Doomed to Repeat by Chall Gray
A while back you saw a man in the road. You hit the brakes and slowed to almost 40 mph, only to realize that it was a road sign.
Eventually the road itself becomes an apparition. Taking on slopes and undulations that exist only in the mind. Moving and breathing upon itself. Sometimes it is, then isn’t. Then is, then isn’t.
The music has no efficacy, neither does keeping the windows open. Drowsiness has become an inescapable shroud, a straitjacket drawn tightly around you.
—Goddamn it, you have to stop! Get some coffee, get a sandwich, something.
You see an exit, you take it, not really caring what is there, but needing to slow down, change gears, use the brake, any change of momentum. Sanity through differentiation.
It’s twenty minutes before four now, that means you can make it there by noon. That’s being generous too. You’ll still be able to stop a couple more times if you need to. No sweat.
At the bottom of the exit there’s a sign that says “Coffee House, 24 Hours,” and an arrow to the right. You pull off into their parking lot.
There are only three other cars there. You sit down, order a cup of coffee and pick up the menu. It’s an olio of greasy concoctions: sausage and grits, hash browns, burgers, barbeque, it goes on.
After a brief contemplation, you choose the “Never-Ending Stack of Pancakes.” It’s $6.95, but this’ll be enough food to sate you for the rest of the trip.
The waitress is short and has her hair pulled up into a bun above her over made-up face. As she brings your coffee it’s obvious to you that she was attractive twenty years ago, before the pull of time and the signs of a difficult life transposed themselves upon her.
The only other patrons are a couple of guys in plaid shirts. They’re over in a booth smoking on the other end of the restaurant. They didn’t even notice when you walked in.
“More coffee, hon?” She asks, setting down a plate of three pancakes.
“Yeah sure, thanks.” You reply.
The pancakes are good, though part of that probably stems from your hunger. The chef stops. He’s a burly guy with a cardboard hat and a rugged face. As he leans in you notice the marine insignia tattooed on his forearm and the small hint of vacancy in his eyes, one that’s seen in the eyes of so many veterans of war.
“How’re them pancakes?”
“Excellent, thanks.”
“You ready for another stack?”
“Yeah, I reckon so.”
Presently, he brings another plate of pancakes. You begin to slow down on the second one and after one bite of the third decide that you’re satiated. The chef is walking by as you stop eating.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“No, they were great. I’m just full.”
He stares you in the eye for a few seconds. “You’re gonna finish your pancakes, ain’t you?” He says slowly.
You’re somewhat puzzled, but begin to work on your third pancake, not wanting to offend him. Just as you finish it, he brings out another plate and sets it down in front of you.
“Oh no. I’m sorry. That’s all I can take.” You say, wondering why he brought these out to begin with. You thought you made it pretty obvious that you were full.
“Well, I made ‘em, and you ordered the never-ending stack, so you’re just gonna go ahead and finish ‘em,” he says evenly and unwaveringly.
You look at the plate and back at the chef.
“No, I’m sorry, but I’m full.”
“I don’t think you understand son. You ordered the never-ending stack and you’re gonna finish ‘fore you leave.” His voice has risen and become angry by the end of the sentence and the two plaid shirt guys glance over as they are walking out the door.
“They’re leaving.” You point out.
“They didn’t order the never-ending stack,” he says callously, as though it should’ve been obvious to you.
You begin to eat the pancakes, forcing the bites in, slowly chewing, then making yourself swallow. As you start on the second pancake he pours more batter onto the griddle.
“Got your next stack comin’ right up, buddy,” he says without turning around.
You glance at the waitress. She’s looking out the window. You look at your watch. The second hand is ticking in place without moving forward. You turn back to your pancakes and slowly begin to cut another bite.
posted by Edgy Mama | 10:37 AM
8 Comments:
nice story. but what is this crap about a goat herder?
Well, the way I see it, this man is most eagerly waiting for the application process to goat herding. They don't just accept anyone, you see.
Let me bend your ear to something, for a moment…
You might say I’m a chip off the old block, but a cut above. I’m close to my family; I like to keep them a stones throw away. As I advance in years, I’ve acquired a taste for the finer things in life, good food and good friends. Besides, after all is said and done, it’s just you against the clock. It’s all good and fun if one’s ahead of the game.
I’ve enrolled in school and put in the time only to find out all roads lead to Rome. I see people fight and fret and follow suit. They’re armed to the teeth, and with an eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth, it’s all out war. Believe it or not, it’s all that goes on around here. People are beside themselves with the birds and the bees, and always worrying about keeping their eye on the prize. They’ve no time to crack a book, crack a joke or even crack a smile.
Maybe I’m as crazy as a loon, or mad as a hatter, but I just don’t want to be a part of it. At this stage in the game, I’m all six and sevens. I’ve waited until the eleventh hour and found myself at the end of nowhere.
So I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf, cut class and go half-cocked into the wind. I think I’m poles apart from almost everyone else out there, but I don’t let it get me down. I’ve no time for that! I barely have time to breath. I’d rather fall apart at the seams, fall asleep, fall into a trap, or fall in love. I feel compelled to follow my heart, for better or for worse.
So while you move up in the world, making such and ado about nothing, I’ll be behind the scenes with sticky fingers and stars in my eyes, doing my best to keep up with the times.
I’m invincible under the sun, thinking how I’ve never had it so good.
P V N lives in Asheville, NC and doesn’t not particularly like to write, but can’t seem to stop. So, as you might imagine, it’s a constant battle. But I’m confident he’ll win.
Nice story, but what about the ending? Am I to make it up myself? Does the guy eat himself to death? Is the chef really a chef or some metaphorical character from this poor guys dreams? And what does the neverending stacks represent?
Is it an oral fixation?
I am not a big fan of pancakes.
eddo,
I would suggest extensive perusal in the work of Lacan and Jung, with a little Freud, to complete the psychological portion of the circumstance. Then proceed to Max Weber and Emile Durkheim for the sociological side of the spectrum. At this time you will have the beginnings of the requisite tools to form a hypothesis.
Further reading:
Foucault
Wittgenstein
Russell
Descartes
Santayana
Sarte
hope this helps,
chall
oops, oh, ouch, damn!
Who dropped all these friggin' names?
And what is that smell? It smells like UP DOG in here!!!!
I am ready for a new story!
Hey Chall,
Nice revisions. I'm still unconvinced by the 2nd person narrator.
The voice becomes (by the end) a little too Rod Serling, cf.
"You're traveling through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's a signpost up ahead: your next stop: the Twilight Zone!"
Right? Right?
This is why the protagonist of the story the "You" becomes rendered as blurry streak eating pancakes rather than an individual suffering a metaphysical or otherwise crisis. This "you" is too universal.
In other words, why isn't this written in the first person. It's a question I asked you before about this piece. I'm asking it again, I guess.
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