This is a damn dawdle morning, all sorts of petty annoying, long delayed items to finish off. The shoemaker just around the corner from my house will be glad to get my dyed shoes off his shelf and $15 in his pocket. I owe more late fees on the last book I got from the Public library, ‘The Color Purple’ that I could have bought it at a signing session. Today I will definitely pay the fine and they can have their book back. My Impala windows need a washing inside and out but I wait for rain and now my wipers barely get thru the dust and grit. Today I used my ten dollar coupon and let the sun come in.
I have used up eight, nine and nine-thirty of the morning. At ten I almost pass the Nest Egg diner, turn and go in for a coffee. It is too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. The place is almost empty. A waitress offers me a large booth that could hold eight with ease, but it wasn’t going to hold me. Pointing where I prefer to be, I ask for a table on either end of the aisle. ‘No problem,’ she says, leads me there and hands me a menu. Before she has a chance to disappear, I ask for a decaf and blueberry pancakes. ‘Ask Marty to make them thin, please.’
There are no customers in my row except me and one elderly man at the opposite end, where in another hour 10 people will be yakking away, eating and swallowing gallons of coffee. With nowhere else to look I glance at him. He’s near enough for me to watch but too far away to start a conversation. His hair is thin, peppered gray. It is brushed straight back so neatly, perfectly, that every strand looks glued down.
I also note his heavy turkey gobbler neck. It waddles as he chews. Rimless bifocal lenses show big blue eyes that have no gleam.
In front of him is the biggest, overflowing plate of unrecognizable god knows what that I have ever seen. It’s a hodgepodge of browned greasy potato cubes, meat of some animal still pink, veggies that grow someplace and have been cooked too long. I can make out what looks like pieces of orange rind. I manage to pour too much syrup over my pancakes and eat only part of one of the three before me that have already gotten cold. The man eats slowly, chews delicately, savoring every fork full. Not until the Great Wall of The Nest Egg is partially lowered do I see a toasted bagel, heavy with cream cheese, near his left hand. He cuts it into small cubes and dips each tidbit into the extravaganza still uneaten.
My belly is getting bigger just watching him, yet I can’t eat my pancakes. Nausea is riling up. At no time do I see him look over at me or away from his platter. Peace is on his face. ‘Miss, may I have a box for my pancakes? They heat up nicely in the microwave.’ There are more nitty gritty things I have to do but first I go between the aisle and stop behind the man who is still eating.
‘Sir,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off of you enjoying such a huge lunch so early in the morning. What is that you are eating? He looks at me and says, ‘I’ll be darned if I know. I like surprises. I closed my eyes, touched the menu and asked the waitress to bring me that. Would you like a taste? There’s plenty still here.’ ‘Thank you, but no thank you. I’m full. The pancakes were delicious. There’s more than enough for me to have for breakfast tomorrow. Enjoy yourself.’
I walk to the cashier’s desk, give her my left over pancakes and ask her to put them in the garbage. By the time I get home, I believe that the man’s weird breakfast/lunch/dinner combo was made from everybody’s garbage.
Yep, that’s about what it looked like. I skip dinner and just have a cup of tea.
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