“Whose drunken bicycle is that outside?” Patti asked as she entered the door marked “Exit Only” now in multiple languages at the Breakfast Club.
She was smiling at me.
I pointed down the counter. “That would that drunk right there,” I answered.
She turned and, sure enough, there he was wobbling on a stool at 6:50 in the morning; un-kept blond hair, half-closed eyes and smelling of alcohol. He was sitting very close to the grill which had me worried…the whole place could go up in flames in a Nano-second.
Patti winced and said “Ouch!”
It’s Whitley’s bicycle’s fault. A couple of weeks ago at the Marlyn Monroe’s oyster roast his bike got wasted and got Whitley wasted too. I had to take both of them home in my car though they only live 3 blocks away. Nevertheless, Whitley’s bicycle has already had a tremendous negative influence on the island’s other bicycles. This is the latest example!
“Can I have a cigarette?” the blond wobbly boy asked.
“Stop mooching off my employees!” Jodee commanded as he pulled an egg beater affixed to a rubber tube, hanging from the ceiling and began to beat eggs.
I had a hard time deciding what I wanted to watch; wobbly blond boy or Jodee trying out his latest invention? You can easily lapse into sensory overload at the Breakfast Club!
Through I was only gone for two days, strange things have occurred at the Club in that time.
First of all, Phil has taken to wearing rubber gloves as he makes toast, puts pickles on plates, and butters English muffins. I assumed he was merely combining his lifelong dream of becoming a Proctologist with his love of cooking.
Then there are the hairnets! They appeared overnight and beg a very deep question. “Why do men with shaved heads wear hair nets?” I can’t figure it out.
Finally, I understand that a new dry-erase board will be installed at the end of the counter so that Franklin, who is brown, can write down the time that a dozen eggs are pulled out the walk-in cooler. This is so that customers, most of do not sit within view of the end of the counter, will know that the eggs have not just been sitting all day becoming chickens.
Now if you’ve been to the Breakfast Club, you know that they cook a lot of eggs! Crates each hour! Franklin, who is brown, is also responsible for getting everything ready for the cooks so that they can … well … cook! I think that he can write so maybe this announcement of the abortion of a dozen eggs will be meaningful to some.
But if Franklin, who is brown, will have to stop prepping every time a soon to be aborted egg comes out of the walk-in cooler then production is going to be significantly reduced and the lines at the Breakfast Club are going to get longer and then Tybee Parking Services will have to get involved and they are Nazis.
“So,” I ask in my never ending role as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club, “who thought of all of these bright ideas?”
“Health Department,” I am told.
“Hmm,” I reply. I have lots of good friends at the Health Department. Most are really good people. A couple are the dearest of friends.
“Really” I ask?
“Yeah,” I am told, “this guy with a clipboard comes in and walks around telling what is wrong and how to fix it. He just gives orders. We can’t talk to him. Then throws out scores and tells us that it better be fixed time he comes in. Then he leaves and goes and does it at another restaurant.”
“Sounds like Parking Services,” I muse. “Does he wear a hair net and rubber gloves?” I ask.
Blond, wobbly boy stands up and wobbles.
He had ordered an egg, cheese and bacon on a toasted English muffin. As I watched them prepare it … well…it suddenly seemed like NASA space experiment. Nobody could touch anything. The Chefs put on body condoms. Franklin, who is brown, was trying to write the time every time an egg came out of the walk-in cooler which was every 7 seconds.
Somehow they did it.
I was exhausted!
And I couldn’t imagine how much more protection we can stand. Government has turned into Nanies. I mean I understand that restaurants should be held to the highest of standards as they serve the public but … some of this stuff is ridiculous.
“Would you like a lid with your To-go coffee sir,” Daniel asked drunken, blond wobbly boy?
“No thanks,” he wobbled back. “I’m on a bicycle.”
And as I left, I couldn’t help but think that there is something strangely similar to both lines of logic.
