“Pardon me, but can I just grab the creamer?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, take it.” Daryl watched as the man sheepishly reached out, lifting his rear off the seat and bumping into the table, spilling a bit of coffee from mug to saucer with a ping of ceramic-on-ceramic.

Yikes.

Daryl grabbed the insulated cream server. “Here, let me, yep, there you go buddy.”

“Thank you.”

Daryl watched as the man crouched down in his seat, almost eye-level with the rim of his mug. He picked up the creamer by the handle with one hand and used his other to push the bottom up, pouring the thinnest possible white stream into his Americano. The whole process took a full minute-and-a-half, like a scientist from an old monster movie, watching each molecule as the fell. Daryl almost lost it when the man’s tongue poked out between dry lips.

Concluded, the man held the container with two hands and passed it back to Daryl like he was paying tribute.

“Thank you so much.”

Daryl placed it back on the table. “No sweat. I was probably supposed to leave it at the counter, but you know…”

The man let out a too-loud BAHAH. “Well, it certainly saved me a trip.”

Daryl looked him over; They were complete opposites. He couldn’t weigh more than a buck-forty, all of maybe five-foot-six. They were both nearing fifty, but the concrete business—and a semi-serious commitment to CrossFit—had helped Daryl maintain most of his former D1 linebacker physique. Moreover, Daryl’s long locks and beard gave him a Thor vibe, where this little man’s sagging jowls and thinning hair reminded him of Colombo. Not the detective, but the old Basset Hound Colombo used to cart around. This man was the human equivalent of that sad-sack dog.

“What are ya reading?”

Daryl snapped out of his musings. “Hmm?”

“Your book. What are you reading?”

Daryl looked at the book like it had appeared out of thin air. “Oh, this, it’s for work. It’s, well, I’m in concrete—“

“That must make it hard to move.”

“What? Oh, hah. Yeah. No, it’s my line of work. Concrete. Residential, commercial, all that.”

“Your book is on concrete?”

“No. It’s… I got promoted. I’m in charge of all the crew leads now.”

The man smiled, his eyes brightened like he and Daryl had been lifelong friends. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll do great!”

“Thanks, man.”

“So that’s what’s in the book? Management stuff?”

“Yeah.” Daryl picked it up and handed it to the man, who took it—again, with two hands, as though the weight of everyday things was too great thin arms—and turned it about, looking it over, holding it gingerly as though it contained the secrets to the universe.

“It’s about something called EQ. Like, how to, you know, well, I’m kinda old school in my approach. Like, ‘you’re getting paid to work, so get to work.’ But the newer generation, they’re sort of soft, even the dudes who work concrete. You’d think, you know, eight-to-twelve hours a day, five, six, sometimes even seven days a week, you’d think they’d toughen up. But no, they stay pretty soft. They want to be heard and they want their job to ‘have meaning’ and all that shit. The only thing I want to ‘hear’ is shovels and buckets, you know what I mean? But the owner, he thinks this is the way it’s gonna be now, so I guess I gotta adapt or whatever.”

The man handed the book back. “Wow, that’s a great responsibility. You must carry a heavy load on your shoulders.”

Daryl’s instinct was to assume the man was mocking him, poking fun at his attempt to adapt to a new generation. It’s what he would have done, the situations reversed. But the man seemed sincere.

“Yeah, it’s more than I figured, at least. I thought it would be nice, get off crew work. No more 3:00 am starts, no dealing with rain or ice or scorching days. Work mostly from my office or my truck. Seemed like a good break, you know? But it’s been, I don’t know. There was something nice about being able to leave work at work, the simplicity of just pouring concrete. Taking a chaotic space and with a little form work and artistry, making something useful, generational. But, whatever, listen to me, I sound like a shitty poet.”

The man leaned in. “No, not at all. It sounds wonderful, like you combine industry and beauty. That seems quite rewarding.”

“It can be, for sure. Like, one time, we put in a wheelchair ramp on an old school that was converted into a rehabilitation center—like for injuries and diseases and shit, not alcohol or drugs. I got to be there when the first kids got wheeled up the ramp. It was a pretty good feeling. You know, they had a space for the kids to play together—wheelchair basketball, stuff like that—stuff that the community didn’t have until then. Those kids were so happy.”

“That sounds like an amazing experience. To see something you worked on, dealing with the elements and chemical reactions and timing and deadlines, all coming together to do something meaningful. That’s a great way to spend the hours you get in the day.”

Daryl watched the little man shift in his seat, rearranging a pillow he was using as a seat. The long, wooden bench seats weren’t the most comfortable thing to sit on for long. Daryl could never use a pillow to sit on—not in public—but he couldn’t help feeling a little jealous.

“Do you come in here for coffee often?”

“Me, oh yes. I’m what you’d call a ‘regular.’ This is my favorite place.”

Daryl noticed the man’s cup was nearly empty. “Can I get you a refill?”

“Oh, thank you for your kindness, but I think one is my limit. Don’t want to get too jittery. It’s so kind of you to offer, though.”

Daryl felt a sudden pang of guilt. The man was everything Daryl and everyone in his immediate social circle worked hard not to be. He was soft, physically weak, saggy. His 501s had become dull and gray from decades of machine washing. His dull-green short-sleeved button up was one of those all-purpose Tommy Bahamas golf shirts that ‘men of a certain age’ used as their go-to daily wardrobe. It was as though the man was content to do the minimum, but he seemed… happy.

Daryl wondered why it was like that. Why he felt animosity not for other “alphas”—which made logical sense—but for these “lower tier” men that posed him no threat? Why did he feel a repulsion, an instinct to distance himself from soft-bodied men? Why did he feel the need to maintain an air of “badassary?” They weren’t going to war or competing for the same food or land or mate. Why was it still this way?

Daryl laughed to himself. That’s what I get for reading these mamby-pamby feel good books. But, he thought, maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he and this man were more alike than not. Maybe—

“Well, it has certainly been a pleasure talking with you. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. Maybe we’ll see each other here again.”

Daryl watched as the man cleared his table and walked toward the exit. He waved to the staff and offered a cheerful “goodbye” but was ignored.

Daryl came back nearly every Saturday after that for a little over two years. The man never showed again. He kicked himself for not getting a name, a line of work, a way to find him. He asked after him with the staff, but no one remembered the man.