The World's Greatest Breakfast

I was sitting in my kitchen watching the birds on the line when the phone rang. “Hello, Mr. Stockton?” it said. The voice on the other end of the line cackled like an old radio. “Speaking.” “Congratulations. You’ve won.” I didn’t remember entering anything. “Won what?” “The World’s Greatest Breakfast.” “This must be a mistake. I never entered any such contest. I don’t even eat breakfast.” “Well, let me just check here… No, the records definitely show a Mr. Reginald Stockton was selected.” “That’s not me. Everyone calls me Reg. Only my mother ever called me Reginald, and she’s been dead for years. You’ve got the wrong guy.” “Do you live at 149 Southlake Avenue?” I said I didn’t, that I’d never heard of the place. “Do you love boats, particularly small dinghies?” I said I hated boats, but that even if I didn’t, I would certainly go for something a bit more majestic than a dinghy. “When you were seven, did you want to be an opera singer?” I said that when I was seven, I was far too serious-minded for any such business. I said that I think I wanted to be an accountant. “Yep, this is definitely you. Now, when should we pick you up?” “Listen,” I said in my most assertive voice, “this is some kind of mistake. That’s not me. I hate breakfast. I can’t stand to even look at an egg.” “Now, Mr. Stockton, you’re not going to talk your way out of this one. You’ve won. It’s best just to accept your fate.” So, we agreed that this Tuesday would work best. He told me a car would come by then to pick me up.

Tuesday was misty, cold, and moist. I wore a heavy wool sweater, but I was shivering. Finally, there was a knock on my door. Two heavy men with dark sunglasses stood in my doorframe. “Mr. Stockton, would you come with us.” I invited them in for a cup of coffee, a game of darts, anything. “I’m sorry Mr. Stockton, I love darts, but we’re on a tight schedule.” The car was a black limo, windows opaque. They insisted on blindfolding me. “We can’t afford to let the location be known by anyone. It’s for your own protection.” I assented. I had lost the will to fight. We drove for hours, at first over smooth roads, then over increasingly corrugated dirt paths, until I got the feeling that no human had ever traversed this terrain, that it was uncharted, a square of pale parchment on an ancient map. “What time is it?” I asked. “I’m sorry, but we’re not permitted to give out that information.” We had left the city behind: I could smell pine trees. Finally, the car cruised to a halt. “We’re here,” they said, and ushered me out of the car, removing my blindfold with surprising care. Despite it all, they seemed like men their mothers would be proud of.

The house was plain and wooden. It seemed to be carved from one solid piece of wood, though it was fifteen feet high. At the door stood two more sunglassed men. They nodded to their fellows, never glancing at me. Inside, several portraits of a child who bore a remarkable similarity to me were hung. Sailboat-print wallpaper, faded almost beyond recognition, lined the back. In the center was an older woman. “Please, Reginald, sit,” she said. She smelled like opium and moved as though the wind floated her about, like a dandelion. She had a milky eye and I knew she was the boy’s mother. Without a word, I sat in the straight-backed wooden chair. It was the most comfortable thing I’d ever been a part of. She brought a modest plate of over-easy eggs, pumpernickel toast, and two strips of bacon. I ate them in silence, tasting every bite. I felt like a convict, eating his last meal, and when this was over, I would be sent to the electric chair. I could see it now. The clocks striking five-till-midnight, the priest reading me my last rights. He was a nice guy, the priest, but a bit short at times, and I got the feeling he was afraid of me. Then I noticed my plate was clear, just a little yolk here and there, whatever had managed to escape. I felt great, like I could take on anything. “Mr. Stockton, please come with me,” someone said. I wasn’t sure who this Mr. Stockton was, but this guy sure had some spiffy sunglasses.