his is a Note from yesterday, re-written. The original had too many mentions of "I". They are all gone, now, every one of them. The piece is now third-person, very close.
The Omelet House is Old Las Vegas.
The surrounding neighborhood is residential and professional. Lawyers to the left, doctors to the right. Old money in big piles behind the high walls of the Scotch Eighties, old money in smaller piles on the adjacent square miles.
Sited middlin' within the city limits in the Sixties half of a cozy strip mall, the place closes in the mid-afternoon. Omelets, not omelettes. Not quiche, not shallowly disdaining quiche. It use to be on the menu, among more savory choices, maybe still is.
A single diner takes his seat with a trade paperback, Kipling's first Jungle Book. It needs a few minutes to turn up a fluffy tasty egg meal. The Bugsy Siegel, of Italian roast beef, mozzarella and sour cream, is death on a plate, and the way to go if we must. Order by number, sixteen, like you've been here a few times.
The waiter expresses polite interest. No, he's only seen the movie. One of them. It is not a strange thing in this homey place to read aloud from a beguiling classic.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
Found revered in a fairy tale and the Fourth Amendment, the ideal is rightly called universal.
The waiter is single. He has two nieces. He accepts the book, to read to them at bedtime. It's a separate transaction, he is paid a fair cash tip. Then it's off to the bookstore for another carry-with copy. Hardbound, the Collected Works stay on the shelf, safe at home.
Feed the zeitgeist.