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.
Coffee in hand, I reviewed the menu. Irish Benedict. All the major food groups. English muffins, corned beef hash, poached eggs and hollandaise. With the seasonal fruit cup, of course.
“I’m not sure I’m going to make it to November,” Steve said. “It’s non-stop negativity. The country is in crisis and our only choices to save the republic are a Kenyan-born socialist Muslim and Scrooge Moroni McDuck. How does that even happen?”
“You should have the blueberry pancakes,” I said. “Blueberries are full of anti-oxidants. They’re like nature’s serotonin.”
“Isn’t serotonin nature’s serotonin?” Glenn asked.
“Technically, yes,” I admitted.
“Is it just that the truth is too complicated?” Steve continued, seemingly unmoved by the thought of blueberry pancakes. “It seems like both sides take positions rather than account for the facts. Neither side takes any responsibility; both sides are run by big money. The only constant is hypocrisy.”
“Well, the good news is that it’s always been like this,” I said.
“That’s the good news?” Glenn asked.
“Well, in the sense that Steve’s sense of impending doom is misplaced. Humankind has been waiting on doom for a long time now. All those signs of the apocalypse are just signs of the times.”
“As optimism goes, I think you’re setting the bar awfully low,” Glenn noted.
The waitress returned. Though he hadn’t appeared to be listening, Steve did order the blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon. Glenn ordered a western omelet and home fries. After ordering I considered the implications of an Irish Benedict featuring English muffins.
After the waitress left, Steve continued, “I sometimes wonder if we’ve ever stopped fighting the Civil War.”
“Interesting point,” Glenn observed. “I suppose there’s no greater example of income inequality than slavery.”
“We were fighting the Civil War before the Civil War,” I said. “From the very inception of the United States of America, there’s always been the dynamic tension between federal and states’ rights, between our accountability to each other and the romantic ideal of the individual, between shared responsibility and freedom from tyranny in any and all of its forms.”
“We hate each other,” Steve said.
“That’s another way of putting it,” Glenn said.
“We hate each other with economics. We hate each other with politics. We hate each other with guns and bombs made out of fertilizer and we hate each other with God. We hate each other with television and blogs and tweets. We hate each other with sports,” Steve said.
“I really think you should consider decaf,” I said. I waited for the rim shot but it never came. I turned to Glenn. “I think you need to talk him in off the ledge.”
“I think I’m standing next to him,” Glenn said.
“Come on, man,” I implored Glenn. “You’re our cock-eyed optimist.”
“No I’m not,” Glenn corrected. “I’m our wry Yoda.”
“Okay, that’s true,” I said, trying to recover. “So use The Force. Don’t let young Skywalker here give into the Dark Side.”
“You are not seriously thinking you’re Han Solo, are you?” Steve asked.
“What else?” I said. “You’re definitely Luke. You have the same haircut. And your father-”
Steve cut me off. “Don’t even go there.”
“Thank you for making my point for me.”
“Fine. Whatever. I’m Luke. That doesn’t make you Han.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “It’s my swashbuckling charm and reluctant hero affect.”
“Hero reluctant you are,” said Glenn.
“Swashbuckling charm?” Steve asked.
I picked up my knife and held it up. “One for all,” I said. Glenn and Steve looked at me with a look that seemed to say I was the Zach Galifianakis to their Bradley Cooper and Ed Helms. “Don’t leave me hanging, bros.” Glenn and Steve looked at each other and then glancing at the booths nearby, they lifted their knives. As “We’re the Three Best Friends” played in my head I said, “And all for one.”
Naturally, this is the moment our waitress arrived with our food. Acting like she had seen this scene a hundred times before, she deftly set our plates out, promised more coffee and left quickly.
I carved up my Irish Benedict, arranging a fork full of poached egg, hash and English muffin with a dollop of Hollandaise. I watched Steve add butter and syrup to his blueberry pancakes. Glenn carved off a chunk of omelet. We started eating. The waitress returned and topped off our coffee. I arranged another fork full.
“Breakfast delicious it is,” said Glenn.
“You know that can get real annoying real fast,” Steve said.
“Annoying it is. Yes,” Glenn noted.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said.
“Yes,” Steve said. “I think you’re right.”
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