Chaper #3.1 Morning routine.

                  

The morning routine: Alarm woke him up but it went off two more times by hitting the snooze button before he actually got out of bed. His feet hit the floor and he stretched and yawned. He shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the light, blinding him.

He jumped in the shower and washed himself letting the cold water slowly wake up his cinnamon skin. He stepped out, puts on his robe and brushed his teeth. Watched the news while he dressed; boxers, jeans, a shirt that has no apparent stains and didn’t smell bad, socks and shoes. He brushed out his half-inch long hair and matching black beard.

Whether you’re a lawyer, doctor, serial killer, bus driver or a produce salesman, you have a morning routine, and it was the axiom of Marcus' existence to get up early and cook breakfast for Portland State University’s future America which paid shit. Sometimes it paid the rent, sometimes it didn’t. He curbed his lack of income playing poker, usually winning a few hundred a week, but not always, and some weeks he found himself in the red. It wasn’t always like this but the recession landed plenty of people in positions they didn’t expect even a few months prior.

Marcus made his way out on the street while pulling on a maroon hooded sweatshirt. It wasn't raining but it looked like it should be. Overcast whether made up a majority off Portland's days and it never hurt to keep an umbrella handy. These kind of days caused instant un-exuberance and gloom in most people’s and he was no exception, this just happened to add to the fact that he received a text stating that the opening bar tender called out sick meaning he had to open and work both the kitchen and the bar, which was no biggie since things stayed pretty slow till mid-morning when the manager come in, but it meant he had to deal with people and not just their food. 

There really was no danger in getting wet when it rained. It's more about the discomfort of raindrops falling on one's body and clothes. It’s why he kept coarse hair short. Somehow, the webbed footed people that lived in the city of roses made due.

After 8 blocks, he approached the back door of the Cheerful Tortuous and opened it while mumbling "time to make the fucking donuts."

The morning progressed as he expected, folks slowly rolled in, an with each interaction, Marcus' bleak opinion of the human race was renewed. It was one thing to get a ticket with a special order on it for an egg-white gluten-free bird in the nest, but to hear it from some "International Studies 250 Terrorism and Art: The Spectacle of Destruction" sophomore was enough to want to smack them back to a fresh-faced scared as shit, ramen noodle eating freshmen.

Did they have gluten-free bread? Of course they did! But only because it catered to folks who asked for it. This was a college bar, not a hipster bistro. They served Pabst, not because it was in a tallboy and was preferred by dirty cyclist with flipped up brimmed, but because it was cheap as shit and local used bookstores and corner coffee shops only paid so much for part-time work.

This is why Marcus preferred the kitchen, no customer interaction, and if one more person ordered a bagel with dairy-free cream cheese, he would turn into the brunch Nazi and tell them they had to leave. He chuckled at the thought of a black man dress in an SS uniform telling people to leave because of their ridiculous culinary request. 

Waffles, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, toast, OJ, hash browns and coffee, so much coffee. Knowledge required brains and brains required sustenance and he was the conduit. For better or worse he was fueling the future one plate at a time.

The manager rolled in, pissed that the opening tender called out, but offered much needed relief taking at least the table service off Marcus’ hands leaving him the kitchen and the counter, he wiped down the spot in the middle of the bar when some young buck just sat down and gave him the universal sign for “ID please”. Kid looked to be in his mid-twenties, but the OLCC was sneaky. Sure enough, it stated DOB: 3/18/85. Name: Donald…

He winced when he read the rest “this your real last name dude?”

“Why change it, right?” the guy responded. Marcus smirked, shook his head and handed the ID back. 

“Here’s the menu, you want something to drink Donald?” he asked.

“Just Don. I’ll have a red beer and a short stack,” he said. Red beer was nasty: pilsner with tomato juice. But it was an acceptable breakfast drink. 

As Marcus poured and flipped the requested pancakes, he caught this Don character, fawning over what appeared to be an envelope while he drank his poor-mans version of a bloody marry. Marcus didn’t see to many euphoric faces before noon in that joint and this cat looked like he just found a golden ticket. 

He started getting irritated with the kids' attitude, which deep down was probably just jealousy, what’s this jack-ass got to be so happy about? Must be good news, maybe a letter from a loved one, maybe a girl, this didn’t help the situation as Marcus was having issues in that department as of late.

He brought the plate of grub out and placed it in front of Don “what you got there, good news?”

“I hope so,” Don responded and pulled out a transportation ticket and not a letter “I won’t know till I find what I’m looking for,” Marcus made out that the ticket had AMTRAK printed on the top.

“You looking for a train?” Marcus asked as he grabbed from under the bar a set of silver wear and napkins.

“You could say that,” Don took a long drink of his red beer as he placed the ticket on the bar for Marcus’ inspection. ARRIVING AT UNION STATION SEATTLE, WA.

“You go biz in the Emerald City?”

“More like biz on the way to the Emerald City. There’s this girl, right?” Here it is Marcus though “She’s heading up that way and I need to find her,”

“You can’t call or text her when she gets up there?” Marcus asked disinterestedly. Don took in a fork full of pancakes and gave a muffled response. 

“Can’t,” he chewed a bit and continued with less of a muffle “don’t have a number.”

“E-mail, social media?”

Don finally swallowed “nope, just met her last night.” That piqued Marcus’ interest with raised eyebrows.f

“You’re going on a trip with a girl you met last night and you forgot to get her number? Is that some kinky online chat thing? She have a screen name like KittyVixen325? She friends with Chris Hansen or you guys where masks when you first met?” He couldn’t help but chuckle.

Don smiled but shook his head “nah man,” he proceeded to tell his tale of the night before between bites of food and Marcus serving others as more arrived at the bar: there was a parking lot, a ride, some pizza and a rejection.

“So this chick blew you off and now you’re stalking her on a train?” Marcus asked.

“Not stalking, woo.. wooing her? That’s a thing, right? I mean she’s going up there to see sick family. She probably, you know, needs a friend. I can be that guy.” Marcus raised a judging eyebrow.

“That sounds sketchy as shit, man. You might want to rethink your plan. What if she’s not down with you tagging along? That’s a long bitter trip up there for nothing if she blows you off again,” he put a lot of emphasis on the last word. But Don, the simple optimist wasn’t going to be swayed. He already bought the ticket so why not go all in on with his little plan.

“I’m catching that train Bob,” Don said reading the name on Marcus’ name tag. 

“Names Marcus, we all wear fake names here,” he took a light sigh and cleared Don’s plate and glass “you know you’re supposed to listen to the advice of your bar tender,” though he wasn’t actually a bar tender, he was trying to give the guy a sound recommendation to an obvious situation. 

Fools rush in and this guy was on full tilt. But what the fuck did he care, no need to rain on this man’s parade “man, I’m full of shit, do what you want. Find that girl and have your own romantic comedy, and it is a comedy, by the way.

He placed two pint glasses on the bar. Inside he placed a cracked egg, a chasers worth of pils and a shot of tomato juice. Don eyed it awkwardly. "One for the road on me,"

"Liquid omelet?"

"Something like that," Don stood up from the bar and clutched the glass. In a mirrored gesture, they raised their glasses in salute. "To falling in love with mysterious women," and he knocked back his concoction. 

After a second of thought, Don did the same declaring "to nurse Mandy," he cleared the glass and slammed it down smiling while pointing approvingly at Marcus. With that he swiftly exited the bar, bag slung on his shoulder.

A look of shock struck Marcus' face "the fuck you just say?!?" But the headstrong vagabond had already departed. Of all the love-struck lonely hearts, of all the fish in the fucking sea and chance meetings, did he really say nurse MANDY? As in 'Amanda Callahan RN currently driving around in his shitty car' Mandy? Marcus jumped over the bar, ran out the door and looked up and down the adjacent streets, but Don was nowhere to be seen. 

"Damn," he said under his breath. Did he just send that dude off to pursue his woman? Looks like the Tourists would also be down a cook that day as well.

Suggested listening:  If you Only Knew by Jurrasic 5  
                                    Idiot by Atmosphere