I'm wiping down a recently vacated table at the Midnight Café, my cloth making these satisfying squeaky sounds against the polished surface, when my mind drifts back to yesterday.
The Minecraft session was chaotic. Fun, but chaotic. Between Selene getting immediately shot by a skeleton, me getting almost killed by a creeper, and concluding with the great bed segregation debate.
It was perfect, exactly the kind of wholesome fun that makes you temporarily forget you have responsibilities..
The problem is, I do have responsibilities.
Specifically, I didn't do my nightly workout yesterday. And I made zero progress on my side project.
My autonomous stock trading program is so close to being finished. I'm talking days away from completion. But yesterday? Yesterday I chose to punch virtual trees instead of writing code.
And my optimized body might give me faster recovery, but it doesn't give me more hours in the day. I'm not physically fit enough yet to be okay with skipping workouts.
As depressing as it is, I guess I have to make some sacrifices for progress. No more Minecraft binges for now.
The door chime pulls me out of my thoughts. I head to the entrance with my best professional smile.
The guy standing there looks... rough.
He's young, maybe late twenties? Early thirties? He looks like he hasn't slept in approximately three weeks. He's wearing a pale, oversized hoodie that's absolutely covered in stains. His hair is wild and unkempt, sticking up in random directions like he's been electrocuted recently and just decided to roll with it. And the bags under his eyes are so dark and pronounced that they look like bruises.
But none of that, none of it, prepares me for the smell that hits me when I get within three feet of him.
Oh my god.
I'm not trying to be mean, I swear I'm not, but this man smells like he's never heard of the concept of personal hygiene. Like if you told him about showers, he'd look at you confused and say "what's that?" The smell is aggressive, it's the kind of aggressive that makes you want to apologize to your nose for exposing it to this. It's like someone took gym socks, left them in a damp basement for six months, and then decided to wear them as a cologne.
My professional smile falters for just a second before I force it back into place.
How am I supposed to deal with this? My eyes are literally watering.
Okay. Deep breath. Well, shallow breath. Very shallow. Practically no breath.
Let's be professional about this.
"Good afternoon, sir." I say, keeping my voice friendly. "Do you have a reservation today?"
He doesn't look up. Just shakes his head in this quick, jerky movement.
I see. He's shy.
"No problem at all," I say, keeping my voice warm as I grab a menu. "Right this way."
I find a spot near the back of the restaurant. It's secluded, yeah, but it's actually one of the more comfortable sections. It's a cozy corner booth with soft lighting, and it's away from the main traffic flow. If I were shy and wanted to just exist in peace, this is where I'd want to sit.
"Will this work for you?" I ask, gesturing to the booth.
Another tiny nod as he slides in.
I set the menu down in front of him. "Please take your time looking it over. And don't hesitate to wave me down if you need anything."
He's staring down at the menu when I speak, but I catch him giving me the smallest nod.
I head off to grab a pitcher and a glass, then return to provide him water. He's still studying the menu with intense focus, so I don't interrupt. Instead, I go looking for Mr. Vale.
After the whole tomato scammer incident, I've learned my lesson. When in doubt, consult the wise mentor figure. I want advice on how to handle this situation properly rather than just stumbling through it and potentially screwing something up.
Mr. Vale is currently refilling water at another table, moving with that effortless grace that makes even the most mundane tasks look elegant. I stand discretely near the wall, keeping an eye on the rest of the café while I wait for him to finish.
When he's done, he notices me immediately. Of course he does. The man has situational awareness that borders on supernatural.
"Hello, Adam," he says, his voice warm as always.
"Hey, Mr. Vale." I glance toward the back corner where I seated my newest guest. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. What troubles you?"
"It's not... I mean, it's nothing serious," I start, feeling awkward, and trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding like a jerk. "I just sat someone, but he's... he doesn't smell great. And I wasn't sure if there's anything I should be doing differently? I was just going to treat him like anyone else, but..."
Mr. Vale's expression remains unchanged: warm, understanding, and patient. "I see. Tell me, has this gentleman been discourteous? Has he disturbed the other patrons?"
"No, nothing like that. He's actually been really quiet and polite. It's just..."
"Just his appearance that gives you pause," Mr. Vale finishes gently.
I nod, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Yeah. Is that... I mean, that's kind of messed up, isn't it?"
"No. On the contrary, it's entirely human." Mr. Vale's tone is thoughtful. "We are creatures who rely heavily on first impressions, this trait kept our ancestors alive, after all. The ability to assess potential threats or allies at a glance is coded into our very nature."
He pauses, and I can see he's choosing his words with care.
"However," he continues, "wisdom lies in recognizing that these first impressions are merely... opening chapters, shall we say. Not the full story. I have known men in fine suits who possessed hearts of stone, and I have known those in rags who carried within them tremendous kindness. The packaging, Adam, tells us very little about the contents."
I think about that for a moment, letting it sink in.
He's right. Those tomato criminals from last week were well-dressed, looked put-together, seemed like normal, decent people. And what did they do? They were rude to me, tried to scam the café, and turned out to be complete dicks.
Meanwhile, this guy hasn't done anything wrong. He just... smells bad. That's it. That's literally the only issue here.
"So I should... focus on how he's acting, not how he looks?"
"Precisely." Mr. Vale smiles. "Judge each guest by their conduct, their courtesy, their character. These are the things that matter. The rest is simply... noise."
"Thanks, Mr. Vale. That makes a lot of sense," I tell him, grateful for his advice. "I should get back to it."
He gives me a slight nod. "Of course. I'm always here should you need counsel, Adam."
I head back toward my guest, and I see that he's still absorbed in his menu, so I decide to make my rounds first, checking on my other tables. The café has a decent crowd today. It's not packed, but it's busy enough to keep me moving.
A few minutes later, I notice him closing the menu. I head back toward the corner booth, being careful to approach from an angle where he can see me coming. The last thing I want is to startle him.
"How're we doing over here? Are you ready to order?"
He gives another one of those swift, jerky nods, then reopens the menu and points at one of the items.
"The club sandwich combo?" I lean in to see. "Good choice, that one's really popular. "That comes with a side. Would you like chips with that?"
He stares at the menu for a long moment, then shakes his head slightly.
"Fries?"
Another shake.
"Salad?"
A nod.
"Perfect. And what can I get you to drink?"
"...Coke," he says quietly. His voice is so soft I almost miss it, but there it is, his first actual word to me.
"One Coke. Understood, sir." I write it down, then pick up the menu. "I'll be right back with your order." I tell him with a bow.
I head to the kitchen to put in his order, and while I'm waiting for the food to be prepared, I find myself thinking about the interaction.
You know what? Mr. Vale was right. This guy's been nothing but polite. Quiet, yeah, but polite. Not demanding, not rude, not trying to scam anyone with strategically placed tomatoes. He's just a guy who wants some food.
When the order's ready, I bring it out to him, setting everything down carefully.
"Club sandwich with a salad." I say. "Please let me know if you need anything else."
"Thanks," he murmurs, still not quite making eye contact.
You know what? Yeah. He's great.
Things go back to normal. I make my rounds, checking on my other tables. Except... I find myself paying more attention to him than my other guests. It's not really intentional. But I just find myself relating to shy people. This guy feels like a kindred spirit. He's just like I was two months ago: trying to be invisible, uncomfortable with social interaction, just wanting to exist in peace.
Every time I pass by his section, I check in. Does he need more napkins? Got it. Is his Coke running low? I give him a refill.
He eats his food quietly, occasionally looking down at his phone to occupy himself. The few times I stop by his table to refill his drink or ask if he needs anything, he responds with tiny nods or one-word answers. But they're always polite. Always accompanied by that barely-there smile.
Eventually, he finishes his meal and stands up to leave, pulling out his wallet as he does.
He sets down a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table.
I blink at that, feeling a sense of déjà vu.
Then I approach, a professional smile back in place. "Hello sir, let me grab your change—"
He shakes his head, firmly this time, and takes a step back like he's worried I'll try to force it on him.
He takes a deep breath, like he's settling his nerves, and then, for the first time, he actually looks up at me. It's brief, barely a second, but he gives me the tiniest smile.
"Thank you," he says softly.
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten a little. Like being treated with basic decency was unexpected for him.
"Well..." I give him a genuine smile. "Thank you, sir. That's really generous. I hope we see you again."
And then he's gone.
Well. I guess that's why you don't judge a book by its cover.
You should judge it by its behavior instead.
...Yeah, that doesn't quite work as a saying. I'm going to need to workshop that.