Sunny Side-Up Eggs

by Jacqueline Moran Meyer

This is my sixth day of eating breakfast at a diner in Plainview, Wisconsin. I am drinking water from a spotted glass, gazing out the window at the fifty-five-gallon drum that’s parked by the curb in front of the restaurant. Pretty soon, my waitress, Sallie Beth, will saunter over to take my order. My guess is she’ll ask, “What would you like, young man?” She’s asked me the same question every morning.

First of all, I am not particularly young, not nineteen or anything, although I am far younger than Sallie Beth. Second, my response has been the same for six straight days: “Good morning, Sallie Beth. Two sunny-side up eggs, bacon, hash browns, white toast, and coffee, please.” Pretty simple to remember if you ask me, but not for Sallie Beth.

I spy Sallie Beth, smiling, with her leathery skin and bottle-blonde hair, moving towards me, pen and pad in hand. I mirror her smile while she walks over. She will giggle a little when I get to the part of my order where I say “Sunny-side-up eggs.” At first, I giggled back, not understanding the joke. It took me two days to realise she laughs because the restaurant is called the Sunny Side Up Diner.

It’s obvious why someone would find the joke funny, but I don’t think it is. I guess Sallie Beth does. I admit I’ve found humour to be useful. I’ve learned that tailoring jokes to the person I want something from often gets me the results I want. If someone thinks I’m funny, that means they like me. The next thing you know, I’m getting free tickets to the ball game. Or befriending someone who will let me into their home willingly.

“What would you like, young man?” she asks on cue.

“Good morning, Sallie Beth. Two sunny-side-up eggs, bacon, hash browns, white toast, and coffee, please.”

“Perfect.”

Sallie Beth responds this way every day. Is it perfect, Sallie Beth? If my order’s so special, why can’t you remember it? I’ve repeated it every day for the past six days.

While she ambles away and fends off coffee requests from the other diners, I let my gaze drift out the window again and fall on the fifty-five-gallon drum. It’s been there for seven days.

On the first morning I had breakfast here, the drum was blocking the sidewalk and stairs right in front of the restaurant. People cruised around it for a couple of hours until a few burly guys rolled it over to a grassy area by the street. I assume they hoped the garbage collectors would take it, but it’s still there.

Every day, when people notice and discuss the drum, my ears perk up, and I listen carefully.

How long has that been there?

Someone should do something about that eyesore.

I wonder what’s in it. I hope nothing toxic.

Sallie Beth is making her way towards me with the coffeepot, frowning.

“We’re out of bacon. Can I bring you sausage instead?” she blurts out, while pouring my cup a’ joe. Well, this is a strange turn of events.

“Sallie Beth, how can a diner run out of bacon? Send someone down the street to purchase some bacon at Shop Mart.”

“Sir, we don’t have bacon. The shipment comes tomorrow. Do you want sausage instead or not?”

Sallie Beth’s snarky tone surprises me. My ex-boss used that same tone with me once, and then that day, the man’s cat went missing. Poor guy. A few days later, in the break room, I’d asked him if he ever found Mr Jumbles. I’m still in-between jobs.

“I’ll try the sausage, Sallie Beth,” I reply coolly, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
She clomps away, and I can hear the people behind me discussing the barrel again.

Like Mr Jumbles, I also know what’s in the drum. Because I packed, closed, and dropped it off in the quiet, early hours of the morning just seven days ago. I left the barrel in the middle of the sidewalk, hoping to cause a stir, and drove home. But I didn’t hear anything about the diner or the barrel on the morning news. So, I drove back to the spot I left it to make sure it was still there. It was.

It still is, and here I sit.

“I wonder what’s in that drum?” the customer in front of me asks.

I tap the young woman on the shoulder. She turns, her friendly young mouth smiling at me.

“A dead body,” I say.

She looks at her two companions, and they laugh in unison. I laugh along with them, although I’m not sure why I am laughing.

Sallie Beth plops my plate in front of me, my bacon substituted for sausage. I smile at her.

“Thank you, Sallie Beth. This looks perfect,” I say.

Then, I eat my eggs, sunny-side-up.