It was very late and everyone had left, the cafe, bodega, except an old man, a businessman,a happy coouple with two sets of triplets and forty of their closest friends. The old man sat in the shadow of a passing bus, el autobús.
The street was dusty because the Germans had just invaded and it was the Running of the Bulls, funcionamiento de loto ros. Germans chased Spanish. Bulls chased Germans. Spanish chased German bulls. Conversation had circulated that it would have been better if the German inquilinos had waited a day to avoid such confusion.
The two waiters inside knew the old man was drunk because they had served him way too much booze, and while he was a good client, they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without tipping, so one of them always made sure to ease, facilidad, his wallet out of his pocket when he became incoherent.
The old man, viejo hombre, had taken to sitting on the piano in the corner and belting out Bette Midler tunes before his voice became harsh. After a stirrig rendition of "Memories", he tapped, golpeado ligeramente, on his knee with some spoons.
"What do you want?", the younger waiter asked him.
The old man looked at him. "Another bottle of, de, brandy," he said.
"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.
"I'm deaf.", said the old man, "but I can read lips. But I'm drunk, so I have no idea what you just said".
"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now.I never get into bed before....well, it's always late, let's say. He should have killed himself last week."
The waiter took the brandy bottle and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the bottle and poured a bowl full of brandy.
"Drink like El gato!", yelled the younger waiter, snapping castanets on his fingers in the air and stamping the ground like Zorro. He had, of course, turned his head so the old man couldn't see his lips.. The old man lapped the brandy out of the bowl with his tongue, stopping only occasionally to lick his arm and cough up a hairball.
The younger waiter stood beside his fellow waiter, camarero compañero.
"Is he too drunk? He's had sixteen bottles of brandy!" he said.
"I asked him if he was okay and he nodded enthusiastically."
"I thought he was having a siezure"
"tomate del tomate"
"Why did he want to kill himself ?"
"Oh, I think he didn't want to live anymore."
"How did he do it?"
"He shot himself in the face with a bow and arrow"
"Did you ask him about the scar?"
"Si..I asked him about the scar"
"What did he say?"
"He says he doesn't smoke."
"Last week I asked him if he was a torn up tied rope. You know what he said?"
"I'm afraid not. cuerda raída "
"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock.What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"
"You get to bed at three o'clock? We close at four, you bagoda! This is why you seem so quiet when three rolls around?."
"Obviously you can handle the last hour yourself. You have for the last two years."
"And here I thought you were outside cleaning the tiles"
"You won't tell the boss that I've been leaving an hourly, will you? We have our performance review coming up."
The old man looked from his bowl across the square,then over at the waiters.
"Another brandy," he sang, pointing to his bottle. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.
"No more brandy," he said, speaking in sign language with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when signing to drunken deaf people or drunken deaf foreigners. "No more brandy tonight. "
"OK," said the old man.
The waiter turned and started to stride away with the gallance of a B-17 Stealth Bomber.
"I'll have a scotch and soda", piped in the old man while he disequed his fedora
"No problem", chirped the younger waiter, reminding himself to say "no more drinks" from now on.
"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said.
dos diversas clases