I have been serving food at Nikolai’s Tavern for fifteen years now, working the night shift, where the coffee is always strong and the company… well, let’s just say that you meet all sorts of people. You can meet everyone here — truckers with a thousand stories, weary travellers and those who come in not to eat at all.
That night, the streets glistened from the recent rain, and the air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and fried bacon. I was wiping down the counter when an elderly man entered the diner quietly, like a shadow.
He was short, thin, about sixty-five years old, with a face covered in wrinkles, like a map of a life lived. He moved slowly and confidently, like a man who had endured more than his fair share in his lifetime. He sat down by the window and ordered a slice of apple pie and a glass of milk.
I was just filling the coffee pot when the door burst open again and three men entered. I knew these types — leather jackets, loud laughter, cocky grins, and the feeling that the whole world belonged to them. They hadn’t come to eat. They needed to cause a scene.
They approached the counter and immediately began their performance — loud jokes, laughter, tactless comments. Then one of them — a burly man with a beard and harsh features — noticed the old man by the window. He grinned, squinting:
‘Look, this old man is sitting here alone, drinking milk like a schoolboy.’
American Western log cabin restaurant dining room interior with a stone fireplace, deer head trophy, pickled vegetables and pictures on the wall.
I was about to intervene, but the old man just sighed, took a couple of crumpled banknotes out of his pocket, put them on the counter and calmly got up. He slowly adjusted his jacket, pulled his cap down lower and silently walked out into the rain.
My insides turned upside down. It was so unfair that I wanted to yell at those jerks. The thugs were still smirking until the bearded one turned to me and said with a smirk,
‘What a loser, huh? Didn’t even try to stand up for himself.’
I just smiled.
‘He wasn’t much of a truck driver either.’
The laughter stopped immediately.
‘What does that mean?’ the leader frowned.
I silently nodded towards the window.
Meals at the inn
It took a moment for them to realise what had happened. Their bikes — three polished, beautiful machines that they clearly worshipped — were now piles of twisted metal under the rear wheels of a huge lorry that was already disappearing over the horizon.
The colour began to drain from their faces. The leader was the first to rush to the exit, followed by his two accomplices. They ran out into the rain and froze in front of the piles of twisted scrap metal, while a chorus of approving chuckles rang out from the diner.
Mark, an old truck driver and regular at the Tractor, raised his mug of coffee in a silent toast.
‘To those who don’t waste words,’ he muttered.
Dark moody medieval tavern inn interior with food and drink on tables, burning open fireplace, candles and daylight through a window. 3D rendering.
I smiled and went back to work. A pleasant feeling of justice hung in the air of the snack bar. On nights like this, you realise that karma is a dish sometimes served straight from a hot frying pan.
