by Paul Merino

Created on: August 10, 2008

Since society refuses to recognize my intrinsic worth and shower me with cash, concubines, and free cinnamon rolls, I am forced to sully my hands with a day job. Actually, it is more of a morning, day, evening job. The point is that I wake up at an hour that is usually only seen by fishermen and emergency workers. However, over the past year of toil, I have actually started to acclimate my "last-call" lifestyle to this new schedule. While there have been drawbacks, most notably my habitual sobriety, I have discovered Saturday mornings.

Once considered some mythical El Dorado, I have found Saturday mornings to be replete with smiles, optimism, and the knowledge that work lies safely over the horizon. Anyway, I took the opportunity of this Saturday morning to enjoy the treat of a real, sit-down breakfast at a local restaurant. I grabbed one of the myriad books, that only someone who is used to eating alone would have in their car, and I was off!
At first, there was nothing too unusual about the scene. Being the weekend, it was a bit crowded by people who would normally be spending their time impeding my morning commute and generally colluding against me. Today, they were taking the time to luxuriously slather both butter and syrup on their pancakes. Not wanting to give these people the satisfaction of making me wait, I sacrificed my curmudgeonly privacy and opted to sit at the counter.
I was greeted by a waitress of indeterminate age and ethnicity. She seemed eastern European, but we rarely get Soviet-bloc transplants down here in Austin. So, in her best Boris Badanov, she took my order. She was great, but it was a bit like getting your orange juice from Count Dracula. "You Vant To Dreenk Zom Juice?" she would ask. I would nod and position my fork over my knife in a makeshift cross.
I cracked open my book, but I could not help glancing down the counter and taking stock of my other Saturday morning revelers. There was a young guy in a hat with a goatee. He was flanked by an elderly man who was old enough to speak with authority on the Teapot-Dome Scandal. Then, there came a paint-flecked man in his forties with bug-eyes and either a mustache or the ability to balance a Yorkshire Terrier on his upper lip. After him, there was a tall, tan man whose head was wrapped in a bandanna, and had not received the news that men should not wear tank tops. Finally, there was Laura.
I have decided to devote this paragraph and possibly the next to Laura. Come to think of it,

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