Breakfast with Glenn and Steve - A Conspiracy of Omelets

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.

 

“Have you noticed that we get seated at this same booth every single time,” Steve said, glancing at the other booths and tables in The Good Egg in what I presumed was intended to be a clandestine manner.

“I think the writer is just too lazy to come up with a new lede every time we have breakfast,” I said.

“I’ve noticed that,” Glenn said.

“Look, you know I don’t believe in God and even if I did I would still believe in free will. Concepts like good and evil would be meaningless without free will,” Steve said.

“God?” I asked.

“The Writer,” Steve said. “Isn’t that what you meant by ‘The Writer’?” Steve replied.

“Say yes,” Glenn offered.

“Yes, of course,” I answered.

“Look, I refuse to believe Yahweh and Mr. Scratch are playing poker with our lives,” Steve said.

“Swedish Rummy?” Glenn asked.

“It is statistically impossible for us to be seated at the same booth in a restaurant this size every single time we’ve come here,” Steve said.

“Don’t you think our being seated in this booth every week could simply be the result of the normal customer traffic. We arrive about the same time, most of the people in here could be described as regulars who also arrive according to the patterns and habits of their lives.” Glenn shrugged then continued, “We’re regulars. Maybe the staff thinks of this as our table.”

“That’s your theory?” Steve asked. “Merest chance?”

“Maybe they seat us in the back to keep us away from families with small children,” I offered as I checked the front dining room.

The waitress returned to take our order.

“Can you tell me why we’re always seated at this booth?” Steve asked.

“Excuse me?” the waitress answered.

“Every time we come here, we get seated at this booth, regardless of what other booths or tables are available,” Steve said. “I’d like to know why.”

“I’m sorry,” the waitress said. “Would like to move? To the booth over there?” she asked, gesturing to the booth directly opposite us, across the back dining room.

“That’s not the point,” Steve said, “and it’s not an answer to my question.”

I noted our waitress’ name plate read ‘Joy’ and said, “Excuse me, Joy. This may be anecdotal but I think a more interesting point may be the fact that while we always sit in this same booth every time we come to The Good Egg – and it’s a very nice booth, by the way – we always have a different waitress. Rather than embrace my friend’s paranoia regarding how we’ve been seated, I would think the circadian rhythms of The Good Egg would provide a reasonable explanation for seating patterns, however, I would also expect that we would have the same waitress on a regular basis given the assumption the wait staff here tend to work sections of the floor plan on a regular basis and yet we always have a different waitress.”

She paused before answering, as if she were trying to come up with a seemingly reasonable answer before resorting to the truth. “I guess you could say I’m the low man on the totem pole. I’ve got the least seniority so the other waitresses made me take you today.”

“You know,” Glenn said. “The low man on the totem pole was actually a position of honor.”

“Yeah?” the waitress responded. “Well, that’s very interesting I’m sure but in common usage it clearly has the opposite connotation, doesn’t it?”

“Wait a minute. I think we’re missing the point,” Steve said.

“Us?” Glenn asked rhetorically. “Missing the point?”

“The fact that totem poles are associated with the indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest while we live in New England?” I offered.

“No!” Steve exclaimed.

“Was this restaurant built on an Indian graveyard?” I asked the waitress.

“What?” Steve asked.

“It would explain why we’re always seated at the same booth,” Glenn said. “It would explain the ghost warriors seated at the table in the back,” he added, nodding over his left shoulder before sipping his coffee.

We all looked at the empty table in the back. Then we looked at Glenn. “They just left,” he said.

Steve’s mouth opened but no words came out.

“I’ll give you guys a minute to decide what you want,” the waitress said, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Steve said. “You said the other waitresses made you take our table?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Why?” Steve asked.

“Give it to us straight,” Glenn said. “We can take it.”

“Okay,” she said. “In my profession, you find yourself catching bits and pieces of conversation at the tables you serve. Mostly quiet arguments about money, home repairs, whether or not it really takes that long to drive the babysitter home, that kind of thing. But you guys…” she trailed off, at an apparently literal loss for words.

And then she found them. “You guys talk about whether or not God masturbates.”

I looked at Glenn. He looked at Steve. Steve looked back at Glenn and then both of them looked at me.

“We have,” I said to Joy.

“It was just one example,” she said.

“If God existed and God was a man then God would most certainly masturbate,” Steve said.

“And we are again,” I said.

“While he simultaneously smote gay resorts with tsunamis,” Glenn added.

“And gay state fairs,” I added. “Only, you know, with tornadoes instead of tsunamis.”

“They’re kidding about God being homophobic,” Steve said reassuringly to Joy.

“Are we?” I wondered aloud. “If we’re going to anthropomorphize God, might He not be homophobic?”

“Some people are homophobic,” Steve said. “God is not homophobic.”

“Well, God made those people, too, didn’t He?” I asked rhetorically. “So it’s still His fault.”

“In my experience, He’s clearly hard of hearing,” Glenn noted.

“I think He’s a little bit racist, too,” I added.

“He hates Cleveland,” Steve said.

“He’s definitely misogynistic,” Joy offered.

We all stopped and looked at her. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?” she said.

“I think you should always be our waitress,” I said.

Steve looked at me. I looked at Glenn. Glenn and I looked at Steve.

“We tip well,” Steve said.

Joy considered this. “So, do you gentlemen know what you’d like today?”

“I say we all have omelets,” I said. I looked at Steve. “We’ve never all had omelets.”

“But I was really looking forward to the Belgian waffle combo,” Steve said.

“Are you wearing the Belgian waffle combo?” Glenn asked Steve. “Or is the Belgian waffle combo wearing you?”

“What does that mean?” Steve asked Glenn.

“Throw off your waffle shackles,” Glenn said. “Have an omelet.”

“I’ll give you guys another minute,” Joy our new regular waitress said, turning to go.

“No,” I said. “Bacon, cheddar and spinach omelets all around, side of home fries, wheat toast and orange juice.” I made the universal sign for “all around” by pointing down at the table top and making a swirling motion with my index finger. “All around,” I said. Joy wrote down our order.

“More coffee when you get a chance,” Glenn added.

“Just switch mine to the Belgian waffle combo,” Steve said. “I’ll have the eggs over easy.”

“Got it,” Joy our new regular waitress said. “I’ll be right back with more coffee.”

We watched her go.

“Yeah, they seat us in the back to keep us away from families with small children,” I said.