Pancakes

I try every morning to catch a certain bus to work. I usually fail. There’s a Latin guy who rides that bus every morning, and he’s very compelling. He’s of average build and wears his hair in a long ponytail. He’s always reading serious books on the bus. Emerson said he wanted to hug any man on a train when he saw him reading a great book. I think I share the sentiment for different reasons. We’ve made small talk a time or two, and I know his name now. He even gave me a flyer a couple of weeks ago for a Mexican hardcore punk show at a house in Ft Worth. I think about him every morning as I catch the first of my two busses. I wonder if I’ll see him. I usually get off at Wayne’s Beckley Grill for a tall stack of pancakes and as much coffee as I can swill down in a short time. I then rush out to try and get back on the next bus, which is the one he rides. I repeatedly fail to make it in time. I’ve got a crush on the guy. It makes me want to learn Spanish and be able to say something interesting. He always looks very friendly in a noncommittal fashion. I could fall off the face of the earth, and he wouldn’t notice, however.

I got to Wayne’s and all hopes of an expedient meal were dashed as I looked upon the new waitress assigned to my table. She appeared consumptive, and drew her upper lip up as she sniffed and wiped her nose with her hand. She then let loose with a very productive, liquid coughing fit that really got me ready to dive into my breakfast with abandon. She was very thin and pale. When she finally limped over to my table with my breakfast, I immediately noticed little bits of foreign matter in my paper tubs of butter. Two of these tiny flecks appeared to just be tobacco spit from the cook’s unfiltered cigarette, but the third lump looked like it fell out of my waitresses nose. I carved the detritus from my food with a sufficient amount of the surrounding butter to feel safely untainted. I’m not very squeamish most times.