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The most important thing these days is getting a free breakfast.  If it means paying money for it, so be it.

 Every time I walk over to Murray’s Café on 4^th Street and offer a hurried good-morning wave to Jenny, who, truth be told, has a bowling average of 155, maybe 165, depending on her mood, while slipping into my favorite window seat, she will eventually sashay over and talk a little bit about her kids and her no-good-for-nothing husband and of course her bowling, and once that’s out of the way, she’ll ask me what I would like when she knows damn well what I would like because I’ve been coming to Murray’s for as long as I can remember and she knows that but that’s her mood today—with her bowling average having dropped over the weekend to 148—and so I shrug, saying, “The usual.” And that’s when she’ll take the yellow pencil that is neatly tucked behind her ear and write ‘the usual’ on one of those waitress notepads that she’s always carrying around because she isn’t afraid to admit that “My memory isn’t what it used to be.  Know what I mean? Not the same.” By the way, when I first met Jenny all those years ago, she introduced herself as “your server.  I’ll be your server today.”  I remember giving this some mild consideration before saying, “You mean waitress?”  That’s when she angrily schooled me on the new rules when it comes to restaurants and who’s who when it comes to serving. “And don’t you forget it.”  But that was way back then, when I didn’t know any better.  In the end, Jenny will take her sweet time going into the back room where all the serious cooking is done to make my usual.  But that’s when it becomes even more complicated because when she emerges with my usual, Dr. Morgan is sitting at Table Number 2, under the no smoking sign, and she has no choice but to stop and chitchat with him, while my bacon, toast and coffee is being waved around in her server hand.

Dr. Morgan, who is always stopping by the café for a quick cup of coffee and maybe one of their special cinnamon rolls—that is more roll than cinnamon—is all about being an important surgeon; more than once I’ve seen him turn to whomever is sitting at Table Number 3, and declare, “I am a busy surgeon, you know. Busy and important. In fact, after this last cup of coffee,” taking a quick sip, “I’m off to the hospital.”  Although I almost never sit at Table 3, he’s done that to me many times, and my response is always the same: “Is that so?”  I can tell that he finds this kind of café smart-alecky backtalk irritating, even disrespectful, because he will angrily counter with, “Yes, that is so.”  Finally, Jenny finds the time to break free of Dr. Morgan and bring my toast, bacon and coffee to me on one of those too-big breakfast plates.  I say, “Thanks,” and she says, “Sure.”  Which means we’re both not entirely happy.

 By now, with other people slowly filtering in, and Dr. Morgan looking for someone to hear all about his importance, I have finished with the newspaper that, as usual, is all about a long list of unhappiness, cluttered with tales of death and dying, and with a sigh I leave it folded neatly on the tabletop of Table 5 and remove from my wallet the special Free Breakfast @ Murray’s Café card, placing it squarely on the table. It is now Jenny’s job as server to take that little rubber stamp of hers that she carries in her server pocket and stamp one of the boxes because once the five boxes are righteously stamped purple, I then can get a free breakfast. If Jenny forgets to stamp my card, which, once again, depends upon her mood and her weekly bowling average, I have no choice but to become loud, asking her to please, “Wait. Come back.  Haven’t you forgotten something?” And if for some reason that doesn’t work—she is too busy to hear me, decides not to hear me, hasn’t forgotten that I called her waitress all those years ago, is mesmerized by Dr. Morgan’s importance—I am forced to say something like “Where’s the manager?”  Of course, Jenny is a kind of manager when the manager is not around, but I didn’t discover that until much later.  In short, it can easily turn into a sad, unhappy-customer scene but well worth it if by the end of the week I get my free breakfast.  What’s a free breakfast? Two strips of bacon, crispy, two slices of wheat toast, along with butter and jam squeezed into those tiny paper containers and a cup of coffee, with free refills.  I know, but free is free, and I will gladly pay what amounts to $21.44 Monday through Friday to get a free breakfast Saturday morning.  In the grand scheme of things, this makes perfectly good sense to me. 

Meanwhile, because Jenny has stamped my Free Breakfast card and I am about to leave, and I tell her so, “Jenny, I’m leaving now”, Dr. Morgan is suddenly at my table, by my side, bending over to say in a soft bedside whisper, “You know, before you leave, have I told you I’m an important surgeon?  In fact, I’m late for surgery right now, as we speak. What do you think of that, young man?”   These last two sentences are new, and I find myself nodding before saying, “Is that so?”

Like always, this makes him stand up straighter, taller before he bends over one last time, hissing, “Yes, that is so.”