Spitball Army

This morning, I get up late.  Around 9:30.  Damn, I’ve already missed a few hours of daylight.  Feeling appropriately groggy and very definitely hungry, I decide that it would be a good idea for someone else to cook a meal for me.  So, I get dressed, grab the day’s newspaper, get in the truck and venture out in search of breakfast.

I end up at the Waffle House on Crestwood Blvd.  The joint is about half full.  I take a seat at the counter and wait.  Five minutes later, the waitress (I omitted the adjective “surly”…whoops, there it is!) decides to bring me some silverware (though I am sure the Waffle House variety is some form of aluminum).  She places it on a wet napkin in front of me, pointed directly and threateningly at me, just north of the plastic menu/placemat.  Okay, I’ll give her a break on the silverware placement, I think.  This is not the Ritz-Carlton, after all.  I look at her and say, “Good morning!”  She looks at me as if I have two heads.  As if she has a particular disdain for people with two heads, in fact.  She walks away.  Five minutes later, she decides to come back.  Now she clears the coffee cup and orange juice glass that were left by the customer who occupied the seat before me.  “I’m ready to order,” I tell her.  She looks right through me.  She walks away.  A man walks in and sits down two chairs away from me at the counter.  The waitress meanders over to him, does the same silverware thing to him, then pulls an order pad out of her apron and begins to take his breakfast order.  I stand up, pick up my silverware, lean toward the waitress and, excusing myself to them both, hand her the utensils.  Then I walk out the door.

Back in the truck and on the road, I head back toward town.  I drive into the parking lot of the iHop.  Besides the parking lot being completely full, there is a line of pancake-loving, well-dressed church-goers extending out the front door onto the sidewalk.  Hurry up and wait, I think.  I keep driving.

A few blocks away there is a McDonald’s.  Hell, at this point I’m not too picky.  Plus, I’ve seen the commercials for their new breakfast burrito and, God knows, I could love anything approximating Mexican food.  So I pull into the drive-thru.  The speaker box announces

“WEHCUMNTOMACKDONODESTAYKYERODOR!”

I ask for the McBreakfast McBurrito.

“WEEOWNLEESURVINLUMCH!”

I look at my watch and it is 11:01 a.m.  But it’s Sunday!  I say nothing to the box and drive away.  Out my window, I hear more incomprehensible human static screeching forth from the box.

Across the street is a supermarket.  So, it has come to this, I think.  I will have to make my own breakfast.  That is truly my last resort option, so I head for the bakery area.  I am eyeballing the pastries and spot a cheese danish that might make an easy meal.  Just heat and eat!  Right at that moment, a store employee rushes up with a shopping cart and starts frantically loading the contents of the pastry shelves into the cart willy-nilly, beginning rather forcefully with the cheese danish ring in front of me, as if he knows that it is the million dollar suitcase.  “What’s this?!”  “My manager told me to clear this rack.  We can’t sell these.”  Well, the manager is in league with the surly waitress at Awful House, I think to myself.

Dejected, I drive half a block away to the three-day-old location of the new Starbucks.  I order a charcoal-flavored cup of coffee.  “What size?” asks the barista.  “Medium,” says I.  “Grande?”  asks the barista.  “No, medium,” says I.  She looks at me and my two heads, but in a friendly way that could only come from working for a company that provides you with health insurance and occasional tips.

Hot coffee in hand, I drive home and prepare a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave.