Billy DiRienzo
October 24th, 2009
The Last Cowboy Western
There’s a level of tedium in breaking eggs that not even the keenest housewife has ever experienced. It may take three eggs to make an omelette, but by working at an establishment that serves breakfast until 11:30, my egg-breaking figures hit triple digits. With my clinically-accurate (and OSHA-compliant) touch, most of these eggs spill out onto the griddle to cook over easy. It’s the classic breakfast favorite, served with your choice of hash browns or home fries and two slices of toast sliced diagonally and saturated with butter. It’s a breakfast I used to enjoy until I started working at Brophy’s. Even back in high school when I was just washing dishes here, I couldn’t accept the complimentary employee breakfast anymore after my 2nd week. The food around you loses all palatability after you’re immersed in it for all 8 hours of your shift. Fresh-brewed coffee is noxious; even the smell of French Toast loses its novelty after overexposure.
I’ve been working here for nearly a decade now. The other cook on today’s shift, Mikey, was around the corner, behind our undersized kitchen, smoking a cigarette in the propped-open doorway. He blew his smoke outside when he felt someone’s eyes on him, but most of the time he just exhaled where he stood.
Don’t let that divert you from eating here though, there’s a guy like Mikey at every restaurant in the business. Even at that steak place you feel good about taking your wife and kid to on that special occasion... there’s a guy smoking a cigarette in the same room that your mushroom-garnished, medium-rare porterhouse steak is being prepared in.
Today began like most days at Brophy’s did, with the exception of a post-it note tacked to the wall opposite the kitchen’s swinging door. It read: “Push eggs today, overstocked.” Notes like this one took me back to my days as a waiter, cleverly trying to emphasize the deliciousness of the bacon as it approached its expiration date. I’d call it nostalgia, but these aren’t fond memories. Nothing here was purely pleasant or negative, work was monotonous but neutral. These are the terms I came to accept. I didn’t hate my job, I didn’t hate my co-workers, I didn’t even hate eggs all that much (though I hadn’t tasted one in months). Life was copacetic.
And in my brief reflection during the downtime before our morning crowd, I thought about that last part a bit. And suddenly my hunger kicked in. I had a craving for eggs. Not just eggs, but an omelette. A fluffy golden omelette impregnated with a handful of pre-diced ham and green bell peppers onions, and cheese. Most restaurants call this a Western omelette. IHOP calls this a Colorado omelette. But here at Brophy’s this is referred to as an Aspen Omelette. Chalk that one up to innovation I suppose. I picked up and greased one of the pans from the griddle and eased my colorful mixture around to evenly distribute the vegetables. Being the first thing cooked today, it served to fill the room back up with that familiar haze. I started to regret my breakfast decision and cursed under my breath. The batter sizzled in response.
“Flop two, whiskey down, spike on an oval,” exclaimed the youthful waiter as he poked his head through the swinging door. He must have been a new guy excited to use the lingo. I nodded as I lightly sprayed the griddle and cracked two eggs onto its surface. They hissed with delight. Without even looking, I twisted the temperature knob on the side burner to high and flipped my Aspen. With a crackle from the omelette, I retrieved a bag of frozen hash browns from the freezer. to throw on. It was so routine.
It was about a half hour after eating on the job today that I realized I had food poisoning and minutes later when I knew I was going to throw up. With the brevity of a man in need of a bathroom, I told Mikey I was sick,
“Sick of what, working here?”
“The eggs,” That was all I could force my mouth open to say before swallowing and clenching my throat again.
“I mean, you’ve been here for like what... your whole life?”
The moment my hand touched the swinging door, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom. My time-pressed logic convinced me not to get sick in the kitchen. I started visibly gagging right as I passed the booths and gagged again as I passed a family waiting to be seated. As I drifted through the front door I felt the relief of fresh air and the feeling subsided. I then hurried to my car.
I turned the key in the ignition of my hand-me-down Saab 900 and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main drag. First intersection, red light; I was in the middle of the morning traffic. The forward-moving momentum stopped and the fury inside my stomach returned tenfold. As the light turned green, I wrestled for the window crank, but it was too late. My throat swelled and an uprising of bile made itself known to my mouth. Instinct took the wheel as my sickness surged. I groaned and felt myself wretch something awful. My vomit splattered on the side window, mushy undigested hunks of cubed ham fell onto the floor as the runny, yolk-like emesis crept into the ridge between the window and my door. The view outside was sepia-tinged.
I needed to pull over, but had to fight my body to do so. I drifted over to the shoulder without a turn-signal and with my head now resting against the steering wheel, starting braking. That’s when a thunderous BANG came about, followed by a hollow clang. For a brief moment, my sickness went on hiatus as I brought the car to a complete stop.
After composing myself (and filling a Stop & Shop plastic bag full of post-processed omelette) I stepped out to inspect my situation. There, next to the dented and hanging front bumper of my car sat a black microwave, completely unscathed. My language was as colorful as the Aspen-covered window. The fucking food industry. After kicking the microwave aside, I went to my trunk to fetch a wrench from my roadside tool kit to pull the dangling bumper off. Down on my knees, I no longer felt the horrible urge to turn inside out. In fact, this change from routine was strangely pleasant. I smiled as I worked to remove the damaged part. Working on the car was much more satisfying than making breakfast for strangers. I had been unfulfilled at Brophy’s for far too long,
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