Would you make that call?

Larry made a habit of always taking an hour for lunch and today was no exception.

Sitting down at his preferred table, towards the back of the small Italian restaurant that he always tried to frequent on Wednesdays, Larry was more concerned about catching the waiter’s eye, ordering quickly, and getting back in time for his 2pm meeting, than worrying about the man who had occupied this very seat for nearly two and a half hours that morning.

In fact, the two men had crossed at the door.  But, of course, Larry hadn’t noticed; just as he failed to see the somewhat rough-looking man who had been camped outside his office for the last three days, holding a half-torn photo of a small child, seemingly hoping for some small donation and a change in his luck; just as he had failed to spot the glass-eyed appearance of the young woman in the grey dress, who wasn’t looking where she was going and nearly walked right into him as he had walked past the florist, which was just four doors down from the restaurant in which he now sat.

You couldn’t really blame Larry for not noticing.  Like many of us, I guess, he just wasn’t particularly curious and absolutely preferred his life when it supported, rather than distracted him from, his routine.

Larry only noticed the business card after he had ordered his favorite roasted vegetable lasagna and small bottle of still water.  He was having trouble trying to fit the menus back into their carefully designed wooden stand and, having spotted the obstructing object, fished it out from the stand with the sharp end of his knife.

That would have been the end of the matter, if Larry hadn’t happened to notice the handwritten note on the back of the card.

‘Please call me.  I need your help.’

Larry was immediately conscious that his heart was beating a little faster, but wasn’t sure why.  He looked around the restaurant, half expecting to find people looking at him.  But clearly nobody had even noticed him at the back of the restaurant – let alone seen this handwritten cry for help.

He was curious now and slowly (as if to heighten the suspense) turned the card over, which revealed that its owner was a Mr. Oscar Gonzales, B.A. (Hons).  He was, according to the card at least, General Manager of a company called Signus, but the logo that was printed alongside his name unfortunately gave no clues as to what kind of company this was. 

Unusually, there no mailing address or email.  Just a local telephone number.

To be honest, Larry wasn’t thinking much now about his lunch, nor his two o’clock meeting.  Rather, he found himself playing out different scenarios in his head about who Mr. Gonzales was, whether it was he who had written his note, and, if so, what kind of trouble he was now in.  Had he fallen on hard times and now owed money to someone?  Was this a message scribbled in haste to a friend or a desperate cry for help to anyone who would listen? Had he left his card here by accident or was it all part of carefully designed plan? Have others found this card already and made the call?  If so, what did his voice sound like?  Did they speak briefly for a long time or did one party quickly hang up?

Lost in a flood of curiosity, Larry suddenly realized that the waiter was standing over him with a plate of roasted vegetable lasagna.

‘Would you like parmesan with that, Sir?’ he asked politely in an only half-convincing Italian accent.

Larry declined, picked up his knife and fork, slipped the business card carefully under the salt cellar and began to eat.

He now had only twenty-five minutes before his two o’clock meeting and figured that whoever came after him would probably be better at making this kind of call.

Walking back to his office, the woman in the grey dress was gone and the rough-looking man, still holding his photo, had closed his eyes in the early afternoon sun. 

Larry, of course, didn’t notice.