Breakfast With Epiphanies

One


Jackson George, a

Devoted RTVMP slacker,

Part-time Finley hacker

And Smith Center enthusiast,

Frequented the Red Carpet Dance Club.
And as the song still goes:

He loved the night life

And just had to boogie.

One of those wired nights

Soared, then faded toward

Déjà vu denouement,

When the After Burn Faction, 

A Who’s Who of regional

Substance users & abusers,

Finally let the evening go.

Some of those still standing

Crossed the street and waited

For a light fare drive-thru 

To unleash its cinnamon cheer —

The perfect punctuation mark

For pulling the plug

On what had become

A clogged drain.

But the neon sign never flashed.

A self-appointed soiree scout 

Spotted a message scrawled 

Upon a jagged, yellow sheet
Torn from a legal pad

And taped to 

The service window.
The author had employed

A weathered Sharpie

To announce that 

Dawn thru dusk would not

Occur at Sunrise Biscuits

Until further notice —

Due to family issues.

Hideous howls erupted 

From the throng of

Nocturnal, sharp-toothed creatures

Ready to feed

But shunned at the gate.
Those with vehicles

Motored off into the haze

To locate, then absorb 

Massive amounts
Of grease and carbos.

Carless, Jackson George

Trudged along the sidewalk

Toward the center of town,

And in his vague, yet electric state,

Observed what appeared to be

A mammoth orange sphere

Hugging the tree line.

By the time he’d wandered

Into Morehead Planetarium’s lot.

The day’s first shadows

Had brightened the dial’s 

Peaceful, sleeping face.

Nearby, schools of journalism and

Dramatic art (pre-CDA)

Stood silent, as did Sam,

Perched within spitting

Distance of Franklin Street.

Jackson George ambled

Out of the parking area,

Took a right turn

In front of Graham Memorial,

And veered toward 

Ye Olde Waffle Shoppe

On the north side of

East Franklin.

He pondered which omelet

To consume and

If it would contain

Bacon or sausage. 

Or both.

Drooling ever so

Slightly, he wondered

If he had enough cash

For a side of pancakes,
Perhaps hash browns as well.

When Jackson’s left hand

Reached into the back pocket

Of his silver bell bottoms

To gauge his cash status,
He pulled to a quick halt

Midway across the street.

Jackson, frantic and edgy,

Failed to notice an oncoming

Wine-colored,

Four-door Fiat,

Which dodged him,

Tooted its anemic Euro horn,

And scampered through

The just-turned red traffic light.

The Fiat’s driver,

A dental hygienist,

Headed home to shower

And change into church clothes — 

She’d spent the night in Carrboro

With her new boyfriend, 

A second-year law student at UNC.
She gazed in her rear view

At the long-haired spectacle

In the middle of Franklin Street

Checking and rechecking

Each of the empty compartments

In his grimy, ripped pants

And guessed that 

The hippie’s wallet

Was someplace else.

Two

Sunday mornings meant

Extra syrup and panic

At Ye Olde Waffle Shoppe,

Which opened at 7 a.m., 

And yet that fact 

Never curbed 

A staggering array 

Of vampire somnambulists,

Tweakers and creakers,

Some in shorts,

Others in sneakers,

From forming a pre-dawn line 

That stretched down Franklin Street

Past the post office 

When it was still a post office.

Sundays also dictated

That Lee Ann Harris, 

A recent Shoppe hire,

Summon a spasm of wisdom 

She’d noticed scrawled

On the side of a VW bus,
“Like, lighten up, dude.”

It was widely understood
That Shoppe staff maintain
The balmy side of calm

When the early horde

Thundered inside the cafe,

Crammed into the counter seats

In front of the service window,

And blasted the tiny space

With hurricane strength stench

Of sweat, stale Bud and Merit Gold’s.

One Shoppe regular, 

A poly sci major/part-time wag,

Suggested an outdoor shower 

With a hose,

The kind you’d find 

At a public swimming pool,

Needed to be installed

In front of the restaurant.
While it was not, 

In theory, 

An altogether bad idea,

Shoppe management 

Scoffed at the suggestion

Of forced hygiene. 

Cash was king. 

YOWS existed as a cafe,

Not a holistic therapy center 

Spreading gospel about

Body odor and benefits of

Irish Spring and Right Guard.

In many ways,
Sunday had replaced 

The word ordeal

For the Shoppe crew,

But no one dared

Missing the threat of more tips.

So they took 

The maybe good 

With an almost certain bad.

After a couple of months

Some of those Sunday faces

Featured names, in addition

To unique, repetitive, 

And desperate habits.

One of the deadbeats

Paid only in change.

A real charmer, cause

He was always short 

On the bill, always.

Instead of leaving a tip,

He cost everyone 

Who served him.
And yet this punk 

Had never been banned.
What was up with that?

On the other side 

Of that Sunday coin,

Two women in their 40s

Dressed in black —

Addams Family meets Dracula —

Ordered French toast and herbal tea,

Then read Chinese out loud 

From a leather-bound book
That had to weigh 15 pounds.

Two months is an eight-day week

Of Sundays, and in that span of time,

As she calmed down a bit and

Evolved a bit more to the task,

Lee Ann anticipated seeing

One Sunday regular, in particular,
Jackson something. 

A guy with

Two first names

He’d mumbled

The first time they met,

That weird morning

When a bearded guy with a black lab pup

Pulled a knife out of his boot

And went after

Two frat brothers

Who’d taunted

His four-legged companion.

All sorts of shit happened.

That was a scene.

Hard to let go?

Is that a trick question?

“A lot of those boys

Are still tripping,” 

Ethel Simpson, her trainer,

Had shared 

On her first Shoppe Sunday.
Ethel stared off 

Into the void,

Maybe elsewhere,

From time to time.

So Lee Ann

Figured Ethel knew 

What she was talking about.

Then Ethel got busted 

For selling black beauties

To an undercover cop

At He’s Not Here,
And YOWS promoted

Lee Ann to her station.

Easy come.

Then they go.

Jimbo Tompkins

Arrived during Lee Ann’s

Eighth Sunday at the Shoppe.
He’d been out all night

With his poker buddies,

Or so he said.
Lee Ann suspected Jimbo

Might be working 

More on the “stud” aspect, 

Then the 5- or 7-card.
Good luck with that, chief.

They’d lived together

For a couple of months,

She’d moved in the week

After getting the Shoppe gig,

And, to tell you the truth,

Nothing about it made sense.

“Yo, Lee Ann,”

Jimbo said, when

He eased into the café.

And she knew

Right off 

That awkward news

Had found the building. 

Jimbo never

Used both of her names

Unless he was serious.
He called her Lee Baby,

When he needed to borrow money
And Annie when he wanted 

Her to take off her clothes.

“I’m going to Florida,”

Jimbo said, glancing at the menu,

Wondering if Lee Baby

Could score a comped

Scrambled Egg & Bacon Platter

With a side of tomatoes.

Lee Ann poured coffee

Into the cup 

In front of Jimbo, 

Who needed focus,

Listerine,

And BC powder,

In no particular order.

She happened to glance
Out the window
And saw that guy, 

Jackson Something,
Almost get maimed

By a small import.
Might have been a Saab. 

Or a Fix It Again Tony.
Fuck a Fiat was Lee Ann’s mantra.

The vehicle passed from view,

Leaving that guy 

In the middle of Franklin Street,

Standing still in traffic, 

Checking his pockets

Over and over

Like he’d lost something,

“Hey!”

Lee Ann turned 

In the direction of the sound,
Jimbo repeated himself.

“Hey!”
Lee Ann braced for the bullshit,

But before it could start,
Jimbo coughed,

And spat out
Some of the Maxwell House sludge

That’d just burned his tongue.
“I’m not coming back. 

Here are my keys.

The place is now yours.”

Just as Lee Ann was about 

To ask about the lease,
Jimbo added that he wouldn’t

Turn down some breakfast.

“I don’t suppose you would,”
Lee Ann said.

Ricardo, the YOWS manager,

Barked from the kitchen,

“Order up, Lee Ann. 

Get your head out

Of your ass!”

Who knows why

We do what we do

At a certain time.
Why sometimes

We let shit slide

And sometimes

We just can’t.

In Lee Ann’s case,
She’d gotten 

Pretty fucking 

Tired of Ricardo,

Who never actually

Said out loud

What he wanted

But it was pretty

Easy to tell. 

Always leering,

Staring at girls

When they walked away.
Rolling his eyes,

Winking for no fucking reason.
Also, Ricardo rubbed shoulders

As he gave pats on the ass,

Like a coach.
But he wasn’t a leader,

He was a perv.

And how old

Was he?

Whatever.

On that Sunday,

With Jimbo flaking out,

Ricardo and his shit

Came ‘round at the wrong time.

Pissed her off.

Big time.
Lee Ann grabbed 

An empty mug

And threw it 

Through the service window;

It smashed into several pieces

When it hit the back wall.

“What the fuck!”

Ricardo hissed.

But before 

He could downgrade

Lee Ann’s employment status to zero,

She thwacked Jimbo 

With a plate of poached eggs and hash browns —

That order that Ricardo had mentioned —

Then, gave them both the finger

As she marched outside 

Into the morning sun.

Three

Jackson George,

Halfway across Franklin Street,

Dodged a burgundy Fiat

At the last possible moment.
He caught a glimpse 

Of the driver,

A cutie with sunglasses

And almost gave her the finger

Before acknowledging

That he’d stood

In the middle

Of the street

Like a nervous statue

In heavy traffic

While searching

For his damn wallet.

Where the fuck

Was it?

He traced 

What steps

He could recall.

It had been a long night.

Ah ha.

His mind’s 

film camera

Zoomed under a couch

In the living room

Of an apartment

At Kings Arms,

Which had hosted

The Red Carpet

“After Party”

As it had done

Many times

That spring.

During the late night soiree,

Jackson had 

Stumbled into the

Company of a legal secretary

From Henderson

Named Dale,

Who gave 

The definition of

Eager and willing

A brand new address.

Things had just

Moved into a promising gear

When Dale’s ride,

A skanky sort

With dirty blonde hair

And a muscle car

Screeched in a nasal

Chalk scratching a blackboard tone

That it was time to go.

“Hang on,”

Jackson muttered,

As the two women

Argued about

Having to go to work

In just a few hours,

Trudging

Out the door.

He shimmied back

Into his bell bottoms

And made it outside

In time

To witness 

A white Camarro

Lurch into

The  mist.

As it happened,

A battered volkswagon

Puttered toward him.
It was Woodie, 

A Red Carpet bartender.

Woody rolled down his window.

“Hungry? 

Got enough

Gas to get to Sunrise.”

Sure enough,

The VW coughed and sputtered

To a stop

About 200 yards short.

Jackon helped

Woody push

The vehicle 

Into the Red Carpet lot,

Which no one would use

Until at least noon.

Jackson had 

Joined the other

Carpet regulars

Outside the biscuit oasis

Before learning

The unexpected

Tantrum-inducing news

That the place

Was closed for a while.

Still in the middle 

Of Franklin Street

All of those

Images

Flashed in his mind

As he waited

For the slowest

Ford truck

On the planet

To pass.

Then,

He crossed

the street and

Aimed 

Toward

Ye Olde Waffle Shop,

When a young woman

Burst through the door

And yelled something

Back into the restaurant

Before allowing

The door to slam.

She glanced

At Jackson

And shook 

Her head.

What the fuck?

Thought Jackson.
What did I do?

Then he realized

It was a Dr.John moment —
Wrong place

At the wrong time.

Jackson took

Almost an hour

To walk back

To Kings Arms.

He had

To bang on the door

A few times

Before someone

He vaguely knew

Opened the door.

“Left my wallet,”

Jackson said,

Indicating

He wanted to

Go inside and retrieve it.

“Why did you do that?”

Jackson wondered

What kind of moron

Would ask, but decided

That question could wait.

“Well, I met

Someone. We hit

It off.
We were about

To totally connect

But we were distracted.”

All true, too.

Took a few moments

For Jackson

To actually

Get his hands on the wallet

As it had been shoved

Under the couch,

Perhaps by a passionate

Leg or arm.

He had 8 bucks

All in ones.

It had been

Almost three days

Since he’d been 

Near his rat hole

Of an apartment

On Clark Street.

After three

Scoreboard hot dogs

With chili and onions,

And a tall Schlitz,

Jackson went home

And checked his mailbox.

There was a letter

From the 

Orange County

Draft Board.

This can’t 

Be good.

Bingo.

An invitation

Jackson

Could not 

Refuse:

He was to report

In Hillsborough

At 6:30 a.m.

And then be

Bussed to Raleigh

For his physical and mental evaluation

That would determine

If or when
He was

To serve 

In the army —

In other words

Go to

Vietnam.

He recalled

A Credence Clearwater Revival line:

“And they point the cannon

Right at you.”

Then, Hendrix

Took over.

“Manic depression’s

Touching my soul.

I know what I want.
But I just don’t know

How to go about getting it.”