The center of attention

Two men meet each other in a pub in London in the late eighteenth century. They both have some kind of problem which they discuss with each other.

The rain, as usual, was pouring down outside. People tried to take cover under large umbrellas, so afraid of the tiny drops of water that fell down from the sky. They rushed down the street on their way home after a long day of work minding their own business. Does it ever stop raining in this country? thought the bartender who stared out through the dim windows of the pub. The clouds were grey and thick and they moved slowly to the east. One could hear the plonk of the drops that hit the roofs of the buildings. Men with high-quality top hats, bow ties, starched white shirts, buttoned waistcoats and open long coats with collars turned up, hurried down the street. They did not even stop to glance at the poor man who sat on the street outside and begged anyone who came by for money. 

Inside the pub it was warm and awfully quiet, even for a Tuesday evening. But the pub would soon fill up and the more they drank the louder they would speak. At the bar a man in his forties sat crouched over a half empty glass of beer. The yellow light from the paraffin lamp shone on the man’s pale face that was full of wrinkles and covered with light brown freckles, the aftereffect of years and years of smoking cigarettes. He had piercing sad eyes that seemed to have lost their color throughout the years. They were now light grey and barely visible underneath his big furry eyebrows. His lips were thin and a frown played upon his face. His face was unshaven and his hair was brown with hints of gray. It was thick and laid like a bird’s nest on his head. The man was simply clad, still in his work clothes.

Somewhere in the bar someone cheered and glasses were raised. The clinking sound from glasses that were bumped together was drowned out by the rain when a man entered the pub. Water dripped from head to toe but he did not seem to care. He was young, maybe in his twenties, tall and nicely dressed. His hair was short and blond and for the moment it hung heavily on the sides because of the water. He was skinny and slim and it looked like he had not lifted a thing in his life. The man motioned his way forward to the bar and sat down on one of the bar stools. He pushed the hair out of his face and waved to the bartender with his hand. His eyebrows were drawn together and a wrinkle had appeared between the brows. 

“Are yew lost, boy?” asked the man by the bar to the young man who had just sat down.

The man’s cockney accent was rough and with no doubt was he born and bred in the neighborhood. He looked at the young boy with squinting eyes.

“No… I mean… I wasn’t going to any particularly place. Why?” he asked, surprised by the question. He hadn’t expected that anyone wanted to talk to him

The two men now faced each other, studying one another carefully.

“You look lost. Actually you look like somethin' that could fi' in ter one ov da apartmun's in Kensington.” 

The young man turned away and did not answer. Offended? Not so much, he had heard things like that before. I mean what could he expect when he chose to enter this pub? His kind of folk didn’t usually come to these kinds of places. But the man who sat calmly two chairs away studied him with slight interest and continued the conversation.

“So what are we drinkin' for?” he asked and took a sip from his glass of beer.

The young boy’s drink had just arrived in front of him, delivered by the bartender. He looked at it suspiciously for a moment like he thought the bartender had put something in it. But then he put the glass to his lips and emptied half the glass in one gulp. 

“I’m drinking because I’ve been a disgrace to my family and I think… I think my father hates me.” 

He took another gulp, this one was much smaller, as he looked out in midair.

“Blimey! What did yew do, boy?” said the man now quite interested.

“I lost a lot of money. 5000 pounds to be exact!” the boy almost exclaimed. He had grabbed the glass of beer that was covered in condensation and moved it around a bit too fast as he spoke.

“Geeza! And 'ow does one lose that much money?”

The young man turned to him, his face serious but tired.

 “I bett in a horse race and I lost.”

The older man almost wanted to laugh but the serious face of the young man stopped him and he just shook his head slowly. The young man looked devastated, he probably realized the idioticalness of what he had said.

“What's yaaahr name?” 

“Gifford”

“Yaaahr first name?” the older man corrected grumpily.

The young boy took a second before he answered. He was a bit suspicious of this strange man who was talking to him.

“Oscar” he answered shortly.

“Well Oscar, I’m Elijah Scott, but yew can call me Mr. Scott. I  'ave a son myself an' 'e is da bloody stupidest son yew could 'ave. But I love 'im anyway. I still loved 'im after 'e loost 'is sister when they wen' ter da Boruff Market a few years ago. I still loved 'im after 'e bought a 'orse. A 'orse we don't need. And I still love 'im even after 'e burn' down da 'ouse.

The young man looked at him a bit confused.

“You don’t know my father, he would kick me out of the apartment if I wasn’t his only child. When he finds out what I did he is going to be furious.”

Oscar avoided Mr. Scott’s eyes and instead he looked at the groups of people that huddled around tables and along the rest of the bar counter. Everyone was so focused on the people they were talking to at the moment. Not one had taken a second to look at him and Mr. Scott.

“He'll be angry, no dought abaaaht i' but a father always loves 'is children, 'ow ever damn stupid they are. He'll forgive an' forget.” 

Mr. Scott took another sip from his glass, not looking at Oscar anymore, who observed cautiously. They sat quiet for a while so that the words from the man really sunk in. Next time someone said something it was Oscar. 

“So what are you drinking for?” he asked and tried to catch Mr. Scott’s eyes.

“My son burn' down da 'ouse.” he said and gave Oscar a quick glance.

“Oh.” was the only thing he could respond quiet shocked since he had thought Mr. Scott was only making things up to fulfill his point.

Then they sat quiet again.

“I figured you were just out taking a drink by yourself.” Oscar said quietly.

“Oh no Oscar, a man never drinks alone unless 'e 'as some kind ov problem. The question is, between yew an' me, who 'as the biggest problem?” Mr. Scott said with his eyes on Oscar as he asked the question.

Oscar looked unsympathetically at Mr. Scott. 

“Me off course, didn’t you hear, I’ve lost 5000 pounds!” he said appalled emotions running over him like a flood. 

Mr. Scott looked with squinting eyes at Oscar.

“What are yew sayin' boy?” he said low-voiced with his eyes fixed on the amazed young man.

“I’m saying your house couldn’t possibly have cost more than 5000 pounds!” he burst out. 

Oscar wasn’t mad just… startled. Didn’t Mr. Scott know math. Mr. Scott just slowly shook his head like he had done before. His eyes still squinting and the face looked disappointed in way.

“Well, i' was nice talkin' ter yew Mr.Gifford.” Mr Scott said after he had swept the last of his beer in one gulp.

He stood up and slipped on his jacket faster than Oscar had seen him move all night.

“But… Mr. Scott… you’re leaving?” he asked surprised.

Mr. Scott was ready to go and he didn’t even wave goodbye as he made his way out of the pub. Oscar was left at the bar alone with only the sound of the other men in the pub. When Mr. Scott had stood up Oscar had automatically stood up as well and so now that Mr. Scott was gone he sat down. He waved to the bartender to fix him another glass of beer and as he sat there he immersed into his thoughts. 

He didn’t understand why Mr. Scott suddenly had become so… so… angry. He had only told the truth. Between him and Mr. Scott he had lost the most. Mr. Scott’s house couldn’t have cost that much, could it? Only by looking at Mr. Scott you would almost think that he was homeless. The way he dressed, it was like his clothes had never seen water and soap. But he had been a decent man, probably the only one in here that would think of talking to him. He had lost the most… hadn’t he? Off course Mr. Scott had lost his house. Even though his house probably wasn’t worth very much, it was still his house. When he went home today he would still have a home to go home to, no matter how angry his father would be with him. When Mr. Scott went home, there wouldn’t be anything to go home to. Mr. Scott was homeless and he probably didn’t even have the money to buy a new house. Did his family have anywhere to go? So the truth to be told, he had lost a lot but compared to Mr. Scott he had barely lost anything. 

It had stopped raining outside and the rain had left a fresh, crisp scent in the air. The few people who were still headed home now walked and they had their umbrellas lowered now swinging alongside the legs. Through the windows of the bar Oscar saw the beggar he had passed as he was walking toward the door of the pub a while ago. A man stopped in front of the beggar on the street and dropped a coin, he nodded toward the beggar with his hand on his top hat and then he continued down the street.

As predicted the laughing, cheering, swearing and yelling increased as the minutes passed and Oscar kept on sitting there, wondering to himself. Still engulfed in his own pondering, his thoughts were suddenly disturbed by the bartender who was talking to two men further down the bar counter. 

“Another beer, gentlemen?” the bartender asked the two men.

“I wish, but you’re robbing us here Paul.” one of the men answered.

The two men were just going to continue with their conversation and the bartender was about to walk away as Oscar spoke up loud and clear so that they would hear him.

“You know what…” 

The three men had frozen in their actions and had turned to Oscar. 

“Drinks are on me.”