At Dave's
There were other ways of knowing: he stepped into a yellow
morning which seemed to him to be, well, not gray but kind of
a grayish maroon. He couldn't figure out why; he hadn't
eaten mushrooms in at least a week.
He stumble-crawled towards Dave's Luncheonette, climbed into
a booth. He insisted on looking at the menu for six minutes
and thirty seven seconds every day even though he always
ordered bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. This morning
he also ordered water, but he didn't drink any of it.
It was Thursday, April 20, 1967. He was waiting for something
to happen. As he was eating, some of the water evaporated,
some people were born, some were married, a star imploded, a
friend of his was throwing up, two others were having sex. As
he finished his last forkful of eggs, a fly sitting directly
opposite from him died.
He left Dave's, headed north. Nothing much happened the rest
of the day. Had he known it was Hitler's birthday, he would
not have celebrated.
