Breakfast at Brand X

It was nearly 90° yesterday, and it's supposed to be right at the edge of 90° again today. Too hot for a fat man, and also, today's the day for breakfast with Mom and whoever else shows up at the diner.

But not at Mrs Rigby's Diner. That's where we'd usually meet and eat, but it doesn't have air conditioning, plus they close daily at 2:45 in the afternoon, locking the heat inside, so after a hot day it's still uncomfortably hot inside the diner the following morning.

Everyone complains about this whenever we're at Mrs Rigby's and it's too hot, and I usually order extra ice water and rub ice cubes in my hair. It's all quite unpleasant, so whenever there's a hot streak of weather, breakfast is relocated to a different restaurant.

And it's always the same different restaurant, which I'll call Brand X, because it's inferior in every way — the food isn't as good, costs $7-10 more, and the coffee refills come very, very slowly — but there's air conditioning.

Yesterday, I texted the announcement: "Heat wave, so breakfast will be at Brand X, not Mrs Rigby's." Sent that message to Mom, my sister Katrina, and Katrina's friend Adelle — the usual crowd for breakfast.

When we met this morning, and everyone got seated, the first thing Mom said was, "Why are we here instead of at Mrs Rigby's?" So I explained what I'd said in yesterday's text, that Mrs Rigby's will be uncomfortably warm.

Mom nodded and understood, but during the meal, she asked that question four more times, and the rest of us took turns re-explaining why we were at Brand X instead of Mrs Rigby's.

Mom still has a sharp command of all the childhood stories that embarrass me, and an eagerness to often re-tell them, but her recollection of little things has faded. Today was the worst I've seen, a sign of increasing mental slippage. It's sad, of course, but to be expected. She's 90-something.

Brand X Restaurant was very well-chilled, and Mom was uncomfortably cold after a few minutes. But it's the height of late-summer here, so she hadn't brought her jacket.

I brought mine, though. This is Seattle, where any day can suddenly be rainy, so even in summertime, my jacket is in my backpack. Being a gentleman and a loving son, I offered it to Mom.

The punchline is that it's my tie-dye jacket, which Mom hates. In the winter months when I usually wear it, she complains every time she sees me. "You look like a hippie," she always says.

I always reply, "Why, thank you." She means it as criticism, but I am a hippie at heart. That's why it's tie-dye.

Well, today was payback for all those hippie accusations. Thought maybe she'd refuse the offer, and prefer to shiver instead, but she took my coat of many colors, and zipped herself into it without a word.

"Gee, Mom," I said, "you look like such a hippie. Do ya' know where I can score some weed?"

Three out of four of us laughed, and then we all chatted for a few minutes, ordered breakfast, and Mom asked again, "Why are we here instead of at Mrs Rigby's?"

9/6/2024   

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