Migas. Migas? Migas.
After the show where I spotted him, some local band called Werewolves of London Calling playing the inside stage at Emo’s, I suggest we go get breakfast. To talk, I say.
I’m fairly certain he’s not drunk, but he seems incapable of effective communication.
A cab, he says, nodding to himself. A cab would probably be…
But he doesn’t finish, so I don’t know what a cab would probably be. I’m not going to finish his sentences for him though. That never gets you anywhere with writers.
We catch a cab and head to some greasy spoon all-night diner off of the highway. A purposefully grimy spot the cab driver suggests. Water for him. No ice. Coffee for me.
The water, he says, inspecting the glass after drinking deeply from it. The water tastes like coffee.
The coffee, I assure him a moment later, tastes like burnt hashbrowns. That have been soaked in water.
He nods like this was some final proof he’d been waiting for. As if this assertion on my part says something resonantly profound about, what? Me? The coffee? The diner? Our server? The cabbie? His own life?
He leans in, motions to me.
I’m not fucking you, I say. Just so you know.
He shakes his head, a touch impatiently. No, he says. I don’t…
You don’t what? I say, irritated. And not by his glasses, although I get the impression that I’m supposed to be irritated by his glasses, that he wants me to be irritated by his glasses. I’m irritated by the menu, I think. I want my breakfast choice to be readily apparent, and it’s not, and it’s late, and I still have hours of work to do before tomorrow at noon. And Franzen makes you draw him out. Which becomes tiresome in no time flat.
I don’t do that, he says. Not anymore.
But this doesn’t clear anything up either.
Migas, he says, looking down at the menu, pointing to the picture, enunciating the description. Eggs scrambled with cheddar cheese, jalapenos, and tortilla chips, served with black beans, homefries, and your choice of flour or corn tortillas.
What about it? I say.
There are too many of us, he says, closing the menu, then his eyes, taking off his glasses and placing them on the table, pinching then massaging the bridge of his nose. Too, too, many of us.
You are paying, right? I say, but I know I’m only bluffing. And when the check comes, an hour and a half later, our server having disappeared for some inordinate amount of time in between and jittery upon return, my coffee cold and Franzen’s water gone, I put my hand over the ticket before he even sees it.
Please, I say. Let me.
