Breakfast
1/1
Little Jimmy Wilson padded down the stairs in his space rocket pajamas to the sound and smell of bacon cooking. Of course, the bacon wasn’t for him. Bacon rots your arteries, his mother would always say to him.
But his father ate it.
The man ate the stuff as if his body ran on it; like an old, cog-and-whistle machine. He reeked of bacon. Greasy, crunchy, devilishly delicious bacon.
His mother didn’t care that his father would eat the stuff. No, she never scolded him for eating bacon; or anything else she thought would rot a body part or two. And Lord there were a lot of delectable treats that Mrs. Wilson thought were the devil’s work. There was bacon, of course. But there were lollipops; ones that just made you drool thinking about them. And jaw-breakers. French fries were… actually all fast food was looked down upon in this house.
Junk food was the forbidden fruit.
But she didn’t care that Mr. Wilson danced with the devil.
And he, not the least his ever-expanding gut, paid the price.
Jimmy had settled into a rickety chair across the table from his mother, who dressed in the remains of a purple robe that had seen better, moth-free days. She looked at her son through pieces of unwashed hair in that bleak kitchen at 7 AM, just like any other day of the week.
“Going to school today, Jimmy?” she offered a smile. It wasn’t a very toothy one but the gesture was enough for Jimmy. He knew why she couldn’t provide a happy grin and a real, steaming breakfast for him. He heard the things that went on in the kitchen when he watched late-night cartoons on the television. So he gave her a nod.
The sizzling had stopped. Mr. Wilson sat down at the table to eat. Heads were lowered toward the table as the man grabbed a fork. He looked down at his plate. It consisted of an army of food: two eggs, two pieces of slightly burnt toast, and, of course, bacon. It was hard to tell just how much of the meat was on that particular dish. There seemed to be more than usual. But it didn’t make any difference to him. Although when he saw his son sitting across from him, not saying a word and avoiding his gaze, he did find something to say.
“Aren’t you gonna eat anything, boy?”
Jimmy didn’t answer him.
“Eh?”
Still no answer passed from Jimmy’s mouth.
“Hey-”
In one swift movement, Jimmy’s father grabbed his son’s shirt collar from across the table. The boy’s upper body dangled over his father’s breakfast. He could smell grease, fat, and piss-poor cholesterol.
“-when I speak to you, when I ask you a question, you answer me. You got it, you little shit?”
“Julian-”
“Oh shut it, Amy, you’re always coddling him.” The man said as he let go of his son’s shirt, albeit pushing Jimmy just enough so that he would fall back into his chair. He started to shovel bacon into his mouth while miraculously still able to say, “I’m not going to let you turn him into a spineless moron like that Gaugherty boy down the street.”
“You...” but Mrs. Wilson stopped herself.
“What?” the man asked, letting his fork drop from his hand, clanging against the dish beneath him. The sound made Jimmy flinch. “You wanna tell me what you were going to say?”
Mrs. Wilson was silent.
“Huh?”
“I said… I was going to say-”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, woman, spit it out-”
But the man didn’t finish his sentence, nor could he. He had a sort of blank look on his face that slowly morphed into one of panic and then one of anger. Still, he didn’t utter a single intelligent word, not that he had been previously, as he clutched his own throat. Shade of reds and purples flooded his face and gurgling sounds secreted from his mouth. He got out of his chair and twisted his fingers around the table cloth just before he fell to the floor and writhed until he was silent.
Not a sound was uttered for some time until Mrs. Wilson got up and said in little more than a whisper, “You’re a monster, Julian. You’re a goddamned monster and I hate you.”
Mrs. Wilson stepped over her husband while grabbing the plate that had fallen to the floor with the table cloth along with scattered pieces of breakfast food. There was a loud honking sound that came from outside and Mrs. Wilson checked the clock above the oven before she turned to the sink and turned on the faucet.
“You better get dressed,” she said to Jimmy, not looking up from the running water. From underneath the kitchen sink, Mrs. Wilson grabbed rubbing alcohol and latex gloves and started scrubbing away on the frying pan that sat, still warm, on one of the burners. “You don’t want to be late for school.”
But his father ate it.
The man ate the stuff as if his body ran on it; like an old, cog-and-whistle machine. He reeked of bacon. Greasy, crunchy, devilishly delicious bacon.
His mother didn’t care that his father would eat the stuff. No, she never scolded him for eating bacon; or anything else she thought would rot a body part or two. And Lord there were a lot of delectable treats that Mrs. Wilson thought were the devil’s work. There was bacon, of course. But there were lollipops; ones that just made you drool thinking about them. And jaw-breakers. French fries were… actually all fast food was looked down upon in this house.
Junk food was the forbidden fruit.
But she didn’t care that Mr. Wilson danced with the devil.
And he, not the least his ever-expanding gut, paid the price.
Jimmy had settled into a rickety chair across the table from his mother, who dressed in the remains of a purple robe that had seen better, moth-free days. She looked at her son through pieces of unwashed hair in that bleak kitchen at 7 AM, just like any other day of the week.
“Going to school today, Jimmy?” she offered a smile. It wasn’t a very toothy one but the gesture was enough for Jimmy. He knew why she couldn’t provide a happy grin and a real, steaming breakfast for him. He heard the things that went on in the kitchen when he watched late-night cartoons on the television. So he gave her a nod.
The sizzling had stopped. Mr. Wilson sat down at the table to eat. Heads were lowered toward the table as the man grabbed a fork. He looked down at his plate. It consisted of an army of food: two eggs, two pieces of slightly burnt toast, and, of course, bacon. It was hard to tell just how much of the meat was on that particular dish. There seemed to be more than usual. But it didn’t make any difference to him. Although when he saw his son sitting across from him, not saying a word and avoiding his gaze, he did find something to say.
“Aren’t you gonna eat anything, boy?”
Jimmy didn’t answer him.
“Eh?”
Still no answer passed from Jimmy’s mouth.
“Hey-”
In one swift movement, Jimmy’s father grabbed his son’s shirt collar from across the table. The boy’s upper body dangled over his father’s breakfast. He could smell grease, fat, and piss-poor cholesterol.
“-when I speak to you, when I ask you a question, you answer me. You got it, you little shit?”
“Julian-”
“Oh shut it, Amy, you’re always coddling him.” The man said as he let go of his son’s shirt, albeit pushing Jimmy just enough so that he would fall back into his chair. He started to shovel bacon into his mouth while miraculously still able to say, “I’m not going to let you turn him into a spineless moron like that Gaugherty boy down the street.”
“You...” but Mrs. Wilson stopped herself.
“What?” the man asked, letting his fork drop from his hand, clanging against the dish beneath him. The sound made Jimmy flinch. “You wanna tell me what you were going to say?”
Mrs. Wilson was silent.
“Huh?”
“I said… I was going to say-”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, woman, spit it out-”
But the man didn’t finish his sentence, nor could he. He had a sort of blank look on his face that slowly morphed into one of panic and then one of anger. Still, he didn’t utter a single intelligent word, not that he had been previously, as he clutched his own throat. Shade of reds and purples flooded his face and gurgling sounds secreted from his mouth. He got out of his chair and twisted his fingers around the table cloth just before he fell to the floor and writhed until he was silent.
Not a sound was uttered for some time until Mrs. Wilson got up and said in little more than a whisper, “You’re a monster, Julian. You’re a goddamned monster and I hate you.”
Mrs. Wilson stepped over her husband while grabbing the plate that had fallen to the floor with the table cloth along with scattered pieces of breakfast food. There was a loud honking sound that came from outside and Mrs. Wilson checked the clock above the oven before she turned to the sink and turned on the faucet.
“You better get dressed,” she said to Jimmy, not looking up from the running water. From underneath the kitchen sink, Mrs. Wilson grabbed rubbing alcohol and latex gloves and started scrubbing away on the frying pan that sat, still warm, on one of the burners. “You don’t want to be late for school.”