Red Onions and Pancakes

The whipped butter melted and disappeared into the stack of pancakes like a Victorian adventurer swallowed up by quicksand in the jungle. My shirt was soaked as if I had been sweating out of my solar plexus and my right testicle felt the cool, dampness of the water through my Levi’s 501s. At that moment, the waitress with a face tattoo asked if my coffee needed a warm up. Looking up from the menu, I responded yes, thank you.

Let me explain how I became soaking wet eating pancakes. My truck, the Black Phantom, had a rattle from the engine, among other issues. I opened up one-half of the engine and replaced the rockers and lifters. There was a 50/50 chance that the rattle would get better or not change at all. My mechanic brain guessed (or diagnosed) correctly. However, with the valve cover removed, the engine was exposed to contamination. Dirt, debris, and whatever else had fallen in during the repair, which is par for the course. I did the right thing and changed the engine oil and filter. That was a few weeks ago.

On the morning of my wetness, a parts store left a voicemail informing me that my new off road rear shocks had arrived, which has nothing to do with my recently repaired engine. But I took it upon myself to replace the shocks and change the oil filter (not the engine oil) again. My theory was that anything that had fallen into the engine during the rocker and lifter repair would have been collected in the filter causing an oil flow restriction.

Anyone that has changed engine oil knows that spinning off a filter results in oil spilling all over components that don’t require lubrication. After using up half a can of aerosol solvent (of the chlorinated cancer causing variety) and topping up the oil, I wheeled off to the car wash.

I was impressed by the new found stability of the rear suspension. And I wondered how many kids get force fed Gravol on road trips in minivans, not because they are prone to car sickness, but because the milfs driving the minivans neglect to maintain the suspension and the poor kids in the back get jostled about like a gaggle of midgets on a cheap carnival ride.

The Black Phantom got its belly blasted at the car wash and I had enough tokens to give its exterior a lick and a promise. Outside the carwash I backed up to the air hose and checked the tire pressures.

While I was on my back on the pavement filling up the spare tire, a vehicle pulled up beside me. Residual water ran down the box of the Black Phantom and dripped on my chest and my balls. I powered through the water torture and picked myself off the asphalt. The guy in vehicle beside me asked if I had a tire pressure gauge, not for him to borrow, but for him to lend to me. I had my own.

At first glance the guy looked like he drank Bud Light during the week and Budweiser on the weekends and bought NASCAR branded boxes of AR-15 ammo. At a second glance I saw into his prophetic eyes as he looked to the north-west and said it was going to rain. I looked and silently admitted that I couldn’t see what he did. I shouldn’t have washed my truck then? He chuckled and said, I’m waiting till tomorrow to wash mine. I admire others’ ability to see the future when I can’t see past the repressed mental illness in my pre-frontal cortex.

It was well into the afternoon by then. The sun was shinning and a few, white clouds marked the blue sky. A wild hunger evolved in my guts.

Back in my early twenties, I used to drink with an old dude three times my age, whose name I never did know. I made decent money as a mechanic and didn’t have a problem paying for a few rounds. However, the nameless old dude used to buy drinks because I believed he wanted someone to talk about nothing with. He used to call breakfast “brekfry”. And every time I had drinks with the old dude, he would talk about what he was going to make for tomorrow’s brekfry. This old dude at the bar looked like he needed a for-home-use-only blood pressure monitor.

I wheeled the Black Phantom to a breakfast joint across the street from the car wash and backed into a stall. The water still dripped from the side mirrors and I thought about the innocence of most drivers who are unable (or unwilling) to back into a parking stall.

There where white balloons tied to almost every chair in the restaurant and a waitress with a face tattoo told me I could sit wherever I liked. The place was empty save for a couple of tables of pensioners slurping down eggs. Apparently, today was the grand opening (or rebranding) of the restaurant.

I took a seat, ordered a coffee, and asked where the bathroom was. Judging by the colour of my urine I should have ordered electrolytes with my coffee. I washed my hands and took notice of my soaked shirt and damp crotch. I’ve been out in public under worse personal circumstances.

The Grand Forks breakfast looked like the only option off the menu that would solve my wild hunger. I decided to join the pensioners drinking up their mid-afternoon meals and ordered the eggs sunny side up. My order came out quickly. I also asked for a glass of water, because (you know) yellow pee isn’t cool.

I like getting breakfast by myself. Something about it reminds me of the bygone days of renting movies from Video View or Blockbuster. If you don’t patronize the places you like, eventually they go for broke. The last movie I ever rented from a brick-and-mortar video store was a porno.

The waitress with the face tattoo asked if my coffee needed a (second) warm up. Yes, please. By now the whipped butter on my pancakes was a myth.

A couple of pensioners were seated in a booth close to my table. The frail woman looked like she wouldn’t survive another pandemic and had difficult understanding the vegetable options on the menu. I think she ended up with a plate of sausage and steamed cauliflower. My crotch was dry.

I was down to the last of pancakes when I made a dreadful error and forked some of the pancakes with some of the hash browns. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t have been an issue; however, the cook had added red onion to the hash browns and the culinary mathematics on my fork didn’t add up. I decided I was full, finished my coffee, and tipped the waitress with face tattoo.

Throughout my afternoon excursion, my mind wavered between visiting the bookstore or the public library. Something deeper than my understanding drew me to the library — having access to public washrooms. The clouds in the sky had darkened. As I wheeled the Black Phantom towards the library I felt a surge of heat from within the inner doorway of my asshole. I felt the air pressure drop outside and the pressure in my bowels increase. The guy with the prophetic eyes was correct about the inclement weather change.

I made it to the library in time. But my demeanor caused the security guard some concern. As I occupied the stall, the guard decided to do his rounds of the washroom. He tasted my acoustics.

The washroom was well lit and for some reason I thought of the lighting the photographer's use at the Walmart Photo Centre. I looked between my legs and saw the rusty, brown reflection of my hemorrhoids in the toilet water. My genetics gave me a predisposition for constipation. I don’t quite qualify to be a sperm donor.

I washed up and placed my wet hands under the hazardous needle receptacle. The automatic blow dryer was hung on the other wall of the washroom.

When I walked into the library, it had started raining outside. I popped a 4mg flavoured nicotine pouch to overpower the leftover taste of red onions and pancakes.