Overture and Reprise.


It was one of those laid back towns at the edge of the wilderness. Scrub desert bordered its edges and left the streets open to a mixture of yellowish dust and powdered sand. Further out the scrub clung to the desert dryness like leeches to flesh.
Water for the town was from boreholes so that some greenery managed to survive as long as its citizens watered well and often. A few slightly stunted trees even managed to survive as their roots penetrated deep below the surface supping ai the water table under the earth.
The town of Benbow had a few things going for it, namely the location. It suited many film Companies. The old-fashioned clapboard houses at the cheaper end were just right for many different film makers and the scrub desert was great for wildlife, apparently. Many citizens could not see what they saw. To them it was just a rickety old town that needed modernisation in this day and age.
At present, another film was being made in the town. There were all the trappings; the cameras and lighting equipment; lots of technicians, never mind the director and the actors and every other person needed for such activities. Of course, the townspeople gained in multiple ways. The crew had to be fed and the townsfolk supplied (ata good cost) foodstuffs and other sundry items. They were happy when a crew hit their streets.
Extras were among those that had time on their hands whilst scenes were being set up. The townsfolk knew all the lingo by now. These gravitated further along into the town where stores and eating places were there to take their money.
Henry Platten was one of these. He took his latté and moved over to the seat by the window. It was really a diner but at this side they had made it into a little coffee bar. Different tables, more shiny metal fixtures. Coffee was served in dainty little cups and saucers. They had a real Italian coffee machine so they had gone all out for effect. But that was years ago and it looked more ‘down at heel’ these days.
It suited Henry who was old-fashioned in his ways. His clothing matched his outlook. Dingy. A little forlorn. Things had not been easy, of late.
Stirring his frothy coffee with one hand, he rubbed his stubbled chin with the other. He hated being so unkempt, but thagt was his role. Henry stared at the street outside and reflected on the changes in his life. Once an accomplished actor, his popularity had waned over the last twenty years or so. He got the odd piece of work and that had kept him going in the past but those jobs were slowly drying up.
Tasting his brew, he made a grimace. Times were, he thought, when a man could get a decent cup of coffee. His favourites were made from the strong rich Robusta bean, grown mostly in Kenya once upon a time. Many more places grew it now but it had lost favour. Most of the coffee beans these days were Arabica, a poor imitation in his mind. He had lived in Kenya for a while when young and was used to the richer brew.
Henry sighed. Feeling tired out in that heat he had come into the coffee bar to get away from it. Choking dust whirled around outside as the strong wind picked up dirt and debris and threw it around the town.
A layer of dust clung to the windows. There was a sign etched on the glass. It said ‘Dino’s Diner and Coffee Emporium’. There were shadows on tables and floor where the sun shone through and you could read the legend backwards. It made for something to do whilst his drink cooled.
Not many people were in the Diner part of the establishment. Only one other in the coffee part. Then the door opened down the far end. A tall man of about thirty five came in and walked towards the coffee bar area. He ordered a plain coffee and strolled over to where Henry sat.
In the diner, a man and his wife sat watching Henry intently.
“I’m sure it’s him,” the wife said emphatically.
“Doesn‘t look much like him to me,” answered the man as he scrutinised Henry from afar.
“Oh sure it is Bert,” said the wife as she rummagin her purse.
“What are ya doin‘?
“I‘m tryin‘ to find that little booklet I had in here,” she mumbled as she held the purse up closer to her eyes, searching all the while.
“What for?” her husband questioned her again.
“So I can get his autograph silly,” she replied.”
“You’ll look a fool,” he replied.
His wife got up and walked down to the coffee bar holding the booklet and pen in front of her.
Henry sat in pensive mood.
When she reached Henry’s table she almost shoved the notebook in his face.
“Are you George Grace,” she asked, a lovely smile on her rosy-cheeked face.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Mine?” he answered, looking up at her pink cheeks and brown eyes that smiled at him cheeki
“ Who shall I write it to?” He felt great. Someone had remembered him, even the way he looked now.
“Just put it to Lona,” she grinned, happy that she was right and she would tell Bert that little fact. Henry signed the autograph in his meticulous script and Lona walked back up the diner happy that she had bested her husband, yet again.
Henry was pleased but a little bewildered. It was ages since his last recognition. It was gratifying somehow. He wasn’t looking at all like his old self. Still…..!
“Hi,” said the young man to Henry and sat down, placing his drink and a folder full of papers on the table top. He had waited patiently while the autograph hunter had completed her mission, and it pleased him.
“You O.K.?” He had piercing blue eyes which sparkled as the sunbeams lit them up.
Henry nodded noncommittally. He looked down and stirred his coffee.
“Boy it is hot out there and that wind!” said the young man. “Have you been here long?”
“A little while,” Henry replied taking up his cup and sipping. He
had waited too long. It had grown cool very quickly it seemed to him., even in this heat.
Looking at the young man in his smart casual outfit, camouflaged by the shadow from the window, he wondered how he could face the man so calmly.
The smell of the fresh coffee pervaded his nostrils and without realising it, a tear leaked from his eye and slowly ebbed down his cragged cheek.
The young man looked at him. “We start filning in ten minutes. Do you think you can be ready? I have to go now as they will need me out there. Can I count on you?” There was an intense look as he questioned Henry. Gathering his folder and drinking the last of his coffee, he got up and started to walk away.
“Yes, I will be there,” Henry managed to blink back a second tear that threatened to follow the first. “I know what my roll is.”
The young man turned. There was a slight smile on his face. “You always did Dad, you always did!” Then he was gone.
Henry watched him walk down the diner and out of the door. Saw him pass by the window and on up the street. He was so proud of his Director son. They had disagreed years ago but, on seeing Henry’s name on the payroll, had sought him out and made up. Had promised him work, if only as an extra, and if not, would see he was O.K.
The latté wasn’t worth finishing so Henry got up and followed his sun out into the wind and dust to play his part as Customer No. 2.

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. November, 2011.
Words 1342

Impressum

Texte: Evelyn J. Steward
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.11.2011

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
The changes of man.