Eggs Kampf

Posted on July 11, 2009

1


TIM ATE AN OMELETTE at the Breakfast Shop one morning and washed it down with two coffees. It was a time when people could still smoke in cafes. The Breakfast Shop was filled with smoke. Tim didn’t smoke, not tobacco at least. Tim wrote longhand on a notebook filled with yellow paper. He wrote longhand along thin little red lines that ran along the page like guitar strings. He was doing his best not to write about love.

“You don’t type?” a man said to him.
Tim looked up toward the direction of the speaker and saw a peculiar little man sitting on a stool next to the far window.
The man was short and curly haired. He wore a handsome pair of glasses and a little silver cross around his neck.

“No, I just write everything out,” Tim said through the smoke.
“Are you a writer?” the man asked.
“I am an attempting writer.”

The little curly haired man stood up and walked over to Tim. He wasn’t fat or skinny and he wore a plain white shirt and cheap old jeans. Tim instinctively looked for the outline of the man’s penis, but could not see one. That’s enough, Tim thought.
“I’m going to sit down now,” the man said. “Don’t attempt to freak out.”
“I..won’t,” Tim said.
The man sat down and everybody seemed to take a drag of smoke and exhale all at once because the room filled with haze. All you could hear were little clicks and clinks of spoons tapping on coffee mugs, throttled sips of the hot stuff and the opening and closing of newspaper pages.

“I’m a writer as well,” the man said. “My name is Wilcox.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tim said. “Tim.”
Wilcox pointed to Tim’s omelette.
“Is there cheese in that omelette?” he asked.
“There is cheese in it,” Tim said.
“Excellent. I find cheese most important when writing, it is always prudent to keep a good supply of cheese next to the old writing desk. Works well for dreams too. I can’t say the same of eggs though.”
“What’s wrong with eggs?” Tim asked.
“Yolk is meant to be suckled by embryos. It is a filthy food, best only for sub-human or non-formulated creatures. You are messing with some pretty sketchy territory when you eat what the unborn eats.”
“Maybe it’s like the opposite of eating dirt,” Tim said.
Wilcox smiled.

“Are you going to write me in to you story? Is that part of this process?”
“Are you accusing me of metafiction?” Tim asked.
Wilcox laid his hands on the table, his fingers fanned out. It seemed like an awkward thing to do. The table at the Breakfast Shop was filthy.
“Let me tell you something, metafiction is dangerous. I think you already know that though. Freud considered metafictional thought to be among the most dangerous of afflictions. Mein Kampf was metafiction. Did you know that?”
“Nobody reads Mein Kampf,” Tim said.
“Yes, because they know it’s dangerous. They know it is fiction that’s only purpose is to break through into reality. It is too conscious and manipulative a genre.”
Tim poured pepper onto his omelette. He looked Wilcox in the eyes and knew they were fast friends, though filled with a rank suspicion and mistrust for one another.

“I’m writing about love,” Tim said. He severed a corner of the omelet onto his fork and speared the little yellow glob.
“Love? Even worse than metafiction I’m afraid,” Wilcox said. His voice was so assured of literary talent. “It is funny because in the real world love is a truly rare thing and yet in fiction it is about as common as comma.”
“Alright sir. Then what should I write about?”
Tim’s voice rose and everything in the coffee shop became a little silent.
“Okay, calm down. I’m not trying to badger you, I just don’t know that many motherfuckers who write longhand, and it intrigued me. Why don’t you write about killing someone?”
“I don’t write about people dying.”
“Why?”
“Well what if there are an infinite number of parallel universes?” Tim said. “If I kill someone in my fiction, I am creating a parallel universe wherin a real person dies.”
Wilcox thought about this for a long moment. He fingered the little cross on his neck.
“I once wrote a play where two SoHo lesbians went back in time and killed Aristotle. When they went back home, all the novels in the world were surrealist and corporations were nonexistent.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Tim lied. He was beginning to get bored.
“You have to have something in your story then- some kind of big climax. Don’t be a Joyce and cock-tease everybody.”
I’ll cock-tease you, Tim said to himself.
“What have you got so far?” Wilcox asked.
“It’s a story about a man that falls in love with every woman he meets. He goes to a fortune teller to try and figure out who the perfect person for him is.”
“Sounds tedious.”
Wilcox stood up.
“Go on,” he said.
“Well he ends up falling in love with the fortune teller but she doesn’t see it coming.”
“That sounds like a climax to me.”
“Well the thing is-”
Wilcox picked up a fork and thrust it into Tim’s throat. Blood came out like water would from a broken aquarium.
“Ketchup on your eggs?”

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Posted in: July 2009