Day 69: Breakfast at Wild Fork

Another day in Dan's Season In the Sun

approximately 1000 words

         

"La Patte de Desie" 

Day 69

Breakfast at Wild Fork


         

         The cleaning crew came early on Thursdays, so Dan had formed the habit of taking breakfast at the Wild Fork in Utica Square on those days. This morning, he sat at a table in the patio.  A closed file folder rested on the table next to him, while early autumn sunlight dappled through the trees shading the nearby courtyard.  Golden and ruby chrysanthemums blazed around a fountain, and water trickled over a bronze statue of frolicking young girl. Sparrows flitted about here and there, doing whatever it is sparrows do. 

         A brick path meandered from where he sat in the restaurant’s patio, across the grassy courtyard, and to a busy Starbucks in the other side.  Most days Dan started his mornings there. Today, though, like all Thursdays, Dan luxuriated in the relative peace of the Wild Fork’s patio for a leisurely breakfast.  It gave him time to savor the setting and the menu.  Today, like every Thursday, he’d ordered their signature brioche French toast, soaked in custard and topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. 

         Breakfast at the Wild Fork also let him avoid the cleaning crew. It wasn’t that he disliked them. On the contrary. They were nice enough, but they spoke no English, making communication beyond hand gestures and smiles impossible. It was simpler to just not be there at eight when they arrived and to not return until after ten, by which time they’d be gone.  They were quite efficient and, despite the apartment’s size, it didn’t take them long to vacuum, dust, and otherwise clean the place. After all, how dirty could one person and a cat get it in a week? They even attended to Monsieur Désespoir’s automated litter box, which Dan had discovered back on day six, hidden away in a discreet, specially-built closet with its own cat door.

         A perky waiter popped onto the patio and made the rounds of the tables with a coffee pot.  He stopped at Dan’s and asked, “More coffee, Mr. Black?”

         Dan glanced at the man’s nametag and answered, “Yes, please, Thank you, Seth.”  Waiters liked it when you pretended to remember their names and, as a consequence, gave better service.  They liked even more the extravagant tips he added to his bill when he paid with his American Express card.

         “My pleasure, sir.  Can I get you anything else?”

         “Not for now, thank you.  I think I’ll just sit and enjoy the flowers for a while.”

         “It is a beautiful day.  Take your time. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

         “Thank you, Seth.”

         Dan glanced at the couple sitting a couple of tables away, he in a brown wool Brooks Brothers suit and she in a Givenchy grey herringbone blazer and slacks. They looked like they’d stepped from an issue of Vogue or Gentleman’s Quarterly in a peculiar mix of memory and desire, but they likely worked for One Oak or one of the other big companies with nearby headquarters.

         Dan hid a smile behind his fingers. Those two likely thought they belonged to the working elite.  Dan thought so, too, except that group that no longer seemed so elite to him. Not in his current circumstances, at least.  Dan still worked, to be sure, but, well, it didn’t feel like work.

         He opened the folder and glanced at the single sheet of paper inside.  He’d found the envelope waiting under his door this morning, just as he had every weekday for the last ten weeks. Every day, a single sheet in the envelope gave him a list of websites to visit and summarize. 

         It would have been easier, of course, if he’d gotten the list by text or email.  Then he could just click on the links rather than having to keyboard them. But, by now, it was part of his routine. Retrieve the list, put it in a file folder, walk to Utica square, and scan the list over breakfast. Plenty of time to return to the apartment, read the linked articles, and prepare the summaries.

         Today’s list consisted of eight sites. The first was another article from Sourdough Bread and the Soul. The site’s author seemed convinced that brewing spoiled dough in your pantry would let you find Jesus, assuming, of course, that he was somehow lost. That review wouldn’t take long. The one about a neolithic site in the Pyrenees where cavemen may have mined copper, though, that one looked interesting.  It sounded like there might be some real science behind it, like he might actually learn something by reading it. Not anything useful, of course, but it beat a sermon from a religious nutjob. The one on a sighting of an “amazing” marsupial carnivore cryptid in Queensland was almost certain to invoke eye-rolling and, if he was lucky, also be funny. At least he could hope.  On the other hand, it was going to be hard to find anything redeeming in an article with the title Germs Hiding In Your Kitchen Sponge. He didn’t even have a kitchen sponge.

         All in all, another typical list of random crap from the internet. He’d read about Sturgeon’s Law a couple of weeks ago.  It certainly applied to his job.

         He slipped the list back in its folder and sighed. Time enough for that later. It shouldn’t take more than three or four hours to knock off his assignment for the day.  Afterwards, maybe he’d have dinner at the Polo Club or Stone Horse café here in Utica Square.

         A harried-looking woman pushed a baby cart past him and plopped her Orca-like ass at the adjacent table. Her infant instantly started an unholy screaming fit. Even the sparrows that had been frolicking in the fountain fled. 

         The incident just served to remind him how unpleasant going out in public could be.  In particular, dining out tonight would mean getting dressed, dealing with waiters, pushing through the early evening rush, and dealing with the indifferent squalor of the madding crowd. 

         It would be easier and much more pleasant to have Mrs. Dalloway arrange for a delivery.  Maybe sushi.  She was clever about getting even the most improbable things.

         The more he thought about it, the better staying in sounded.  For one thing, Thursday night was a good television night. If that failed, there was always Netflix, or Amazon Prime, or one of the other premium services. Vegging out in front of the TV with maguro sashimi or perhaps ika maki sounded perfect.

         He glanced at his watch.  The housekeepers wouldn’t be gone for at least another twenty minutes.  The  devil, or whatever it was, continued to torment the baby, who wailed away with abandon. Seth, along with his check, was nowhere to be seen.

         But Dan had the same thing every Thursday morning and didn’t need the check to know his bill. Brioche, fruit cup, and coffee would come to $20.78 with tax today, just like every other Thursday.  He slipped two twenties under his saucer and fled.

         He took his time strolling back to Kingsley House.  When he arrived, his apartment was, blessedly, empty and silent. Monsieur Désespoir woke from from a nap on the couch, stretched, and gave Dan the eye.  But after a moment, the cat curled up, chewed on his paw, and disdained to acknowledge Dan's existence. 

         Cats.
.
         And, of course, perfection.