Freshly Laid Eggs

Breakfast With Argul Zetropole

This is the second episode of Mr. Zetropole’s adventures. The previous story was “More Protein” and can be read here.

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The tip of Mr. Zetropole’s elegant cane rested lightly on the sidewalk. No clouds were in the sky and the morning sun burned its languid heat down upon the flat rooftops of the city.

“Breakfast, Argul my friend,” he whispered to himself, “breakfast.” And with an assenting nod to eirself, as he sometimes liked to refer to his own physiognomy, Argul Zetropole headed off to the corner café where, once seated, he ordered eggs.

“No tea and toast today, Mr. Zetropole?”

“Ah, today…today I wish to have something with protein. But I will have toast and tea as well to accompany the eggs, my friend.”

The small restaurant was quiet and empty so early in the morning and after taking the order to the kitchen the waiter returned shortly with an apologetic air to inform him that they had no eggs, that their delivery for the morning had not come through.

Argul Zetropole flushed as he tried to retain his calm, but he felt a strange kind of pressure building within him. How embarrassing that he must be denied the most basic of morning fare at a place which specializes in serving morning fare. Yes, it was true that he usually only had toast and tea, but was it proper for his habitual restaurant to be devoid of such a fundamental staple as eggs, the one time he requested it? He had dreamt, before waking that morning, of eggs - fried eggs, over easy. In the dream he had broken the soft and delicate yolk and dipped buttered toast into it. He had woken with a longing for eggs - a rumbling stomach, a sharp appetite, an acute early morning craving. And now he was faced with refusal - an involuntary denial it was true, but a negative outcome nonetheless. It hurt his head, this rejection, this rebuff, this veto of his longing, the fervor of his appetite met with a sudden and iniquitous disallowance of his desire. “I must be calm and bear this stoically,” he thought as his internal turmoil grew and dark thunderclouds marred the formerly cheerful aspect of his countenance.

Argul placed the heel of his hand on his forehead and rubbed it in a circular motion. His temples throbbed with a strange pulsation he felt he must placate and subdue. He pressed forcefully upon them with his fingertips. His pupils dilated and his eyes rolled in circles. No, he thought, how can there be no eggs, was there not a chicken farm just down the road? How could a restaurant that advertises breakfast not plan for breakfast - was this dereliction of comestible responsibility acceptable! He clutched at his head, a pained expression on his face and thoughts of missing breakfast items swirling in his now fevered brain.

The waiter glanced around uncertainly. Zetropole’s pupils were rolling dizzily but the rest of him was frozen in an eerie stillness. The waiter backed away a step and waited, unsure what outcome would ensue.

A moment later, Argul’s immobility ceased as he rose suddenly to his feet, tucked his hands firmly into his underarms - the left securely in his left armpit, the right in his right. With a rapid twitch, he bent into a half squat, his posterior jutting rearward, and abruptly stretched his neck far forward. Then flapping his elbows up and down, in a stiff, halting erratic motion, he began to circle the table, extending and retracting his neck and intermittently turning his head first to one side, then spasmodically to the other. For some reason, his nose, though it was no different from before, now exuded a distinctly beaklike impression. He circled the table once, scratched at the tiled floor with his right foot, then circled again, and stopping before his chair, gave a sudden loud cluck while he clawed with his left foot. His neck craned forward as his head moved in short jerks. This was followed by a long extended squawk, a faint throaty chittering sound and a vigorous rapid flapping up and down of his elbows, followed by a kind of shudder that trembled through his semi-squatting body and several wriggling twitches of his fundament. Two tremors and a deep bending squat of the legs followed.

The waiter watched with frozen fascination as his immaculately dressed customer clucked loudly and then turned his nose upwards as if to say he had completed his task, his visage a glazed mask of vacancy. The waiter came forward, took hold of a flapping elbow and raised him up to assist him to his seat again. Sweat beaded on Zetropole’s forehead, but the glazed expression began to fade and his eyes began to regain some normalcy.

The waiter slowly bent down and, reaching down to the floor, picked up two rather substantial eggs that had rolled gently out of the bottom of Zetropole’s trouser leg. He disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Back in his chair, Argul jerked imperceptibly, then opened and closed his eyes, then his mouth. He slowly removed his hands from his armpits and taking a handkerchief from his pocket wiped the sweat from his brow. The waiter had returned bearing a plate with two fried eggs, over easy, and toast. Turning wondering eyes towards the waiter he asked, “What happened…?”

And then as the plate was placed with a flourish before him, the waiter smiled, “Don’t worry Argul, relax, just enjoy your breakfast.” Argul’s eyes widened with delight. He smiled at the waiter and then picking up a toast he dipped into the golden egg yolk and bit into it. “These eggs are so fresh. Now this is a true treat of a breakfast” he thought to himself.

Turning to the waiter, he said in thanks, “Washrikkitosh.”

“Farno Farno” came the reply.