IV

Now I suppose it is possible the old guy thought I was Mexican. Or maybe he did not like Stone saying these sorts of things, or he could even have hated Stone. I wouldn’t know, but I got the feeling we should leave, though Stone stuck around talking to the old guys, who obviously did not want him there. I have noticed that lots of times people have no clue where they are welcome or not, though that has not been my problem—at least, I know when to leave, although maybe not necessarily when to stay.

After all, I would have gotten out of there the second the old guy turned towards the window, but later when we got onto the topic of hunting outside Navarro, the man turned back to him and you could see the interest in his eye. This seemed to satisfy Stone—seemed to give him what he wanted—and soon after, we left. Me, I don’t know that all that nervousness was worth it for a couple of sentences exchanged about hunting.

In some way, though, I got the feeling he wanted those old guys to like him, in front of me.

He takes me into the kitchen to tour the facilities. Why he would do this, I do not know. The cook and dishwasher are Mexican and, away from the old men, the moodiness of a moment ago seems to have left him. The long steel counter is cluttered with glinting dishes, and a back door opens to daylight which seems to give the doorframe a rectangular halo. The brightness makes everything inside the kitchen appear slightly blurry.

It seems strange that he would want to show me the kitchen, but he does and seems proud of it, and finally explains that he owns a small part of the restaurant, a very small part. As he shows me around, the two Mexicans look upon him with their arms crossed, and once they trade amused glances behind his back. They appear only a few years older than me. Though I try to avoid their eyes, once the cook seems to wink at me, though afterwards I am not sure if this really happened. They should not take such liberties. Finished with the tour, Stone tries to think if there is anything left to show me. Not thinking of anything, he still seems reluctant to leave. They are watching us. A tap drips water and a bird chirps shrilly outside. The branches of a leafless tree appear dark and thin against the clean sky. This man, he must be blind.

My eyes ease towards the sunny back doorway where I would like to go, but he just leans against the counter lost in his mind. The Mexican workers trade more looks.

Maybe we should go now, I say.

He seems to pull himself out of his thoughts, looking up at me.

Sure, buddy, he mumbles distractedly.