Breakfast with Glenn and Steve - Late for the End of the World

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 waited until everyone had ordered and taken a sip of coffee before I spoke. Glenn had ordered the spinach, goat cheese and mushrooms omelet special, Steve the French toast with a side of bacon and I went with the basics; scrambled eggs, home fries, sausage and dry wheat toast.

“Lately,” I began, “I’ve become obsessed with my turn indicator.”

Glenn and Steve exchanged a furtive glance.

“More specifically,” I added, “it’s the sound the turn indicator makes; the constant, metronomic tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.”

Glenn took a drink of coffee before speaking. “Have there been any significant changes in your life, lately?”

“No,” I said, “but it’s funny you mention change.”

“Funny strange?” Steve said, “Because this is – so far – not funny ha ha.”

“Funny coincidental,” I said.

“Go on,” Glenn said.

“Well, I first became hyperaware of the sound a couple of days ago. I became fascinated by how unremittingly reliable it was; the sound, the tempo, never changing. I mean, of course, it’s an electronic device so its consistency should hardly be remarkable but…” I fiddled with my silverware.

“But?” Glenn prompted.

“I suppose the fact that I found it to be remarkable was remarkable in and of itself,” I said.

“I don’t know if you should find your obsessive-compulsive behaviors all that remarkable,” Steve said. “I mean, that’s the fourth time you’ve rearranged your spoon and knife. And that’s nowhere close to your record.”

I looked at my spoon and knife. “I can’t decide if I want to have the bottom edge of the spoon and knife aligned or if I want to have the tip of the spoon and the knife describe a 45 degree angle,” I said.

“But you don’t find that remarkable in any way, do you?” Steve asked.

“What is my record, anyway?” I asked.

“Tick-tock?” Glenn prompted.

“Right,” I said, pulling the spoon to align with the bottom edge of the knife.

“It’s seventeen,” Steve said.

“Really?” I said. “Seventeen?”

“Margin of error of plus or minus two,” Steve said.

“You count how many times I rearrange my silverware?”

“I also tip the waitress extra to put your plate down with the eggs on your left,” Steve said.

“Tick-tock?” Glenn repeated.

I reached up to move my spoon but pulled my hand back after touching the spoon without moving it. “I think ultimately it was the realization that this persistent, insistent, constant tick-tock was in fact a harbinger of change, a warning, in fact, that a change was coming, a change of direction was imminent, in fact.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “That does sound like a slightly more interesting topic than the spatial relationships of cutlery on a two dimensional plane. You do know that if you move the spoon away from the knife you can align the bottom edges and achieve a 45 degree angle with the tips of the knife and spoon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “The spoon would be too far away from the knife.”

“Too far?” Steve asked.

“There shouldn’t be more than a quarter inch of separation between the knife and spoon,” I said.

“Is that a rule?” Steve asked.

“Yes, of course it’s a rule. Without rules there’s only chaos. Not to mention confusion over salad forks and soup spoons.”

“I mean; is it an accepted standard or just something you made up?” Steve said.

“Well, the spacing of silverware has more to do with table real estate than specific measurements. You can’t spread out the silverware without overlapping with the place setting on either side. A quarter inch is more observational than defined standard,” I said.

“Are you sure you’re obsessed with your turn indicator?” Glenn asked. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Mayan Long Count calendar, does it?”

“It’s just a calendar,” I said. “I’ve got a Philip Rothko calendar on the wall in my office and it ends on December 31^st.” I shrugged. 

“The Mayans probably thought they had plenty of time to get to work on that 2013 calendar, you know. Like two thousand years,” Steve said.

We drank some coffee. I considered the Mayans. What did I know about them? Advanced temporal mathematics and human sacrifice. No doubt there was a lot more to the Mayan civilization than calendars and open heart surgery without anesthesia but the winds of history seems to wear away detail and nuance. A hundred years from now, people will think the only song The Clash ever recorded was “Rock the Casbah.” It’s sad, really. I mean, it’s not even one of their best songs.

“You know, this turn indicator thing could be the start of a Stephen King novel,” Steve said. “I mean, if your turn indicator was possessed by a cold, heartless evil, maybe someone who was killed by the car, driven by a previous owner, of course, and it started using Morse code to tell you to do unspeakable things. Tock-Tick-Tock, Tick-Tick. Tick-Tock-Tick-Tick. Tick-Tock-Tick-Tick. K. I. L. L.”

“I’ve always meant to learn Morse code,” I said. “A remarkable number of movies utilize Morse code as a sort of deus ex machina, allowing the heroes to communicate despite various issues with the telecommunications infrastructure. Wait! I can rapidly close and open this circuit causing the front porch light to flash in short and long bursts spelling out the words, Help! House surrounded by – I don’t know – vampire moose! You know; something like that.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something better than vampire moose on the rewrite,” Steve said.

“Maybe they’re blood-sucking alien beings who disguise themselves as moose,” Glenn said. “Very New England, combining our primeval fascination with moose and our fear and loathing of tourists.”

“I should also read up on elevators,” I said. “It seems like knowing how to get up on the roof of an elevator is often the difference between life and death in action-adventure movies.”

“That and being able to drive a car full speed backwards,” Glenn said. “Speaking from experience, it isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Steve turned to look at Glenn. I looked at Glenn. Glenn drank some coffee and put his cup down.

“I’d like to read you in,” Glenn said, “but neither one of you has clearance.”

The waitress arrived with our food. She put down Glenn’s omelet, then Steve’s French toast and finally, my basic breakfast, which she had balanced in the crook of her left elbow. The eggs were on the left. She nodded to Steve. He smiled and nodded back. The waitress left to get us more coffee.

I turned my plate so the eggs were on the right.

Then I turned my plate around again so the eggs were back on the left. If a change is coming, I thought, perhaps I should start getting ready for it.

Baby steps.