# Chicken Pie By [Brick65](https://paragraph.com/@brick65) · 2022-03-11 --- Chapter 1: Chicken Pie “That’s a great choice, I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.” I force a weak smile and nod as the waitress turns to make her way to the kitchen.  It’s almost five and the streets outside are beginning to fill with the grey uniforms of office workers pouring out of their buildings and beginning the long journey home for another day. Very soon the entire city will grind to a halt as car and human traffic rush to clog up every road leading out; leaving behind the cold and soulless husk of a city drained of life.  I turn my attention to inside; the place is largely empty save for a couple of families dotted in booths along the window. It’s the kind of restaurant people walk past without noticing; the kind of restaurant that if you did notice it, you would realise you had never seen anyone in there; that you would question if it were even profitable and how it could stay open.  “Nice to get inside and out of this heat, ey?” I announce half to myself, half to the man sitting on the other side of my booth. He slowly lifts his eyes from the book sitting on the table and acknowledges the stranger sitting awkwardly in front of him. Taking a glance around the virtually empty restaurant, I can sense he is a bit confused about my choosing to sit opposite him and not by myself.  “I’m new in town,” I lied, “Just trying to understand more about the place and the people. Figured locals should know where the best food is.”  As I paused to reflect on how plausible my story was, he returned with the most disarming smile and added, “Well Carly wasn’t lying, they make a great chicken pie here; best in the city.” This restaurant does not make the best chicken pie in the city. In fact, the best chicken pie in the city is sold 500 meters down the road at Chick-on; I know this because after living in this city for over 5 years, I’ve eaten it enough times to believe winning multiple gold-medal awards justify the rather pricey $30 slice of pie with a side of vegetables and mash. I restrain myself from mentioning it though, that would blow the cover story I had just made for myself. Instead, I grinned back, patted my stomach, and let out a “great, I’m starving.”  He returned to his book and I found myself flicking through my phone; I hadn’t received any notifications but still sat there opening and closing one app after another, comforted by the feeling of endless swiping.  A few minutes later, the waitress - Carly, I presume - returned with my pie. It was okay. Definitely not the best in the city. My mind was elsewhere though, I was looking for a way to learn from this man; to make sense of why, at the sight of him, I knew him to be knowledgeable and experienced in a way I could not describe. I’m not a spiritual person but as I walked past that same window every day at 4:45 and saw a man sitting by himself, just reading as if he had been sitting there all day without a single care for the hustle outside, something inside compelled me to join him.  Looking now, there wasn’t anything too exceptional about him. He looked around mid-40’s, average height, bit of a beer belly, hair thinning out at the front, and about two days of stubble that would be pushing it for a third. But there was definitely something to him. Maybe it wasn’t his outward appearance that drew me, maybe it was something about the way he sat, looking unblinking into the pages in front of him.  I can’t honestly remember the last time I sat and read a book or did anything for that matter, for more than 20 minutes without checking my phone. Not to do anything with it, just to check in case there was an emergency or someone was trying to get a hold of me. Being contactable is part of being a responsible person willing to help others. As the pie slowly diminishes in size, I feel the window for conversation closing. “So what are you reading?” I blurt out, fully aware of how cliché, dry, and potentially irritating the question was. Without taking his eyes away from the page, he motions one finger in the air, finishes his paragraph intently, snaps the book closed on the table, and rubs the palms of his hands into his eyes before letting out a great sigh of relief. “Wheew, what a ride.” “Harry Potter?” I ask cautiously, looking at the now-closed novel. “Wonderfully written, really takes you to another place for a few hours; fantastic stuff.” He replies, wide-eyed and unapologetically.  I felt the urge to question the appropriateness of this reading material for a man of his age but resisted as the thought occurred to me that this may be my mentor’s first test for me. He wants to see whether I am someone bound by normal conventions of what is socially acceptable and what is not. Whether I am worthy of accepting his mentorship and guidance. Challenge accepted.  “Never read it. I’m actually more into … myself,” I reply with the intention of steering the conversation towards my true purpose for being here. But his attention had already shifted to something out the window as he runs a hand through his hair, lets out another sigh, and slowly shakes his head as if in disbelief. I’m waiting for him to come back to reality when I realise he must be waiting for me to talk about something other than myself. No one likes people who only talk about themselves as if the world revolves solely around them; so I approach him with a softball, “So what do you do for a living?”  “I sell insurance” How modest. I grin, knowingly.  The game is afoot. --- *Originally published on [Brick65](https://paragraph.com/@brick65/chicken-pie)*