Just Breakfast

The phone call came unexpectedly on a Saturday. It was about 9:30 in the morning and Trevor was at the urban farm market. Sort of. Actually he was standing just outside the rows of locally grown produce merchants and waiting in line among the truck-bound vendors of premade food to order a very popular handheld breakfast. The droning sound of the engines competes with the amplified ringing acoustic strums of the hired live entertainment: a nervous doughy songwriter/cover artist with a compressed tenor voice and a discreetly balanced patch of stubble under his burgeoning chin. The carelessly drawn out delivery of the familiar lyrics reveals a sense of vanity and selfishness behind the impulse of falling in love being presented in the songs. Every note is an attempt to sing well beyond his abilities. It seems that he imagines this live performance is being recorded and will eventually be released and held in the same regard as Jeff Buckley's "Live at Sine", except without the untimely drowning. Trevor feels the vibrations on his thigh and as the ring tone fades in he realizes that it was a mistake to leave his phone off silent. His girlfriend Sandra is standing beside him and she is about to be party to a conversation between him and a prospective employer. He is considering ways to avoid this as he alters his stance dramatically for optimum pocket access on his skinny jeans, which fit more tightly around his calves than his waist, so as he reaches in for his phone you can see the top of his buttcrack and imagine how the line withers in its downward procession. He was about to try and use the momentum of shifting his stance to step aside and answer his phone in privacy, but he was positioned right between two signs that read "NO PLACE HOLDING". The phone was halfway through its ring cycle and he took a moment to marvel at the fact that these vendors actually take the time to put up those signs for their traveling meal car. He ponders the causal relationship of those signs advertising their aggressive cue maintenance policy and his 45 minute wait to have a customized breakfast chimichanga. He pretends not to notice the signs, but remains stationary anyway to take the call. He takes out a pen and notepad. It is a phone interview and it won't likely require any note taking, but he knows Sandra will think he is not taking the position seriously if he doesn't at least jot down something. The situation turns out in his favor it seems, as the pressure of the phone interview is completely eclipsed by the looming notion of Sandra's inevitable scrutiny afterwards. He hangs up the phone and tries to say something that will preclude any further interest. "Eh, they wanted to start me out in the call center making less than I am now." Silence. He responds to himself by throwing in some more details, "Yeah that must be why they called me on a Saturday... they wanted me to work the weekend shift..." She responds dryly, "Well whatever, I'm sure something better will come up," then without missing a beat, she changes the subject, "did you see they were selling squash blossoms? I think we should make squash blossom frittata!" Trevor responds carelessly. "Yeah... except we've been waiting in line so long, and I'm curious about this breakfast chimichanga." Sandra is quiet, so Trevor continues, "I've heard you can add up to 9 optional ingredients in addition to the 6 that come standard in each chimichanga." She doesn't share his enthusiasm. "Yeah but so? There is no line over there..." She motions towards the produce vendors with her slender and questionably hairless arm. "We can go back to your place and make a healthy breakfast together!" She lightly bumps her hip against his, causing his knees to unlock so he loses balance for a split second. "Well it won't be breakfast by the time we finish making it! Let's just each get completely different breakfast chimichangas and share them." She gets quiet again for a second. Then without looking at him she asks, "Why don't you want me to cook for you?" This puts him on the defensive. "It's not that I don't want your cooking... I just don't want to spend all day in the kitchen." She instantly retorts, "Why? What do you have planned?" He stares at her blankly. This is all the response she needs, as she speaks words that have clearly been forming in her mind. "You never have the patience to start anything from scratch. You start out with the right intentions, but you always get bored and discouraged by the follow through and take the easy way out. We go to the farm market to buy some fresh local produce and make something, but we beeline straight past all the actual farm stands so we can have something that is already made." Trevor attempts to cut her off, "Actually I have just heard really good things about the chimichanga truck breakfast items and really wanted to try it out. What the hell are you talking about?" His outburst at the end provides more fuel to her frustration. "Don't you dare try to make me sound like I'm crazy! You do this with your job, too! That is why you hold on to this lousy middle management position. They threw you that job because they wanted to keep you around. They promoted you quickly hoping that you wouldn't bother trying to start working for a better company. Who was it that called this morning about the call center job?" He was too punch-drunk to think of anything but the truth. "Platinum Marketing Group." "PMG!? You want to turn down a foot in the door at the largest advertizing company in the city so you can keep making... what, a few hundred dollars a month extra? A thousand? This is exactly what I'm talking about! Here is a job that, yeah, may start out like a demotion from where you currently are... but in like 12 months, 5 years, down the line... you could actually be working to your potential." Trevor's strategy during these arguments is generally to play possum, but he always ends up snapping at some point. "Alright, I get it! Look, I didn't say I was going to turn it down. I just didn't want to deal with your criticism today!" He looks around and says, "I mean seriously, are we actually having this conversation right now, right here?" Sandra has given up searching his eyes for anything comprehensible, so she is blankly staring somewhere near his face. "You are such a pussy! Do you think I enjoy having to confront you like I'm your guidance counselor... like a child about being responsible for your own well-being? I'm just trying to help you get over your myopic point of view that you're just gonna land some dream job from where you are now. And of course as usual you're more concerned with what people think than of actually discussing the issue at hand. Yes, we're having this conversation... right now! In front of all these strangers. So what?" Trevor is gripping at whatever he can find in his defense. "What do you mean 'As usual'? When else am I overly concerned with what others think of me? This is news to me! Why do you always pad your arguments with random unrelated things? And did you really need to throw 'myopic' in there?" Her arms fall to her sides with those last words. "You're such an asshole, I can't deal with this right now. I'm going home." He reaches for her, but she snaps at him, "I'll take the bus." Trevor takes one step... then back into line. He is next, and he orders a very basic chimichanga, which he takes several meek bites of as the hired entertainment adds syncopation to "Danny's Song" by Kenny Loggins and really makes it his own.