BREAKFAST
Every morning, my run leads me west. As I stride toward the ocean, I pass a series of local breakfast retailers, a couple doughnut shops— Chen’s being the best—and three or four fast-food restaurants. The smell of fake food heating up in microwaves and days-old cooking oil triggers my gag reflex. My constricted pharynx urges my feet to move faster, to get us out of here. As my feet obey, a pleasant smell hits my olfactory nerve, the sweet scent of Burger King French toast sticks.
As I distance myself from the ala carte of smells, I think back to the last time I ate breakfast at Burger King. I remember Bill.
I hadn’t thought of Bill in years. Now here he was, rising from my subconscious’s cellar to the forefront of my mind. Bill’s smell of Old Spice cologne overtook the scent of rancid oils. Bill, with his black Buddy Holly glasses sitting on the ridge of his sharp nose and his nut-brown hair only kind of brushed, parted to one side, wearing a dorky button-up shirt that made him seem goofier than masculine.
Suddenly, I’m an eleven-year-old again. And Bill is Bill.
…
I sat staring at my French toast sticks; Bill sat across from me, his black coffee cupped between his hands.
My fifth-grade math teacher’s Styrofoam cup buzzed with irritation as he tapped the coffee container with alternating thumbs. Today was the last day of the school year, which meant that this was also our final pre-school breakfast together. Next year, I would move up to middle school, and a new fifth grader would take my place. I was sure of it. But even if I wasn’t replaced, I sensed Mama was getting anxious. A restless Mama invariably resulted in us fleeing. I’d be lucky if we stayed in town through Summer. I knew this was my last breakfast with Bill. When I finished my food, we were done.
Bill broke the silence, “I thought you hated when they got cold.” He reached across the table and poked one of my lukewarm French toast sticks.
“I do.”
Bill was correct, I hate eating cold food meant to be warm, but I wasn’t about to budge. I pushed my tray, sticks and all, away.
“If you aren’t hungry, you shouldn’t have ordered food,” he retorted. “A lot of kids would be grateful to have someone like me buy them a warm breakfast.”
Bill was a master at using the power of suggestion to make me comply.
“Sorry. I am hungry.” I slid my tray back toward me, picked up a French toast stick, and twirled it in the tiny plastic syrup container, attempting to stall. Bill gave a look–the look. I took a bite. Luckily, the center was still warm. I dipped the breaded dough back in the sweet elixir and began twirling, continuing to stall.
“Hey, look.” I lifted my eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry.” Bill sounded sincere. I held his gaze.
“Billy, I’m sorry things haven’t turned out the way you wanted. I was never going to love your mom. I don’t know what you expected. Did you really think I would ride off with your mom on a horse into the sunset or something? That’s never going to happen. I am never going to love your mother.”
I dropped the French toast stick, appalled. What a blind piece of shit. I never wanted Bill to love Mama. I only wanted him to love me like a son. I only wanted him to teach me how to be a man.
…
But Bill wasn’t a man. He was something else. A man wouldn’t do the things he did. Eleven-year-old me couldn’t accept Bill for who he really was.
The memory of Bill hollowed my abdomen and slowed my pace. I sip a deep inhale through my nose. As I exhale, I whisper a reminder to little Billy; I got you, Dude. Keep Running.
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