Liam in My Head, Chapter 4: When Did Breakfast Get So Hard?

Liam in My Head: A Novel-in-Progress. Sometimes the only thing keeping you sane is a voice only you can hear.

Chapter 4: When Did Breakfast Get So Hard?

It’s Fleet Farm’s fault. They should have takeout boxes at the Fleet Farm gas mart. If they did have takeout boxes, none of this would have happened. It’s Fleet Farm’s fault, I’m telling you. I may have an Abby Normal brain, but Fleet Farm must be apportioned their share of the blame,

They have these stupid paper boats. Coated paper, in a bad rowboat shape, and a red bandanna pattern on the outside for some reason known only to paper boat manufacturers. One brat doesn’t fill a boat and so your brat rolls around in it, spilling your pickle relish and smearing the sides of the boat with your yellow mustard. Two brats is too many for one boat and if someone jostles your arm or you’re trying to carry the boat, a coffee, and a bag of Wasabi-Coated Crunchy Green Pea Snack you may lose one brat. That’s what happened to me this morning. I lost control of my paper boat and one cheese and potato brat covered in grape jelly rolled out and across the floor of the gas mart, smearing grape jelly on the floor as it rolled, picking up dust and sand and grit and god-knows-what until the brat was wearing a dust-brown coat of short fur not unlike the coat of a pit bull terrier. Everyone in the Fleet Farm Gas Mart stared at me. They’re an Old Maid deck, you know, the customers at 7 a.m. in the Fleet Farm Gas Mart. Or the cast of a 1930s movie musical. There’s Sally Scratch-Off, so skinny but always buys lottery tickets, never food. She looked up from her picks and stared at me. Barry Big Rig always buys two 32 ounce coffees at a time, stared at me. Heidi Hungover, still goth at 30-something, stared at me. Nadia Nicotine screamed a little scream when the brat rolled across the floor and up to the toe of her right Converse. She stared at me. Her boyfriend Nathan Neck Tattoo stopped stacking the dimes and nickels and pennies he and Nadia pool to buy their cigarettes and stared at me. Oscar Old Fart yelled “Ole!” because he’s old and old people yell things. He stared at me. Laurencio Lawn Guy and his six identical cousins holding their blue Gatorade, Doritos, and snap-top cans of Heinz Chili, looked at Oscar Old Fart in some confusion, and then stared at me. The Gas Mart employees, Sad Sue and the other Sad Sue, stopped ringing purchases and stopped saying Pump 21 you are good to go into their microphones, and stared at me from behind the glass that protects them from I don’t know what, flying brats? All those people stared at me. Waiting to see if I would (a) pick up the brat, (b) pretend the situation has nothing to do with me, (c) go tell one of the Sad Sues that “someone” has made a mess, or (d) throw more food. All those people. Staring.

 Liam said, “Stop with the Old Maid deck. Get a napkin and pick up the sausage. You can do this. Go on, girl. Get a napkin.” I was going to get a napkin and pick up the furry brat. I was. That was my intention. It was. I took a step toward the counter where the napkin dispenser was. And then I ran.