Sunday mornings have always instilled me with the want for a good breakfast. However, I spend enough time in my home as it is that going out for breakfast wets my appetite even more. I venture out in a traumatic fashion due to the collaboration of appetites and the appeal of not having to do dishes after. I can’t get close enough to any major label eatery, and find a family diner aptly titled Eat. What’s in a name, right? I cozy my way up to the bar. Joining me on my quest, as it seems, are a group of misfits – a waitress who appears to have been born there working a triple shift, a German import cook, a prior military service member who still thinks the uniform appearance is in style, and two guys who thought the evening of drinking should end with a proper dose of grease. I glance at the retired sergeant before reading my glossy menu and notice that his fingers conveniently match the stained tile floors and the egg yolks that he ordered from years of using tobacco and not soap. The waitress whom I want to call Flo, but rather, according to her nametag, will have to settle with Genie appears in front of me holding a pot of coffee and an empty but not cleaned ashtray. Not sure if I should accept both, but not wanting to upset her, just nod. As she places the ashtray down and pours the coffee, gratefully into a chipped mug and not into the ashtary, I overhear the fans of cheap beer in the booth behind me – “just because some cakes are special doesn’t mean they all are. You wouldn’t put candles on a urinal cake would you?”
My appetite is beginning to wane.
In response, Genie without light hair grunts out “what can I get you?”
I think the ashtray was for her.
“Two eggs, hash, and toast.” Not even sure if it is on the menu, nor if I really want it, but at this point, I would rather just take something fast and leave. The odor of onions and bleach has slowly invaded my air space. Like being at a spa, a hot tub full of Greek geriatrics.
The non-dancing singing Genie takes my order, puts the short hand scratches on a pad and then puts the “thank you” slip in the silver turnstile and rotates it for the furor without a hairnet. He glances at it and asks me through the window “wrecked, runny, or hard?”
I have no idea what he is talking about.
Runny seems the least invasive to my person. “runny” I reply. I don’t sound half as manly as I would like.
Genie, who probably lives in a bottle when not wearing an apron, drops off the food for the pitcher people behind me. And they are excited, as am I. They might not be able to lower my I.Q. level any longer with their ramblings.
I sit corrected.
Over my shoulder I hear:
“hey, wait a minute?! Look at my toast!”
The emo drunk must have espn for he looks at the disheveled metro drunk and says
“what about it?”
Even Genie is hanging within earshot incase the mold she scraped off the bread earlier didn’t all come off.
“it looks like someone famous”
Getting her own wish, Genie walks away. But now, unbelievably, I am concerned with the outcome of the toast profile and instead of giving in, I have to sit and soak up the old man chlorine infused atmosphere.
“who does it look like?” whines emo boy.
“That guy from footloose I think” states the walking gap ad.
“footloose? I don’t know that one” almost whimpers the other one.
“Kevin something I think “ Barks the vet, who until this point I thought was only lost in his waffle and some battle.
“Yeah!!” The missing boy band member is really excited by this. “what was his last name?!”
Not being able to contain myself, I mutter “Bacon”
The sour kraut from the window questions with authority “Bacon? Okay”
Instead of wiggling her nose at me, Genie scowls as if I didn’t allow her the chance to wait on me further. What just happened here?
Mr Fitch behind me howls with excitement “That’s it!!! Bacon!”
Genie, no longer wanting to be forgotten like the pastry in the display case writes it down and hands it to the cook. The veteran nods approvingly at me and returns to studying the warfront on his plate.
Now I want to see the toast.
However, fate has other plans. The erroneous bacon has now been cooked. Delivery must commence. Genie brings me my side plate, and the unhappy pessimist walks out of the kitchen to the booth in back. I don’t say a word about not wanting the actual order, but the broke back boys are almost affronted by the appearance of floppy pork.
“what’s this” I can almost hear his tears hitting the table.
“We didn’t order bacon, did we?” Be bop is still foggy from drink.
“You said Bacon!” The Gustapo’s voice rolls off of his lips like he chews glass for kicks.
“No man, I meant the toast. It looks like Kevin Bacon. We’re taking it home to show our friends. Hey, can we get like a box or something for it?”
“the bacon?” even when questioning the cook growls.
“No, the toast” replies back street.
“What’s wrong with toast?” Cook
“Nothing. It just looks like Kevin Bacon.” Fashion statement.
“Serenity Now!” Veteran
“Your food” Genie
“What, oh yeah” Me.
I can now eat. And yet, I don’t want to be apart from what is going on around me.
Well, as I turn to face my plate and complete the idea of breakfast out, I hear the cook gravel out to Genie to grab the toast, he turns, slips on the floor – assuming bacon grease has played a role in the incident, and falls hitting his head on a table. He is out cold, the veteran smiles as if this is the serenity he was asking for, emo boy actually cries, Genie is still holding the toast, wanna be solid gold just stares, and I call 9-1-1 from my cell phone.
Within minutes the paramedics walk in to see just about the same scene as described above. Only now Genie has set the toast near my plate, and I am absently finishing my breakfast. The medics are moving the tables in order to get the cook who is out as cold as the soup from yesterday, into the ambulance. The police are now on hand trying to make something out of the confusion, and are getting ready to interview American idol over there who is now near frantic about his missing famous tanned bread when he looks at me holding a knife and jelly.
“No!!!!! Not the toast!!!”
“what about the toast?” asks cop 1.
“Don’t tamper with the toast” squeals rock steady and he looks as if to tackle me.
I on the other hand had actually forgotten about the toast being a celebrity and mistook it for my own order. Glancing down at the remaining piece, and wouldn’t you know it, it does look like Kevin Bacon.
The police are now coming at me in an effort to catch to the flying tackler in mid air.
The medics are hurrying out the door with the unconscious cook when one looks to the other and asks “did he say tampered post?”
Which, I can only imagine was heard by a bystander who had stopped to watch the activity.
From this point I can only put together the happenings by best guesstimate – for the end result only makes sense if the events unfold as such –
The bystander turns to her friend and says – “tampered post?!” To which her friend replies “Anthrax”.
Another onlooker says “Terrorists”
The cook comes out of the fog for a second and through the breathing mask mutters “Kevin Bacon to go”.
And the headlines for my Monday morning read “Terror hits close to home – Kevin Bacon sought for questioning.”
I will again be content with eating in, and the dish soap leaves my hands in a manner that metro boy would approve. Even if I ate his toast. So ends the 6 degrees of separation.
