F
IRST PLACE
Breakfast Special By Ever Flanigan
“Breakfast Special—$2.99.” The price was appealing and I approached the diner’s glass door with three days’ hunger in my gut. My first meal in western Pennsylvania promised to be small and bland. After all, what are you going to get for three bucks? It would be filling and that’s all I cared about. The 1,200-mile drive it had taken to get there was hampered by December’s predictably poor weather. And the traffic that comes with it. I had trouble finding the motel and didn’t get checked in until after midnight. With five hours sleep I wandered out into the cold darkness and crossed the parking lot toward the only light I could see. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was all the people taking notice of me. Clearly it was a local joint, which I thought odd, considering its proximity to an outof-the-way motor lodge. The
door had barely closed behind me when I looked across the counter and saw the potatoes. The mountain of semi-frozen spud chips occupying more than half the griddle was, well, a little scary. There were still ice crystals on the outside, and the bottom edge was nearly burnt. The situation was being tended to by a slightly awake man wearing an apron that was likely once white. His squinted eyes worked hard to stay focused. He gazed past his nose and beyond a stack of ashes that only resembled a cigarette. It barely stuck to his bottom lip. I never even saw him take a drag. Great. I hoped the toast was edible. The waitress, a ringer for Rosanne Barr (minus the smile), followed me to a table
in the far corner with a full cup plus saucer. I guess everyone got coffee, whether they wanted it or not. Something told me I would need it. She was armed with pencil and pad before I even picked up the menu. Her name tag said “Jolie.” “One Special?” she asked with a measurable amount of certainty. “What’s the Special?” I asked. “Two eggs, potatoes, bacon, toast, and coffee,” she said with a sigh. “O.K.—but no potatoes.” I could still see the griddle and the back of the barely awake cook. “Take the potatoes,” she said. She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t want the potatoes.” Polite, but firm. “Take the potatoes.” She waved her pencil and pad with separate hands in a gentle gesture of desperation. “I’ve seen the potatoes. I don’t want them on my plate.” I hadn’t even had a sip of coffee and already I could feel my blood. She sighed and walked away. The food was better than I had expected. Maybe it was just my hunger, but my belly felt good. I got up and approached the register. “That’ll be $7.32” said Jolie. “But I had the Special. $2.99.” I replied. “You had two eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. $7.32. I told you to take the potatoes.”
chattanoogapulse.com • July 17-23, 2014 • The Pulse • 9