Uncle Georgios

Image by analogicus from Pixabay



Georgios sat in his usual spot, watching the sun rise over the Adriatic.

In the hours to come, young people in very little would
start setting up umbrellas and claiming their bit of sand for the day.

He set his straw hat on the small table and sipped from the
tiny cup of cappuccino.

“Uncle,” a young man said, approaching with hat in hand. Georgios didn’t know the man, but the title was one everybody used. “My boss, he badmouths me to all the women who come into the shop, and none of them will let me date their daughters.”

The man would be the first of many. They had respect enough
not to line up at his table, but this was how the morning would go. “I will
speak with Dimitris.”

The next was a farmer’s wife whose recent purchase of barley
seed had gone off and she couldn’t afford more. After that was a woman whose
husband was a lazy drunk and needed a scare. Finally, another young man who
wanted to start a business making whisky, but his parents wouldn’t provide
funds.

Georgios smiled, nodded, and sipped at cappuccino after
cappuccino, all while watching the young beach-goers. Of course. He’d handle
it. He handled all of it.

The truth was, much of it handled itself. The young whisky
man would buy the farmer’s barley cheap. It was already malted. People could
solve their own problems if they’d only talk to each other. But this way,
everyone felt they owed Uncle Georgios, and he kept a reputation around town.

Morning turned toward afternoon, and Uncle Georgios got up to go. “Uncle,” a young woman said, and he turned. “We are new in town, and the boys don’t ask me out.”

Georgios smiled. “I know just the boy.”

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