my first of four trips to Paris, and my third time at the cafe. I sat down at one of the outside small tables, on the brownish-red cloth seated chairs, behind me a wall of glass, an inside restaurant, ordered a coffee, hot milk on the side, no sugar, a ham and cheese sandwich on one of those long hoagie like hard breads, the same thing I had ordered two days ago while at the Café de Flore, it cost me $17.50 dollars, four-dollars for the coffee, and the rest for the ham and cheese, and whatever else they charge for. But I liked the café and service, and all the old writers from the 1920s came here, it gave me a kind of stimulus.
I turned about noticed a male waiter mopping, my waiter standing next to me, he looked familiar, another waiter was sweeping out the café, there was one man sitting to my right, it was 11:00 a.m., still morning in Paris, the outside café near empty, “Will there be anything else sir?” asked my short, stocky, waiter, short crew-cut head of hair, perhaps in his late thirty’s.
“Not at the moment,” I remarked, and he turned about to get my order.
It was April in Paris (1998), and above on the second story of the building of the café, were yellow flowers, people riding bikes, parking them, locking them with chains against traffic sights, a newsstand across the street, and a bum leaning against the building, above the sign that read, “St. Germain, Boulevard,” and next to it, in a cardboard box, with a dog in it, lean, and his fur was a dirty washed-out white, more on the mutt side of the dog race. And he’d every so often peak his head out of the top of that box to see what was going on, look at his master, the traffic, the newsstand, and passers-by, and if a policeman looked his way, he’d hide again. The bum, thin, dark skinned, burnt from the sun, of bygone years, and droopy eyes, like his dog mate, cloths just draped on him like curtains, in his mid fifties I would guess, looked about indifferent on everything in sight—a kind of a so-so look; one of God’s sparrows.
“Your order sir,” said my waiter. He put the tray down on my table, and took each item off with the most proficient of care, as not to break a thing, or spill. He put the cream by me, “Should I pour it sir?”
“No need to, I will.”
There was a loud sound, a truck horn, both the waiter and I looked; it was a block up the street, coming down our way, towards the café and the newsstand across the street.
“He shouldn’t be driving down this street,” said the waiter, “it’s forbidden, especially with outside cafés like this one, and the street, this street isn’t made for that heavy truck.”
“What do you think of that,” I said as a rhetorical question.
“I don’t know he shouldn’t be driving down this way…!” He looked concerned, black smoke leaving a thick cloud behind it.
A policeman on the corner near the newsstand pulled out a pencil as if ready to take down its plate number, and it occurred to me, he might try to stop it, he took a step off the curve. The dog heard the horn, it honked again, loud very loud, and the dog peaked its head out of the cardboard box again.
“I told that bum to get out of here yesterday, and take his dog with him, we don’t want them around here, fleas and all that kind of stuff, you know” said the waiter looking towards me for approval, “I wish the policeman would do his duty.” The waiter just stood next to me, by my side shaking his head, watching the truck come closer and closer, appearing to be ready to cover his mouth from the dark exhaust trailing behind it. Then the waiter went and asked the customer to my right, a man with a light white jacket on, talking on his cell phone, leaning his elbow on a chair, grey mixed into white hair, clean shaven, he asked him something; he was drinking wine it looked, still on that phone. Then there was a scratching and high pitched screeching, of the brakes from the truck. Then a halt, that sounded like it had moved the earth an inch, and the bum looked at his cardboard box, and his dog was gone, and he looked at the truck, and it was between two large wheels, its tail hanging out along side the back truck wheels—two wheels together, and the policeman was walking over to the driver, and the waiter, he stood there, covering his mouth, and shaking his head right and left.
The moment seemed to be frozen in time. The noise had ceased; everything at a standstill. The waiter walked to the corner, he could see well from there.
“He’s dead, like a dead duck,” said the waiter, as he approached me, “Oh, sorry,” he remarked looking at me.
“I’m all right, I can take it.” I said, adding, “You mean the dog is dead?” I confirmed.
“Like mashed potatoes,” He remarked again, “blood all over the place.”
“No fun in that is there?” I commented.
“I didn’t see the dog jump out of that box, must have done it when the bum wasn’t looking.” He said.
The policeman looked at the dead dog, back at the bum, the bum was picking up his box, and other items, and was about to make his escape, but saw several cigarette stubs on the sidewalk, picked them up, one by one, one after the other, several of them, put them in his pocket, looked toward the policeman again, and the policeman was looking at the dead dog, and then turned back to look at the bum, at the driver, then at us looking at him, and as he was about to turn back to the bum, he was gone, he had hightailed it out of there just in time.
4-10-2009
((or; The Bum’s Dog) (1998 AD))
I left our hotel on St. Germain, Boulevard, walked down to the Café de Flore; it was my first of four trips to Paris, and my third time at the cafe. I sat down at one of the outside small tables, on the brownish-red cloth seated chairs, behind me a wall of glass, an inside restaurant, ordered a coffee, hot milk on the side, no sugar, a ham and cheese sandwich on one of those long hoagie like hard breads, the same thing I had ordered two days ago while at the Café de Flore, it cost me $17.50 dollars, four-dollars for the coffee, and the rest for the ham and cheese, and whatever else they charge for. But I liked the café and service, and all the old writers from the 1920s came here, it gave me a kind of stimulus.
I turned about noticed a male waiter mopping, my waiter standing next to me, he looked familiar, another waiter was sweeping out the café, there was one man sitting to my right, it was 11:00 a.m., still morning in Paris, the outside café near empty, “Will there be anything else sir?” asked my short, stocky, waiter, short crew-cut head of hair, perhaps in his late thirty’s.
“Not at the moment,” I remarked, and he turned about to get my order.
It was April in Paris (1998), and above on the second story of the building of the café, were yellow flowers, people riding bikes, parking them, locking them with chains against traffic sights, a newsstand across the street, and a bum leaning against the building, above the sign that read, “St. Germain, Boulevard,” and next to it, in a cardboard box, with a dog in it, lean, and his fur was a dirty washed-out white, more on the mutt side of the dog race. And he’d every so often peak his head out of the top of that box to see what was going on, look at his master, the traffic, the newsstand, and passers-by, and if a policeman looked his way, he’d hide again. The bum, thin, dark skinned, burnt from the sun, of bygone years, and droopy eyes, like his dog mate, cloths just draped on him like curtains, in his mid fifties I would guess, looked about indifferent on everything in sight—a kind of a so-so look; one of God’s sparrows.
“Your order sir,” said my waiter. He put the tray down on my table, and took each item off with the most proficient of care, as not to break a thing, or spill. He put the cream by me, “Should I pour it sir?”
“No need to, I will.”
There was a loud sound, a truck horn, both the waiter and I looked; it was a block up the street, coming down our way, towards the café and the newsstand across the street.
“He shouldn’t be driving down this street,” said the waiter, “it’s forbidden, especially with outside cafés like this one, and the street, this street isn’t made for that heavy truck.”
“What do you think of that,” I said as a rhetorical question.
“I don’t know he shouldn’t be driving down this way…!” He looked concerned, black smoke leaving a thick cloud behind it.
A policeman on the corner near the newsstand pulled out a pencil as if ready to take down its plate number, and it occurred to me, he might try to stop it, he took a step off the curve. The dog heard the horn, it honked again, loud very loud, and the dog peaked its head out of the cardboard box again.
“I told that bum to get out of here yesterday, and take his dog with him, we don’t want them around here, fleas and all that kind of stuff, you know” said the waiter looking towards me for approval, “I wish the policeman would do his duty.” The waiter just stood next to me, by my side shaking his head, watching the truck come closer and closer, appearing to be ready to cover his mouth from the dark exhaust trailing behind it. Then the waiter went and asked the customer to my right, a man with a light white jacket on, talking on his cell phone, leaning his elbow on a chair, grey mixed into white hair, clean shaven, he asked him something; he was drinking wine it looked, still on that phone. Then there was a scratching and high pitched screeching, of the brakes from the truck. Then a halt, that sounded like it had moved the earth an inch, and the bum looked at his cardboard box, and his dog was gone, and he looked at the truck, and it was between two large wheels, its tail hanging out along side the back truck wheels—two wheels together, and the policeman was walking over to the driver, and the waiter, he stood there, covering his mouth, and shaking his head right and left.
The moment seemed to be frozen in time. The noise had ceased; everything at a standstill. The waiter walked to the corner, he could see well from there.
“He’s dead, like a dead duck,” said the waiter, as he approached me, “Oh, sorry,” he remarked looking at me.
“I’m all right, I can take it.” I said, adding, “You mean the dog is dead?” I confirmed.
“Like mashed potatoes,” He remarked again, “blood all over the place.”
“No fun in that is there?” I commented.
“I didn’t see the dog jump out of that box, must have done it when the bum wasn’t looking.” He said.
The policeman looked at the dead dog, back at the bum, the bum was picking up his box, and other items, and was about to make his escape, but saw several cigarette stubs on the sidewalk, picked them up, one by one, one after the other, several of them, put them in his pocket, looked toward the policeman again, and the policeman was looking at the dead dog, and then turned back to look at the bum, at the driver, then at us looking at him, and as he was about to turn back to the bum, he was gone, he had hightailed it out of there just in time.
4-10-2009
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 3:36 PM
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