Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 8

“That waiter, now,” Jack continued, emboldened by the lack of immediate protest. “A bit of a dim bulb, eh? Seems the sort who'd struggle to boil an egg, let alone hold down a proper job. Destined for mediocrity, I'd wager. Utterly, irredeemably… underwhelming.” He punctuated this with a particularly vigorous dunk of his biscuit, sending crumbs scattering like confetti at a particularly depressing wedding.

Mr. Grimshaw listened patiently, a silent sentinel absorbing Jack's blather. He knew Thomas, the waiter in question, was saving every penny to support his sister. This Thomas was the most dedicated student in his class, working tirelessly to secure her future.

Jack, oblivious to the simmering irony, prattled on, painting Thomas as a caricature of incompetence. Each cutting remark was a pinprick to Mr. Grimshaw's sense of justice, the silence growing heavier and more pregnant with unspoken truths.

Finally, as Jack paused for breath, Mr. Grimshaw cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, his voice mild but carrying a certain weight, “you might be surprised. That “dim bulb,” as you so eloquently put it, is actually Thomas. He's a student of chemistry, the most intelligent and promising student in the University, the kind that comes once for our generation. I understand he's on the verge of a breakthrough. Besides, he is working here to pay for his sister's cancer treatment, so that she might live to see his new medicine at work.”

The revelation hit Jack like a bucket of ice water. His face, previously flushed with self-importance, now paled to the colour of the café's perpetually milky tea. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The biscuit, halfway to his lips, remained suspended in mid-air, a testament to his utter discomfiture. From a fountain of wisdom, Jack turned to a pool of shame!

“Oh,” Jack stammered but could say no more.

Mr. Grimshaw smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “another biscuit might help you digest that.”

Jack paid and left the café hobbling about like a broken-winged pigeon. “Never again,” he’d muttered, nursing his leg, “shall I consider waiters to be devoid of ambition!” The irony wasn't lost on him, though the precise reason for his epiphany remained stubbornly elusive.

Now, on his way to procure a crutch – a veritable lifeline for the temporarily incapacitated – Jack found his mind a blank canvas. Thinking, you see, was hard work, akin to wrestling a greased pig. He was tired of pondering, weary of considering, frankly, quite knackered from the sheer effort of existing. So, thoughts, like unruly sheep, scattered and fled, leaving behind only a vague sense of…well, nothing much at all.

He shuffled along, the pavement his antagonist, his foot a traitor. The shop, a beacon of hope in a world suddenly hostile to his genius, loomed ahead. As he reached the threshold, a thought, unbidden and unwelcome, dared to intrude. Conversation. This was it! He'd have to speak to the shopkeeper. Delightful! An opportunity to bask in the warmth of human interaction! He imagined the vendor, a veritable fountain of eloquence, ready to launch into a tirade of crutch-related wisdom. They had to be good at talking, didn't they? How else would they flog their wares?