Injustice
by Scott Wilson
Injustice
floated down the Queen Street Mall in the cool
autumn breeze, seeking someone to befriend;
someone who had not heard things about him yet.
Many stepped aside to avoid him, though they
could not see his ethereal figure. People often
saw the things that he did, or the aftermath of
his presence. But he was trying harder every day.
Upon reaching
a cafe, he casually sat down and watched the
patrons, looking for someone, anyone, to laugh at.
It wasn’t long before a couple of
businessmen in their early twenties walked in and
began taking out their frustration on the
gorgeous blonde waitress. They were dressed in
Armani suits, silk ties and Julius Marlow shoes.
Both worked as lawyers in the prestige offices
across the mall and earned more than the cafe was
worth each week.
The taller of
the two began chatting up the waitress, who
didn’t take kindly to the derogative remarks
about how her skirt was too long and her blouse
had too many buttons on it.
Injustice
hoped up, walked to the quickly developing
argument to intervene. He stood by the two men
and listened, making their conversation into a
story he could relay when convenient. When the
voices began to rise and other patrons started
looking uncomfortable, an overweight Italian
woman heaved her heavy frame from a booth by the
counter and made her way over.
“What’s
going on here?” she said.
“Its okay,
Mrs. Savvas,” the waitress said.
“I’ve sorted it out now.”
Injustice
floated between the small group, like a wisp of
smoke. He settled on Mrs. Savvas’ shoulder
and whispered in her ear.
“That’s
it!” she yelled at the waitress.
“You’re fired.”
The waitress
began crying and rushed to the kitchen to grab
her bag, then left through the back door in
hysterics. She was already a month behind with
her rent and her son desperately needed bucket-loads
of medicine for the rare respiratory disease he
recently developed.
“I
apologies’ for her attitude,” Mrs.
Savvas said. “Please, order what you like,
on the house.”
The
businessmen ordered the dearest items on the menu,
ate very little of it, and walked out feeling
indifferent to the incident. To them, a fifty-dollar
morning tea was worth less to them than the
waitress was to the owner of the cafe.
Injustice
slowly glided from the cafe back into the mall,
unsure why his comment about how bad the
waitress’s attitude was didn’t help the
situation. He was sure that it would have helped
the poor young girl against those lovely young
men.
He noticed two
police officers talking to a group of young
aborigines loitering around the ATM’s a few
meters down the mall.
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