I Would Like To Be Scrambled

The waitresses at Mel’s must be tired all the time. I know none of them actually work a 24-hour shift, but that’s the vibe they give off — like each one is on her third Adderall and perpetually waiting for the next smoke break.

I am scratching out words when a waitress comes over and stands across the counter from me. Her hair is in a saggy, feral bun and her collar is smeared with whipped cream from [what I assume is] someone’s pecan pie. “What can I get you, sugar plum?” she asks. “Just coffee for now,” I say. If she says anything else, I don’t hear it because I’ve already shoved in my earbuds. To my left are four boys in various styles of gym short tucked away in a booth. I choose the one I’d fuck if ever given the opportunity: the one with the slicked back hair who looks like a kid I taught when I was in grad school — before dropping out to focus on my career. This boy, he reminds me of a forgettable student with an unforgettable face and a swagger that put the other students at ease, but put me on edge.

My class was an introductory copywriting course, and none of the students had a gift for it. This should have frustrated me, but it didn’t because I mentality checked-out of my teacher role and began planning my dropout strategy after the second week. But until I could execute it, I went to class, did my best to appear engaged, and then I would go home and jack off — sometimes thinking about one of the boys from class. And the guy sitting in the booth over there; he’s a dead ringer for one of the guys I’d use to cum — alone in my room at four in the afternoon.

He and his friends are close enough for me to eavesdrop, but I’ve still got my earbuds in and I’m enjoying the same Wild Ones album that I’ve had on a loop all day. Plus, I really don’t give a shit what they’re talking about. They don’t look vile enough to discuss pussy in public, but I’m sure their conversation isn’t too far from debating a BuzzFeed article.

“Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” says the waitress from over her shoulder as she slides a heaping mound of thick-cut onion rings onto a tray with a bacon cheeseburger and an order of biscuits and gravy. I tug out an earbud for courtesy’s sake. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll take Cake and Eggs, scrambled with salsa on the side.” “Hot or cold?” she asks. I don’t understand the question. She can see on my face that I don’t understand the question. “The salsa, boo,” she says. I’ve never been given this option before. “Oh. Um. Hot. No. Wait. Cold.” She grins and snaps back around before popping something into the microwave and slamming the door. Part of me wishes she’d ask what I’m writing, but then I’d have to lie because I don’t want her to know it’s about her. And about the guy over there who looks like another guy. And eventually, about me.

I don’t really want her to know that I’m here — at 1:58AM on a Wednesday because I’m having a hard time and I’m trying to make myself feel less panicked by writing — because I’m supposed to be a writer and this is supposed to make me feel purposeful. But I’m not sure it does. And [worse] I’m not sure it ever has.

More onion rings. Nachos Supreme. And then my Cake and Eggs. She sets the plate down and part of me wishes she’d compliment my notebook. But then I’d have to lie because I don’t want her to know the last time I wrote in this notebook was three years ago when I brought it with me to Alaska. I don’t want to see her embarrassed face after I tell her I remember Alaska so vividly because I was genuinely happy for several consecutive days — and that’s rare for me. She doesn’t really need to know that I cling to moments of true happiness because I never know if I’ll see another. I don’t want to scare her when I say, “People who claim to have no regrets make me want to vomit.” And that I’m sitting here with my short stack, and scrambled eggs, and bacon, and hot salsa, and cold coffee because I need to feel something besides small, and antsy, and misunderstood, and shipwrecked.

The boys from the booth are paying their bill at the register now, so I lean back to scope out my guy’s ass. Not bad.

I flip the pages backwards and read the last thing I wrote before this; the last Alaska entry. At the bottom of the page, it reads, “You don’t love Caleb.” Caleb was a dancer on the cruise ship with whom I briefly fell in love. This last line is a nice reminder that I am often wrong. I smile to myself and think, Fuck me, could I be anymore self-loathing right now?

It’s 2:36AM and Mel’s is packed with customers in various stages of drunk. My waitress — I didn’t even catch her name — shuttles hash browns and patty melts above her head and people flag her down for ketchup bottles and extra creamer. I think about a line from Amy Hempel’s short story Jesus Is Waiting. A traveling, lovelorn narrator says, "I would like to be scrambled and served with sausages at an all-night diner.” You and me both, sugar plum.

My waitress swoops by and trades my dirty plate for a handwritten bill for $6.70. I’m tempted to write “Thanks for not asking any questions” on the back, but instead, I just slip a folded twenty under the coffee mug before slipping myself past the drunk, joyful customers and into the night like I was never even there — a ghost with nowhere else to haunt.