One taxi comes to a screeching halt, followed by another right behind it, and both drivers, as if practiced, throw open their doors, leap out and begin yelling, pointing at one another. Almost immediately, there is honking and a flashing of lights as other cars stop to watch and listen. Both drivers are bald and loud, gesturing like they mean it. Meanwhile, he takes a sip of coffee and squints to get a better look. Finally, as the taller, balder one reaches to take off his sandal only to suddenly change his mind, the honking becomes intolerable and with one final terrible bout of pointing, they return to their taxis, re-slamming their doors and in a spray of gravel and dust, speed away. He nods at this and gives his coffee yet another healthy sip.

That’s when a man dressed all in black walks in, stops in front of his table, thinks about sitting down, even putting his hand on the unused chair, but then doesn’t, content to stand. When the man in black asks him a question, he is secretly irritated that his coffee shop musing has been interrupted. Now, once his asking is done, the man in black decides to sit.

“What about him?”
The man in black’s tone becomes deeper, darker.

“Ok, ok, if you must know. No reason to be rude about it. Well, he drives a green car, that’s the first thing. Not sure what make, what kind, what flavor, just your basic green car, and more times than not it needs a good washing. That’s it. What else is there to know—man with green car?”

Mr. man-in-black slowly takes off his sunglasses, rubbing his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and then quickly slips them back on. His tone is louder now, and the woman behind the counter, who could be the owner, or maybe not, says something that neither one of them can hear. The man in black asks more.
“What’s that? There’s got to be more? Fine, no need to yell.”

This is when someone else enters the coffee shop and somewhere a bell rings, and they both turn to see. The new coffee shop person, some gas company worker in dirty blue overalls, done with his night shift, takes a seat nearby. Mr. man-in-black doesn’t like this.

“Ok, wait. How about this: when he gets out of his green car, he has to swing both legs at the same time, something like a swiveling, which is not easy to do, never mind the green car. So, that make two things—dirty green car with two swiveling legs. What else do you need to know?”

Three people look unhappy: the woman behind the counter who is slowly making her way to the gas worker’s table, the gas worker himself, who hasn’t stopped frowning up at the ceiling and Mr. man-in-black, although his sunglasses make it hard to say for sure.
“Alright, alright, have it your way. He’s fat. I didn’t want to say it but you keep insisting. Obese is the word of choice these days. So, there you have it: fat man who has to swivel to exit his dirty green car. Happy?” As he leans closer, hovering over his coffee cup, something like a growl comes from Mr. man-in-black.

“Have me arrested? For what, pray tell?” More leaning, growling.
“A wife? Girlfriend? I have no idea. You should ask him. In fact, why not ask him all these questions you’re asking me?”

This time when he removes his sunglasses, the gas worker cannot help but aim a frown their direction.
When she comes out from behind the counter, everybody can see that she is wearing a green apron, and for some reason that helps, a little.
“No sir, I am not being rude, nor disrespectful. I’ve told you all I know about the man. Is that it, are we done?”

Mr. man-in-black steeples his fingers on the tabletop, whispering.
“No, no, as neighbors go he’s as good as the next person. I rarely see the guy except when he is getting in and out of his green car. Are we done?”
Mr. man-in-black makes a motion towards the door.

“Fine, til’ next time. By the way, who did you say you were? You have a badge or something to show me? I mean, isn’t that the first thing you’re supposed to do, flash a badge, an ID?”

Upon hearing the word ‘badge’ the gas worker’s frown changes to worry, sending a spoon clattering on the floor. He tries once, twice, to reach it, to pick it up, but both times it is just beyond his reach. The gas worker stops to consider: to get up out of his chair and take one giant step, bend down and pick it up, or not. His considering over, he decides on not. And it isn’t long before she comes from behind the counter to pick up the spoon for him.

And now Mr. man-in-black says something terse, tough, before reaching into his coat pocket, and when he does the counter woman and the gas worker cannot help but turn to get a good look, more frowning, leaning.
“No, I am not being smart. It’s just that I have seen my fair share of police TV shows to know what’s what.”
From his coat pocket he pulls out what looks to be a card, a photo, or both.
“Ok, I see. Immigration? Mr. . . .Mr. Abdullah, is it?”
The man-in-black rubs his hands together.
“Oh, oh, sorry, Agent Abdullah? Right, sure. Agent. I get it. So, my neighbor is on some kind of no-fly list or something?”

Rubbing his hands together harder, longer, and all the while the gas worker who has just finished his night shift shuffles his feet, this boots.
“No, just guessing. How would I know. What’s that? Is he away from home often? Mr. Abdullah, Sorry, Agent Abdullah, I have no idea and now if you’ll excuse me.”

Once Agent Abdullah leaves his card on the tabletop and walks away, past the gas worker and out the door, he is alone again. She is safely back behind her counter, and the gas worker has stopped shuffling his boots long enough to talk into his cellphone. Meanwhile, he is thinking about his neighbor when a what can only be described as a fleet of taxis, one right after the other, the other, the other, cruise by, followed by much honking. In the end, he cannot help but watch them closely, as if for some reason taxis have suddenly become so suspicious.

Photo by Bruna Soares and Danil Moiseev on Unsplash.