Last Breakfast

He looked over at the handle of the frying pan. It was covered in grease with little bits of the egg he just scrambled clinging to the side. If you closely studied the stove you would be able to ascertain to a high degree of certainty what he had eaten in the past month. This study would be very much like the science of excavating an ancient city except instead of using carbon dating you would measure how dry or moist the bits of food were to determine the week and day on which it was prepared. Perhaps there would even be a major find underneath the dried teriyaki that would push back the date significantly for the last time cleaned. There were smears of pasta sauce and peanut butter and jelly, bacon grease, dried noodles, papaya juice, fudge, sausage, hamburger, tofu, pesto sauce, a smudgeon of vomit in the left corner, peas wrinkled to three times their former size. He took one of the larger pieces of egg off the handle and dipped it into the drying ketchup, scraping off some of the skin that had formed over the top and popped it into his mouth. He took another piece and reached through the piles of dishes in the sink to the bottom where he groped for a knife. A cockroach ran over his hand tickling the top of his skin. A shudder ran up his spine. His fingers found a knife and pulled it up. There was some butter with crumbs clinging to it. He put it in his mouth to clean it off. It tasted a little strange. He used the knife to scrape off some of the dried pesto that had molded itself to the surface and sprinkled it on top of the egg and ate it. He began to cry. He took a pea and rubbed it underneath his eye to wet it. The hard wrinkles felt good on his skin. He put it between his teeth and bit down. Like eating a mummy, he thought. He turned the knob for the oven cracking open several weeks of grease and dirt as he did so. The sound of the gas wheezed through the pipes. He leaned against the stove with his left hand on the edge staring at the empty eye with its bits and pieces sticking to it. He began the attempt of peeling off a noodle with his fingernail. It wouldn't break or budge. He pushed hard against it causing his left hand to slip on the greasy edge. Gravity hurled his body down and cracked his head on the top. He had blood running down into his eye and flecks of green on his forehead. My last meal, he thought. He opened the stove door, removed the caked grate and stuck his head in, resting it on the bottom of the oven covered in three month old steak grease. Breathe. Breathe. He thought. Soon everything will be clean.

About the author:

Bob Beier seeks fame and fortune, if only to become another celebrity name which will 'reverse' the order of play in the 'Name Game.'