Breakfast with Rob was a short story I wrote for a writer's group we had at the old store. It was never intended to be a comic. I ended up passing it on to a friend down in Brazil that had been doing work with one of my new friends Josh Cantrell. Within a matter of days he had a completed comic book version of this short story.
This was really the beginning of Creators Edge Press from my standpoint. Seeing one of my books visually was the motivation I needed to put that ragtag group of folks together. The company is still going strong today, and the 'Breakfast with Rob' comic was nominated for a Toonie award last year!
And with that I offer you 'Breakfast with Rob' in its original format. Enjoy!
BREAKFAST WITH ROB
By Chuck Messinger
Woke up early one Friday morning in April to meet with my buddy Rob for breakfast. We both have conflicting schedules so the opportunities we get to actually hang out are few and far between; the wonders of growing old and gaining responsibilities. Both married, both have kids, both have 50+ hour work weeks. The nice thing is we don’t like anyone else, so our time spent together is precious.
I pulled my Dodge Nitro into a parking spot in front of the Mad Cat Café, leaving the car running so I could enjoy my favorite morning talk show. Rob is always fashionably late so no sense in getting cold. Surprisingly there is a very light powder of snow coming from the hills. Not common for April around here. Lately with the whole global warming bullshit we rarely have an inch of snow show up all season…and we live in the foothills. I adjust my seat and fall into a ‘radio slumber’ as I call it; that time when you can actually listen wholeheartedly to a conversation on the radio with no interruption. Double R is getting his ass chewed by BJ for dropping the ball in a previously taped interview. Their banter is one of the few things that keep me smiling daily. Knowing there are grumpy old fucks like me, not to mention on the air spouting their gospel, reminds me that I am truly not alone in this world.
Midway through Double R’s confessing his sins I nearly piss myself when an older woman pounds on my windshield. I look up and notice she is covered in red vomit of some kind. Probably an overnight binge at the Old Peking; the Chinese restaurant and karaoke bar right next to the Mad Cat. The strange thing is she doesn’t really seem to want anything; she just pounds on the windshield and walks off. I spend what seems like an eternity watching her in my rearview mirror saunter off into the light flakes of snow. The good Samaritan in me considered either calling a cab for her to get her out of the weather. The cynic in me considered calling the paddy wagon to take her away to my old padded room. As usual, the lackadaisical me won. I went back to my radio bliss while digging a bundle of nose mucus out of my left nostril.
The ever late Rob calls. I have my Bluetooth connected to my in car system, so I am forced to answer all calls if I ever want to return to radio bliss. I hit the button on the dash. “Serry dewd, I schleppt in. Kin we dewe a reen chick?”, he says, sounding post-party pitiful as usual. “No can do”, I said matter-of-factly, “I’ve been sitting at the Mad Cat for a half hour now. Drag your ass in here. I will go drink coffee until you get here”. I hit the same button to hang up on him. The thing about Rob is if he has too many choices he will hem and haw forever and rarely make any decision at all. By hanging up, my last statement usually becomes gospel. It’s one of those things you learn having a friend you’ve known since fourth grade. We spent every day together in school, moved away from our piddly little town and moved to the same new town. Married women from that town so we were stuck in the same place. About the only thing that creates static in our perfect little buddy-buddy relationship is his video games and his Budweiser. I just don’t have the time for that shit.
Seeing that the snow has stopped, I turn off the car and get out. I hit the lock on my remote twice (strange habit I picked up when I bought the $30k vehicle) and head into the Mad Cat. As usual I seat myself in our usual booth where we can sit across from each other and both still see the TV (usually if he has been drinking the night before conversation can get a little blah). I drop my keys on the bench next to me so they don’t cut into my legs via my pocket and wave for Judy.
“Where’s your partner?” Judy asks as I turn over my coffee cup for her to fill. “Fashionably late” I tell her while staring at her ample bosom. Bad habit: even older ladies have boobs that need attention. She doesn’t ever look at us; usually with her eyes on the ticket she’s writing or staring at the TV over my shoulder. “Go ahead and start a batch of pancakes anda double side of bacon for Rob. I’ll have the Western, gravy on the whole thing with a hard-boiled egg.” I know, for a guy my age and girth country gravy is probably the worst thing for me, but lately it has been a rare pleasure. My wife is usually regulating my eating habits pretty hard. How can gravy kill me with all the greens I eat?
I pull the cribbage board out of the front pocket of my hoodie and place it on the table. I go ahead and shuffle the cards so that we can rock and roll when he gets here. I have a system. Rob is a flat out horrible loser; probably one of the worst I have ever met. Don’t ever bet him in anything; he will double or nothing you until he owns nothing. If I don’t have to leave in a hurry to get to work, I play to the best of my ability. If I have other things to do or the conversation dies, I usually let him win two so I can find something better to do with my time.
Glancing over my shoulder, I notice the snow has started again and Rob has finally showed up. His old-school Malibu station wagon was a gift from me for doing a project at my house he never completed. He is propping the hood open and disconnecting the terminal from the battery. No matter how many times we tried, we could never figure out why the battery would not keep a charge. We are both too proud to have ever taken it in to a shop to fix it. Between him and I we have replaced the battery in that fucking beast probably a dozen times. He’s definitely hung over; he doesn’t even look up on his way in. He opens the front door to the welcome cowbell jingle and plops down in his usual spot. I have gotten used to the overwhelming smell of cigarettes since I quit over two years ago.
“Thanks for showing up fucker”, I said with my trademark sideways smirk, you have enough brain cells to play today?” I grab the stack of cards and set them in front of him. Jim The Cook makes a huge racket walking out the back door with trash bags into the snow. I know that guy eats gravy every day. Ha! I crack me up.
“ Ahhh, em terred dis merning. Hed a few too menny at the pikking”. You will note I interpret his dialogue quite literally. This is the way I hear it. It’s like twins having a shared language, only we aren’t twins and he is the only one that speaks it. Problem with Rob’s special language is he also has a tendency to mumble. So if he isn’t slurring, he is mumbling. Too much death metal in my youth; I really can’t hear him either way. Hence the earlier reference to the lack of dialogue and the shortness of some of our visits.
“Jew order?”, he asks as he starts dealing the cards. I nod as I start picking up the cards. Off to a great start; he deals me a potential 32-point hand. Just have to hope he plays the right card. “You work today?” I asked him as he picks up his cards and swigs a full mouth of coffee. He obviously has a dry mouth issue. He keeps drinking his coffee and water, alternating like neither is doing the trick. “Yeh, but I think Ima callin in. I feel wurst now than I did whun I came in”. Rob drops his cards with a smack on the table and puts his head down on his arms.
Judy comes to the table with our order, again without any unnecessary eye contact. As usual I stare at her tits as she sets my plate in front of me. Rob doesn’t even lift his head so Judy sets the plate next to his shoulder with a smirk on her face. Problem with her smirk is you can see the black decay at the base of her teeth. Huge turn off. Probably won’t look at her ample bosom again today ( but I am a guy, I will forget by the next time we come in). I apply a liberal dose of Tobasco and dig right into my hard boiled egg (a habit I picked up from my Grandpa who hated runny eggs ). Rob looks up for a second and grabs a slice of bacon, promptly hiding his face again. His head is bobbing up and down slightly from the motion of chewing. Jim The Cook makes a monstrous racket in the kitchen that makes even Judy jump. “What the fuck Jim?” she states as she walks into the kitchen entrance, taking a moment to adjust her granny panties before she walks through the swinging door. “Goddammit!” she yells, followed by another loud crash.
Then silence. Silence from the TVs (which are usually on mute with closed caption running when the restaurant is open). Silence from the kitchen. Silence from Rob. I take a moment just to absorb the situation, as it perplexes me. Then Rob lets out a groan like he’s gonna puke. “Dude, you already puked in their bench once before, you better fucking take it to the bathroom. “ He responds by extending his hand in a violent jerk, shoving his now luke warm coffee into my lap.
“That’s it Dude. You are on your own”, I say while weeble wobbling my way out of the bench (table is too close, and I am a little overweight). I grab his napkin to towel off my wet crotch, ten shades of pissed because it landed in just the right spot to make me look like I pissed myself. By making a spectacle, I ensure that Judy and Jim know why I am wet.
Then Rob lifted his head and looked at me. The strangest look came over his face, as he sniffed the air from side to side. He had a look that I can only describe as an elderly man having sex for the first time in 40 years (I apologize for my analogies. It’s the way I think.) His jaw was agape with a small rivulet of mucus making its way down his chin. Actually it was coming out of his nose too. Fucking gross.
I throw the napkin at Rob and grab my keys off the bench. I take two steps toward the door and I look outside for the first time since Rob showed up. There are dozens of people standing outside the café just staring in. Like straight out of a zombie flick. A man in an orange vest is shifting from foot to foot. A teenage boy with a faux hawk blinks every time a snow flake hits his mascara covered eyelash. A mailman is sitting in the seat of his mail van, neck twitching like he is trying to pop his thin neck. Other than that, they are all just standing there.
I don’t know how long I stare at them. I fancy myself a writer so I absorb every moment and think it over in “StephenKing-ese”; King is the only man who can take six pages to describe a single second of action. I am quite the insomniac and find myself doing the same thing with my dreams. Hyper analyzing every last detail to determine if there is any significance, or if it will work well in a book. This is just like that. I don’t think the reality has set in that the scene I see in front of me has to either be a dream, or I am living through a fucking Undead invasion.
Then I feel a hand grab a handful of my jeans behind my knees. Lucky grab really. Probably the only spot on my tight fitting jeans that have any slack. I turn and see Rob almost laying down in his bench as he leans towards me. A very faint noise comes from deep in his throat, almost like a snore. It is at that moment that I have the strangest mix of emotions occur all at the same time. I simultaneously smile because the snoring sound is comical, jerk my leg away from him in a panic, and take in a big old hurking breath like I do when I start to have a panic attack (Happens all the time. Perfectionism is a trait that often comes with panic attacks when everything is flawed around you).
When jerking my leg away, Rob’s grip is enough to pull him right out onto the floor. I can see by his prone position on the floor that he had shat himself sometime in the altercation. I only know it for a recent shat because the smell hits me milliseconds after I see the stain.
“What the fuck Rob?” I say as I kick his grip loose with my other hand. I rush for the kitchen door, hoping there is someone behind that swinging door that hasn’t gone all zombie on me. As I push the swinging door open, I enter what appears to be an empty kitchen. Two steps in I hit a slick spot on the tile and launch horizontally into the air. As my head cracks the tile floor, I focus solely on staying conscious. After a moment of dazed confusion, I roll over onto my stomach to push myself up. The puddle of blood I find my hands in has settled into each tile caulk crevice leaving very little physically on top of the tiles. Just enough to leave a pink hue on the alternating black and white tiles.
“OOOAAAAAHHH Fuck!” I yell while slipping and sliding my way to my feet. I must look like a drunk playing Twister by myself as I take thirty seconds to scramble to my feet. When I finally get vertical I lean against the dishwasher just inside the door. While trying to get my breath back I notice there is a trail of blood running out the back door into the snow. Still light headed from multiple shocks, I start to make my way towards the back door, of course with the intent to shut the door to bar the mystery menace from re-entry (what do I look stupid? This ain’t a fucking movie).
Being a significantly overweight gentlemen of my stature, I move amazingly fast towards the door. The door is only open about four inches so I grab the handle and jerk with all my might. My already slimy fingers just slip and the door bounces outward like there is something in the jam. I look down to what is obviously Judy’s hand with a death grip on the door jam. Only there is nothing attached. My obsession with the Addam’s Family as a child leaves me standing there waiting for the hand to animate and do something. Then the synapses in my brain start firing. I kick the hand away from the jam (which takes five swift foot nudges to get it to release) and lean outside to grab the door handle. I feel the now heavy flakes hit my head and melt instantly.
Much like outside the front of the restaurant there are dozens of people. But here they are dogpiling what is now obviously Judy’s corpse. Much like a hyena with a pack of lions one small girl with pigtails scrambles in and grabs a mouthful of intestine. She makes it about ten feet with a firm grip of the intestines in her mouth when the organ snaps like a piece of licorice shared between two childhood friends. I would have found the ensuing riot hilarious as four others chase the little girl into the woods if I didn’t remind myself about Rob inside.
Fuck. I close the door slowly and head back inside. When the door closes I begin crying like a little school girl. That is my best friend out there. Why hasn’t he tried to eat me yet? Is he fighting it? I can’t possibly go out there and kill him. Sure as kids we fought, and many a times I hurt him, but I never deliberately caused him permanent harm ( I once boxed his ear with a full handed smack and left him deaf in one ear but it was only because I was drunk). I sank to the floor in a heap as I thought over what must be done. I could still hear him out in the dining room gurgling and making farting noises like we used to back in Junior High French class. I took in a deep breath and found myself laughing and crying while I reminisced over our younger years. It is with that memory I made my decision.
I slowly made my way to my feet (mostly because my knees have a tendency to pop if I move too quickly) and made my way towards the swinging door. I grabbed a freshly washed steak knife from the dishwasher by the door and pushed the door open. Rob was there on the floor in the same position I left him. I hadn’t noticed his foot had caught in the crack of the bench on his way to the floor. His ankle had clearly snapped as his legs were flayed like a crooked cross. His nails made a ‘scritching’ noise as he clawed his way toward me to no avail. The gurgle was now a needy howl, much like my old mutt at home to a full moon.
I sunk back inside the kitchen and began crying like a big pussy again. I reached for the gasline above the stove with my steak knife. I heard a pop and a hiss as the gas began leaking at a fast pace. Once I was sure it was going to keep coming, I went back out into the dining room and sat just outside of Rob’s reach. Moments passed like hours. I just stared at Rob remembering our whole lives before today. Was I too critical of his poor habits? Would we be here right now if we made different choices. I looked out into the snow and realized as the dozens of onlookers became hundreds that we couldn’t have done anything differently. I reached for Rob’s jacket and grabbed a cigarette and his lighter. Haven’t had one in more than two years; I think now is a good time to start again.
I stop long enough to take in the greater event of the day and think about the decision I have to make. As I strike the lighter, I think to myself “damn you global warming” as the light and heat increase to an unimaginable level.
I wake to the stench of burnt flesh as I lay in the trees staring back at the rear entrance of the café, now engulfed in flames. Rob is standing in front of me, head cocked to the side, still smoking. Almost like I am on remote control, I begin to rise to my feet . I limp my way towards Rob and the waiting remnants of the corpseof Judy on the ground. I know what is happening, but I am powerless to make it stop. I stop next to Rob and look deep into his eyes, knowing the same is occurring to him. “Best friends for ever”, I think towards my good buddy as we join the dog pile and the coming feast…
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