Author's Bio
My father is a rich man. Once we ate some pork at a restaurant, but the serving was clearly manipulated. Our visual weighing scales could see the amount was not what we were used to, despite being charged the usual amount. State Capture is what it was. My father, wealth notwithstanding, didn’t shy from speaking out. Nevertheless, the bill still had to be paid. He therefore unleashed a waft of notes. The auditor-general got to work. On logarithmic notation, she said x was missing. But y? The man is so philanthropic, he normally cashes in then lets waiters count how much the menu owes him. Whether they keep change or not is none of his business. It’s up to their generosity. Unfortunately, on this occasion, the Mathematics wasn’t adding up.
I was due to return to school the next day so my faculties were sharp. Substitution method quickly did it. X equaled sixty shillings. Something small for the chief, you’d think. Guess what? Wrong! The agitation on his face was clear. The wallet was invoked once more. With a click of the tongue, he threw out a one hundred-shilling note on the counter. Just as I began to think the ordeal was over, another hundred-shilling note was dropped.
‘Take even that!’ He clicked again.
It was shocking. Who knew what was next? My nerves kicked in. What if an uppercut came next? Luckily for my worries, he had no more tricks under his sleeve. I followed him gracefully as he walked out rather calmly for a person who would have whipped Hitler seconds earlier. My body filled with awe and humour threatened to burst through my being. Yet even the sound of a laugh would have been too daring in the pursuit to avoid being the imaginary victim I was fearing for. A smile would suffice. Yes! I wanted to stand on the hilltops and shout for the whole world to hear:
That is my father! The Conqueror of Exchequer! He who knows no price and weighs pork with his eyes! Engage him if you dare! And I am his son.
What is a hustler? I am a dynasty. Son of man who feels no heat, even as economies reel. One can’t help but wonder. What if it was fate? That The Big Man Upstairs was sending a message? That He was trying to deliver justice? That the waft minus x was the true cost? For how could a man ever accurate go wrong on one random occasion? For cheap hospitality? And I concluded either answer was true. Yes, it was a signal. So coincidental. When he gives in abundance he receives in abundance, but when he receives less he gives more?
But no! X had no role to play. It was a small sum to pay. There was something beyond that: why the serving was less. Why y did not balance with x. Why an engineer with 25 years’ experience had to rethink his algebra and solve never to return to the restaurant again. For the sake of argument, I cared to consider whether the plates were too big or our stomachs inflated since the last time we ate there. Maybe the owner was squeezing the budget to finance new crockery. Like the plates we ate from. Hmm! Yes. They looked the same as the ones we were used to nonetheless. Perhaps the business was sinking and needed salvaging, hence the pruning of equations. If you had a family and rent to pay, wouldn’t you do the same? Soon I was able to justify to myself why it was unnecessary to reproach the poor lady. Why we got what we deserved.
Even so, had we walked off with x, we’d have been crucified and torched on Chania River. Nevertheless, because my father found and sacrificed x, Barabbas and his Meat World live to hound another pound. However, my father was still cast. On the cross at the top of Mt. Artifice.
Now close your eyes. Stay silent. Listen. Probe the nothingness. The nothingness that is your conscience. That is malleable and changes to suit your comforts. Like I, I had nothing to lose. He pays fees for me, remember? Conscience that convinces you to avoid confrontation when it is not your burial. That makes you say the rich man should not complain. Though does a note know its owner? Does it not serve all men the same? Even my father has a family and rent to pay.
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