Breakfast with Glenn and Steve - Safety

The booths in The Good Egg are lacquered hard wood without cushions or covers.  The tabletops are Formica edged with brushed metal.  Plastic salt and pepper shakers flank a bowl of creamers and a small, rectangular plastic container with disheveled white, yellow, pink and blue packets of sweeteners sits on every table.  The walls are dotted with watercolor seascapes featuring lighthouses or ships under sail.  Three friends occupy a booth near the back.  They consider their menus as their fresh coffee cools in large ceramic mugs.

 

I had been thinking of the Irish Benedict since the third time I hit the snooze button that morning.  Nothing in the hour and seventeen minutes since had done anything to change my mind.  I put down the menu and leaned over the table, my voice low and controlled.

“You packing?” I asked Glenn and Steve.  Steve’s gaze remained fixed on the menu.

“If you’re referring to the practice of stuffing a pair of socks down the front of your pants to enhance my… profile then the answer is no,” Glenn answered.  Steve’s right eyebrow arched but he kept his gaze fixed on the menu.

“No,” I said. “I’m not referring to stuffing a pair of socks down your pants.  Why would you even go there?”

Glenn shrugged.  “I’ve been feeling a little insecure lately.”  Steve’s eyebrow seemed to arch even higher.

Slowly and carefully pulling my jacket open with two fingers to reveal the Glock on my hip I said, “You know what I mean.”

“Oh, that,” Glenn said.  “Yes, of course I’m packing.”  Still intently scanning the menu, Steve nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Feel better?” Steve asked, his right eyebrow now relaxed.

“Not really,” Glenn answered.  “I kind of wish I had that pair of socks.”

Steve finally put down his menu.  “I was talking to Mike.”

“Did I mention that I’ve been feeling insecure?” Glenn asked.

“Yes,” Steve answered.

“Perhaps a little consideration is in order,” Glenn said.

“Consideration?”  Steve’s right eyebrow arched again.

“Consideration,” Glenn said.

The waitress arrived.  “Need another minute?”

“Well,” I said.  “I’m ready.”

“Are you ready?” Steve asked Glenn.

“I’m ready,” Glenn answered.

“I’ll have the Irish Benedict,” I said.  “And the fruit cup.”

Still staring at Glenn, right eyebrow still arched, Steve ordered.  “French toast, side of bacon and another side of bacon.”

“Two sides of bacon,” the waitress said while writing down his order.

“You have excellent math skills,” Steve said. “I’m surprised you’re working as a waitress.”

“I’m a people person,” she said without missing a beat. “And you?” she asked Glenn.

Glenn, still staring at Steve, held his menu up to the waitress.  “I’ll have the special.”

“Yeah, we don’t have any specials today,” the waitress said.

“Surprise me,” Glenn said.

“Okay,” the waitress said, taking the menu.

“He usually gets an omelet,” Steve said.  “Cheddar cheese with bacon or mushrooms. Or both.”

“Bring me anything but an omelet,” Glenn said.

I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile at the waitress.  She stepped closer to the table and while she put her pen and slips into one of the two pockets of her apron she let us have a good look at the Smith & Wesson .38 in the other pocket.  “My name is Becky.  If you gentlemen need anything, you just let me know.”

Becky left and about halfway to the kitchen stopped and looked back at us.  I smiled without conviction as our eyes met.  She turned and continued on her way to the kitchen. 

I leaned across the table again.  “What is up with you guys?”

They turned their gaze on me and asked is unison, “What do you mean what is up with you guys?”

I sat up straight and swallowed.  “You don’t think you’re acting a little bit, um, you know…”  I couldn’t find the words.  Like those hit men in Fargo?  Glenn was definitely Buscemi and Steve was even more definitely Peter Stormare. 

Steve turned to Glenn.  “We’re acting, ‘you know’.”

Glenn nodded, still looking at me.  “You know.”

“You do realize we’re on the hook for at least a 25% tip now if we expect to get out of here alive,” I said.

Steve sipped his coffee.  “I like our chances,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. Now Glenn and Steve sipped their coffee in unison. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for poached eggs with extreme prejudice.”

Steve and Glenn looked at each other.

“It’s the most important meal of the day,” Glenn said to Steve.

“It should be worth fighting for,” Steve said to Glenn.

“Nutrition is a Second Amendment right?” I asked.

They turned slowly to face me.

“Everything is a Second Amendment right,” Glenn said, sipping coffee without dropping his gaze.

“Without a gun, people with knives will tell you what to do,” Steve said.

“Okay, that’s a point that’s hard to dispute,” I said. 

“Strip search for a traffic violation?” Glenn asked, I soon learned, rhetorically. After one more sip of coffee he continued. “I don’t think I can let that happen.  John Law can stick a finger up my ass when I’m dead but not before.”  His eyes remained locked on mine.

I felt a bit like a cobra facing a mongoose.  The humiliation and finality of my own mortality hung like a condemned man somewhere in a dark room in my cerebral cortex.  I’m a reptilian badass mofo but that mongoose is my kryptonite and I know it.  The waitress had left just a few short minutes ago.  It would be a long time before we saw our food.  I struggled to find a cue to change the subject.  The table settings, the comforting aroma of breakfast, even the other customers seemed perfectly unremarkable.  It was a monochromatic dream; a dark, ominous, deeply-disturbing monochromatic dream.  I could feel sweat on the back of my neck and down the small of my back.  I closed my eyes.  “There’s no place like home,” I whispered rapidly, hoping against desperate hope that the ruby red slippers were merely accessories.  “There’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home…”

I stopped.

I opened my eyes.

Glenn and Steve stared back at me.

“Seriously?” Steve asked.

“It’s a beloved classic,” I said. 

Becky returned with a plateful of breakfast in each hand and a third platter riding on her right forearm. She deftly placed the plates in front of us.  Glenn’s surprise breakfast was a short stack of blueberry pancakes with sausage links.

If the Irish Benedict was to be my last meal, I couldn’t have done much better. 

Glenn snapped his fingers barely an inch from my face.

I opened my eyes.