The Negotiation

A short story

The deli was buzzing with patrons, conversations overlapping in the cramped interior. A long queue was formed against the counter, with a rotation of three harried employees briskly dealing with orders. The aroma of coffee, soups, and sandwich meats blended in a savory melange that echoed the excited and noisy atmosphere. Near the rear of the narrow storefront in lower Manhattan, a scattering of worn tables and chairs lined the walls and floor. In the midst of this sat a lone man at a small round table in the middle of the floor, his narrow face sprinkled with a salt and pepper stubble, a neat coif of silver hair topping his head. He sat composed, hands flat on the table.

A pair of patrons sidled past in the cramped environs, bumping his table. He calmly steadied his coffee cup, unfazed by the disruption. His eyes scanned the crowd, locking on a tall young man moving confidently through the crowd directly towards him. The older man glanced at his watch, eyebrows raising slightly. The watch was older, worn but functional, with an air of class in its restrained elegance. His clothing was similarly muted, practical as opposed to showy. Even his use of a watch, especially an analog one, felt quaint. The young man, lavishly garnished with digital devices strapped to his arms and inserted into his ear canals, sat in the rickety wooden chair across from the older man, chattering as he did so.

“I’ll call you back,” he said as he tapped his earbud. He wore an expensive track suit, completely at odds with the old man’s humble but presentable suit. The old man pressed his palms flat on the table in an almost ritualistic manner, bringing himself to his full height as his eyes locked on the young man’s. His lips pressed together in a thin line; his face calm, he radiated patience. The younger man collected his earbuds, placing them in a case while he muted his phone and glanced at a few notifications before dismissing them and shoving it in his pocket.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, not yet meeting the older man’s eyes. A trace of annoyance flashed across the older man’s countenance.

“It is nearly an hour past the agreed upon time,” the older man replied in a clipped accent, vaguely Old World, ancient and unplaceable.

The younger man finally met the older man’s eyes, all cocksure and headstrong, a smirk blooming across his features. His voice was bold, holding forth loudly in the local drawl. “Couldn’t be helped, busy day. Now how can we help you?”

The older man registered a hint of mild surprise, his eyebrows rising slightly as he answered. “You know fully well why we are here. This arrangement was made by your side. We have negotiated in good faith only, from the beginning.”

The young man was busily craning his neck, looking everywhere but at the old man. “That coffee decent? Something smells really good back there—maybe onion soup? Oh, and a pastrami on rye, that would hit the spot.”

The old man’s eyes went slightly agog. “You are thinking about food, at a time like this? I have been waiting over an hour for your arrival.” His eyes narrowed, assessing the young man’s seemingly fit physique. He was tall, yes, and robust, but the older man sensed more weight and doughiness around his middle than a man his age should have, as compared to his own wiry frame, accustomed to less comfort and fewer calories. And those calories, less fattening to boot.

“Perhaps we can begin with our parlay immediately, conclude our meeting, and you can stay and eat to your heart’s content?”

The younger man twisted his mouth in a sour expression of contempt and frustration. “Nah, no time. I was really hoping to get something so I could eat and get the deal done simultaneously. No mixing business and pleasure though, right?” He gave a satisfied grin, as if he had said something clever.

The old man stayed steady, despite a heat rising in his voice. “You have already inconvenienced me, when this arrangement was made at your side’s request. Your kind…always in a rush, but never getting anywhere on time. Never prepared. Always expecting others to wait on you, to help when you make a mistake, to excuse your rudeness. And to respect you, on top of this. I have not reached this age because I am a fool. My people are ancient. Our customs were old before the Greeks stopped worshipping snakes.”

The younger man focused directly on the older man then, smirking again. “Okay there, pal. You got my attention now. Might want to be careful, considering that’s a position most people don’t like to find themselves in.” He leaned on the table, causing it to tilt toward him slightly. The old man’s coffee splashed over the brim of his cup, creating a small puddle. Neither man blinked, or moved.

The old man’s hands remained flat, his features composed. “I would have thought it was obvious to you, considering your recent efforts, that we do not intimidate that easy. Nor will we succumb.”

The younger man’s smile melted, rage becoming visible then. “Yeah? You have no idea what we’re capable of, bub. You think this is over? That you have some kind of ancient wisdom that will save you when we come flatten your house? Just wait, you’ll see!”

The busboy interrupted just then, sliding a hot cup of tea in front of the younger man. “Hey yo, from that guy over there, says you should lay off the caffeine.”

The older man turned and looked in the direction indicated, slight bemusement dawning on his visage. The younger man’s head whipped around, his rage fading rapidly.

A few tables over, a placid Chinese man waved happily in greeting.