Paradise Lost, Again

Another Saturday morning and the image of yellow eggbeaters obedient on a plate rises in my mind like a sun. Soon, in quiet eagerness I drive the back way over the winding road amid wooded, upscale houses, my two quarters in my pocket and then, CHRONICLE under one arm, faux-butter spray in my hand, I walk through the glass doors like gates to paradise, down the aisle to my usual place at the end of the counter. The waitresses are standing in a little group, talking like the maids in “Upstairs, Downstairs”. When I first came, months ago, they were deferentially anonymous in their black pants and white shirts, serving me my perfect breakfast perfectly, careful to leave intact my cultivated self-image: mysterious writer, detached observer, too important to be disturbed, but throwing out “thank yous” and polite, mildly personal questions like handkerchiefs dropped by royalty. Ah, that was a breakfast to remember! Over the weeks their personalities began to emerge until now, in the little Noh drama, the little tea ceremony between us, I sometimes see them as rebellious natives and catch myself wishing for a general who could restore order. These days I always wait until they’ve finished their conversation. Today, the one who “has” me and the other counter customers brought me a only a small water with a few paltry cubes of ice, though I must say she remembered my order, as most of them do now that I’m a “regular”. Her mind was on her conversation with Lady, tall and looking well-bred, whom I think I heard telling someone it’s her last day— whose family’s just bought a home— I couldn’t hear where— and has just learned the fine print in their contract says they also have to buy Homeowner's Insurance. Lady’s name in my mind is Blanche, wife of an evicted plantation owner, who had to get her delicate hands dirty and go back to work. I’ve always been too shy to ask how it was they lost their fortune. A guy slides in two seats away at the counter, looks mischievously at the server carrying a big tray over to a table, and shouts, “I get a better waitress over here! ” His voice has that tone of familiarity used by the contractors and construction workers who come every morning, that I, the “studious son” in this big family, don’t know how to access. I get out my glasses, put my fake butter on the table, and start to read. The eggs, oatmeal and coffee are still the perfect start of a day, veritable works of visual and culinary art, but now as I eat it’s not like it once was — I’m in a fallen world. Everyone knows I’m just a poor guy trying to buy a mirror that will reflect him back the way he wants to see himself, and I’m wondering as I read whether I’m still getting enough pleasure here or whether it might be time to start the whole charade over again, someplace else. (...01july7)