"You may easily play a joke on a man who likes to argue" - agree with him. -- Edgar W. Howe

The quiet corner booth at O’Malley’s Diner, usually reserved for early-bird specials and hushed conversations, was the epicenter of a minor, yet deeply satisfying, intellectual skirmish Tuesday afternoon. The target, local historian and notorious contrarian, Arthur Penhaligon, was, as predicted, deeply engrossed in defending the architectural merits of Brutalist buildings. His opponent, seemingly, was the chipped Formica tabletop.

Penhaligon, a man whose beard seemed to actively bristle with dissenting opinions, had been holding court for nearly an hour, detailing, with painstaking accuracy, the misunderstood genius of concrete monoliths. Anyone attempting to interject found themselves swiftly, and politely, but firmly, corrected. He'd already dismantled arguments concerning aesthetics, functionality, and even the psychological impact of such structures, leaving a trail of defeated sighs in his wake.

This, however, was precisely what Old Man Tiber, a retired clockmaker known more for his laconic silence than his boisterous opinions, had been waiting for. Tiber hadn’t uttered a word for the first half-hour, simply sipping his black coffee and observing. He’d overheard Penhaligon lamenting the decline of “honest, unadorned structure” and bemoaning the “fleeting whims of fashionable design.” Recognizing a perfect opportunity, Tiber leaned forward and, in a voice surprisingly robust for a man his age, said, “You’re absolutely right, Arthur.”

It wasn’t the word itself, it was the unwavering, unblinking sincerity with which it was delivered. Penhaligon paused mid-sentence, a half-formed critique of postmodernism hanging in the air. He blinked, clearly expecting a challenge. “Really?” he asked, suspicion lacing his voice.

“Absolutely,” Tiber confirmed, nodding slowly. “Those fancy gingerbread houses they’re building now… all curls and flourishes. No substance. No truth. Give me a solid block of concrete any day. A building should mean something, not just look pretty.”

Penhaligon, visibly disarmed, launched into an even more fervent explanation of Brutalism’s philosophical underpinnings, his voice gaining momentum. Tiber just kept agreeing. Every point, no matter how esoteric, was met with a simple, emphatic “Exactly.” Every disparaging remark about contemporary architecture was echoed with a knowing nod.

“And the lighting! The way light plays on raw concrete, highlighting its inherent texture… it's a statement, you see?” Penhaligon declared, gesturing dramatically with his fork.

“A powerful statement,” Tiber agreed, taking a delicate sip of his coffee. “A statement about strength. About permanence. About refusing to bow to… frivolity.”

The dynamic became increasingly comical. Penhaligon, usually battling an invisible army of opposing viewpoints, was now conducting a one-man lecture to an entirely receptive audience. He lectured on Le Corbusier, on the Soviet influence, on the sociological implications of exposed concrete. Tiber offered nothing but agreement, occasionally adding a grunt of assent or a thoughtfully timed “Hmm.” He seemed to hang on every word, his face a mask of profound understanding.

Other patrons couldn’t help but overhear. A ripple of amusement spread through the diner. Old Man Tiber, the silent observer, was playing Penhaligon like a finely tuned instrument.

After nearly an hour of uninterrupted monologue, Penhaligon finally wound down, a look of almost bewildered satisfaction on his face. He'd never had an audience so willingly embrace his views.

“Well,” he said, finally, patting his stomach. “I suppose I’ve said enough. It’s just… not enough people understand.”

Tiber simply smiled, a rare and genuine expression. “You explained it perfectly, Arthur. Perfectly.”

As Penhaligon gathered his jacket, a local waitress, Millie, approached Tiber. “You really let him have it, didn’t you?” she chuckled.

Tiber winked. “Just agreeing with a man who likes to argue. Seems to be the easiest way to get some peace and quiet.” He paused, then added, with a twinkle in his eye, “And a good cup of coffee.”

The entire exchange, witnessed by at least a dozen diners, brought to mind a quote attributed to the late Edgar W. Howe: “You may easily play a joke on a man who likes to argue - agree with him.” It was a prank, subtle and masterful, proving that sometimes, the most effective way to win an argument isn’t to challenge it, but to concede every single point.