Web Of Squeaks

Early Saturday morning. The men of our household are still sleep deeply. My daughter and I wander around the corner for breakfast at the bakery/café.

This is luxury. Fresh-baked goods. Comfortable seating. Good lighting. BuddhaBar music. And, rejoice, the café is non-smoking: a rarity in Luebeck. There aren’t many people her any way at this early hour: a young couple, a few elder singles, and two families. Overall, there is an atmosphere of quiet. We might be all awake, but we have not awoken to the demands of the day.

My daughter and I have brought books, pens and notebooks, and time to sit in quiet occupation. She orders half a bun with slices of hardboiled egg on top. I have a slice of delicious black bread, with quark and cucumbers, and a sprinkling of shallots. As I say, luxury.

A mother and her five-year-old son sit down at a table near ours. The mother has an extra large café latte in one hand and the daily newspaper tucked under her arm. The boy carries a plate with three donuts to their table.

The mother reads the paper. The boy gulps down the donuts. He wants another donut. He wants one now. His non-stop pleading finally penetrates the barrier of his mother’s consciousness. She reaches into her purse and gives him 50 cents to buy another.

The boy runs over to the counter on the tip of his toes. It is as if he doesn’t have time to put his heels down, he is so anxious to get to where he’s going. The bottled-up energy contained in his five-year-old body practically lifts his feet off the ground.

He returns with the sugar-covered donut. Gulps that one down, and then starts asking his mother for more. She hunkers down over her newspaper. He begins to swing his chair back and forth. Each swing produces a hair-raising squeak.

Squeak. Squeak. “I want another donut”. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. “I want another donut, now!”

Squeak. Squeak. The razor-sharp noise emanates away from his chair outward. They create a web of irritation that catches the attention of the other customers in the café. With each squeak, another customer looks up, trying to register where the noise is coming from.

Eventually, all of the customers are doing their best-to-ignore-the-situation. Yet, we do not succeed. We are completely mesmerised by the boy’s persistence. Is he going to get another donut out of his mother?

An hour goes by. Six donuts later. Forty-minutes of constant squeaking. The mother tells her son they have to go. He must put on his jacket. He won’t do it without another donut.

Some of the customers look as if they would be willing to buy him the donut. One fellow actually reaches into his pocket. Then he shamefacedly goes back to reading his book.

To pay for the donut would be as good as admitting that he spent the last hour wishing the boy away. Which undoubtedly, some of the customers have been doing. No one is about to admit it though.

Instead, we all sit frozen in our seats until the two leave. Then we collectively expel an audible sigh and shift back comfortably into our seats. That shift back into quiet occupation is one of palatable delight.

Though I do feel sad. I wonder how often this boy causes this reaction of relief when he leaves the room or a public area? Is there anyone who regrets his leaving? Is there anyone whose eyes light up when he enters the room?