Remember the Waffle House’s bathroom in El Paso, when you fumbled for the switch, where light appeared to be at war with darkness? After you finally found your way out, we sat there watching the West and East Texans, refusing to sit at co-joining tables, looking at each other’s breakfast and refusing to order the same. When it all boiled down and the coffee was brewed, many were at war with themselves.
We looked down, to see imaginary boots mired in the overflowing restroom waters of existence and non-existence, is and is not. The boot wearing customers were unaware the absolute needs neither. Yeah, between the time the hungry clients were shoveling six sausage, four bacon, five ego-egg and hashbrown breakfasts down their gullet, their eyes locked with the breakfast beers rising fizz. Ignoring the space between each bubble, it was just easier to obsess about patty vs. hamburger, driver vs. Airstream, God in sky vs. God in reflection.
Certain breakfast choices are the only ones that appear to the small-selves relative eyes.
Excerpt from The Luchador Gauntlet