Pedro sat transfixed by the sight of the drama playing itself out just three yards in front of his tattered whiskers: A young man, laden with an overstuffed canvas knapsack—fifty-pounds Pedro speculated—troubled himself further to hold a café door open for another young man who was, conversely, well-dressed and unburdened. The pompous brat, Pedro observed, shuffled his flamboyant sneakers right into the café without saying “thank you” and he took his place at the back of a long line of tech workers awaiting their afternoon oat milk lattes. Seemingly no worse for the outrage, the young man under the heavy pack approached Pedro with a warm twinkle—eyes tinted rosy with sunburn. Pedro grunted a barely audible greeting and felt his ears sway in the breeze.

            “Hey old timer,” the young man chided. “Easter’s over, ya know!”

            “Have a seat, Son,” Pedro commanded in a somber tone, like a father preparing to lecture his son with an unfortunate life lesson. “How could you let such an offense go unchecked? Did you not notice your honor being trampled under that dandy’s feet? In my day, men carried themselves with dignity—self-esteem! Now, get a move on! Confront the mannerless swine! Force an apology out of him or let him face the wrath of your pistol. I suppose I’m obliged to act as your second.” 

            “Really, ‘Bo, what’s with those things?” the young man asked. “They real?”

            “Real? Real?” Pedro repeated in disgust. “What’s real is the way in which you just kowtowed to this affected oppressor of yours. What’s real is how your generation has surrendered—without a fight might I add—to the pomp and discourteousness of the app-stamping aristocracy! Real? Bah! Since when have you brats ever been concerned with what’s real and what’s not?” 

            “They look real,” the young man asserted, shifting his weight up over his haunches. “Listen: I just came up from Santa Cruz—wild chicks down there, ‘Bo. I betcha you been down there back in the day, huh? Man, you know how to get to Haight Street? I know a girl I can squat with there.”

            “How dare you?!” Pedro growled. “Did I just hear your revolting utterance correctly or have my ears deceived me?”

            “Yeah, about those ears—” the young man interrupted.

            “Shut that fountain of filth!” Pedro snapped. “You can’t possibly intend to pitch woo with a young lady, regardless of her—I’m assuming—tarnished reputation, while your shoulders dangle in shame. Have your satisfaction first and have her second. If you’re unable to rise to this call of duty, how can you expect to rise in the presence of your fair maiden. Chivalry, Son—it’s the foundation on which romance can be built.”

            “Naw, ‘Bo,” the young man chuckled. “I’m not braggin’ but I’ve gotta way with the ladies. See, I’m a poet—”

            “Gah!” Pedro exploded. “A poet? A self-described poet! That explains everything.” He raised his eyebrows at the young man in a sarcastic look of intrigue. “Please, do indulge me then, my modern Byron, what lines hast thou labored over lately, hm? Pray tell, hast even a single iamb been wrought by the poet’s pen as of yet today? It’s well past lunch, you know.”

            “Well, I got a few memorized. I won a slam out in Bakersfield last weekend. Ya wanna hear one?”

            “For God’s sake, no!” Pedro shouted, shrinking into a ball. “I’m not sure if my ears would ever recover from such an onslaught.”

            “Yeah, I wanted to ask you about those ears…”

            Suddenly, Pedro sprang to a fully erect position. He rummaged through his pocket and produced a single driving glove; the faux leather was cracked and worn. He thrust the glove into the young man’s right hand and he pointed toward the café door as it opened slowly against a whistling gust. 

            “Here he comes,” Pedro whispered with cold intensity into the boy’s ear. “Challenge him now or face the rest of your miserable existence as a coward.”

            “What?” the young man asked, bewildered. 

            “Go! Now! Lay that glove upside the offender’s cheek before it’s too late!”

            “Whattya mean? Why?”

            “You fool!” Pedro roared. “He’s getting away!” 

            “I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about, ‘Bo.”

            Pedro fumed as he watched the tech worker escape through the revolving door of a nearby high-rise. The tension dissipated into a stinging feeling of supreme disappointment. He glowered in the direction of the young man who was presently rising to his feet and shouldering his load.

            “Anyway,” the young man muttered. “So, are you, like, a rabbit?”

            “No,” Pedro grumbled. “You are.”   

Clyde Always is an accomplished cartoonist, poet, painter, novelist and vaudevillian entertainer. His writings and/or illustrations have been printed in Light Poetry Magazine, Slackjaw, The Daily Squib, Scarfff Comics, etc. etc. You can see his storytelling act, live and in-person, any Friday evening, at the Scott Street Labyrinth in San Francisco, CA.