It's like finding a one-hundred-dollar bill while walking down the sidewalk. The world sometimes sneezes moments of incredible opportunity at us. Like yesterday when the wind the swell and the tide aligned for Tim. Tiny Tim's five nine one fifty and no one calls him tiny Tim but me. He and his medium length, slightly thinning and receding sun bleached blonde hair did not sway. Unlike his confidence, Tim curled his bottom right canine tooth around the longest horn like envelope covering his right index finger and gnawed with his upper right slightly chipped canine against his keratin as he couldn't decide where to surf. Tim's the type of dude that gets two pieces of pizza and is already thinking about the second one while eating the first one.
Tim rolled his gritty tongue against the smooth chip of his upper canine feeling over the piece of himself that was no longer there. It was glassy everywhere, well, it was offshore north but whatever. What he was looking at looked good but then he'd be alone.
Surfing, unlike most other solo sports is actually more difficult to mentally engage with when you are truly alone. Tim knew he'd most likely be fine, but the small tendon of fear pulled on his soul like a stray hair caught in a zipper as the realistic possibility of drowning shivered up the back of his neck and tremored across his skull.
Tim watched a head high set break and barrel across the sand bar as his homie Steve pulled up in a white Volkswagen with a blue and white wave storm, a Lagunitas IPA, a cigarette and a long bright smile. It was warm, the water was clean, and Steve and Tim surfed together for an hour uninterrupted. They scored the south end bar as the basketballed smoldering sun pearled into the sea as Tim watched Steve navigate through another hollow space in a cold, turquoise, breaking wave.
At Alice's there are four sections of the restaurant delineated alphabetically. Each section holds eight tables. The servers are required to run their own food. In the ceiling of the restaurant are four lights, one for each section. If a server's food is up the cooks will turn on the light of the corresponding servers section.
Around ten am on a soggy Sunday near Thanksgiving in San Bernardino, California, Tim saw his light turn on, and as he glanced over his boney right shoulder he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his Hazel and green left eye. Even though Tim didn't get a good look at her, he couldn't mistake all five foot seven and one hundred and twenty-three slim pounds of Mia Malkova's perfectly toasted marsh mellow lotion-ed skin as her long, shoulder length, straight blonde and brown hair strolled through the swinging glass doors of Alice's. The restaurant was packed. Tim's section was full, there was at least a thirty minuet wait, and he was in the middle of taking an order.
His current customer's flat bangs and straight dark hair encased her round nose, squinting brown eyes and small yellowing teeth. Rendering this middle aged woman to an emoji of herself as she asked Tim, "Which bread is the best bread?" It wasn't so much the inherent open ended nature of the question that she had asked Tim that frustrated him. It was the way she said it, emotionally implying that Tim should know her bread preferences and to accurately inform her of which bread she was going to think was "the best" was an impossible task that she had, most likely unknowingly, thrust Tim into.
"Uh, well, we have three types of breads miss but the Oatmeal Molasses is the most unique of the three. It's sort of like whole wheat bread but it's just a little bit sweeter." Tim said back to her. She decided on Sour White. Tim thanked her and her company and made his way to the C Stationed Point of Service machine that sat upon a wooden hutch that was waist high and just wide enough to embrace the desktop looking POS machine.
Serving a porn starlet breakfast may or may not be an anxiety producing and emotionally corkscrewed incident for some of the servers at Alice's. Most of the time a server won't even have time to engage with a customer beyond taking their order. Alice's business model is based on turn over, and more often than not, the employee waiting on the starlet is unaware that the starlet is a starlet. Unfortunately for Tim, this was not the case.
As he finished inputting C-2's order he glanced over at her again. She was wearing a lipstick red Herve Leger Cross-Bust Open-Back Bandage Dress that discreetly had Digital Playground written in white right below her 34 C breasts. The Herve Leger accidently on purpose clung tightly to her athletic build and suggested that perhaps her buttox and breasts might reveal themselves. As the fabric embracing her flesh seemed like a taught bungie cord, teetering on the edge of recoiling into itself. She is not wearing any make up, no one else in the restaurant could come close to resembling her, she stuck out like a compound fracture. Tim's light was still on.
Esteban was hosting this morning. He held a small clipboard with a list full of names and numbers. His ink black hair was geld upward resembling stalagmites. He had a thin black mustache that could have been sharpied on and no one would have been able to tell the difference. His youthful build helped him project over the hum of multiple people having multiple conversations; all blending into one indiscernible sound that could best be described as loud.
"Gena party of five" Esteban spoke with an effeminate intonation that often lingered and reverberated around your ears even after he'd finish speaking.
Tim tapped Esteban and gently grasped a portion of the soft flesh of his left shoulder. "Dog-" Esteban interrupted Tim before he could finish his sentence.
"I'm not a dog." Interjected Esteban.
"I'm not calling you a dog, dog. I'm just...whatever. Look, you see that" Tim directed Esteban's attention toward Mia Malkova who was twirling her hair with her white nail polished fingers.
"She's cute. What? You want her in your section?" Esteban said this to Tim as he raised his right eye brow which was pierced with a small silver barbell.
"No!" Tim responded to Esteban with the same power and projection of Esteban.
"Calm down boo."
"Look dude just don't seat her in C. Please." Tim said to Esteban as he walked briskly toward the pass window, avoiding an older man with a newspaper, a larger woman with a baby, and a younger girl with her head down buried in her phone.
As Tim entered the pass window Larry the head cook at Alice's let everyone else in the kitchen know that "Dick lips is here for his omelet." Larry is wide, wears glasses, has a small soul patch below his lower lip and like Esteban has a piecing; but Larry's lies in the upper left hand corner of his bottom lip, and it's a ring with a ball in the middle; not a barbell. Larry has an under bite and looks like he has a micro dewlap or giant Adam's apple. He is bald and wears a black hat the top of which is perforated. Larry limps, he used to be a BMX maniac and one day busted up his knee really bad and never got it fixed, so it healed weird. He doesn't so much walk as he does lumber from side to side as if he were bound by some invisible shackles like plastic army men.
"Mia Malkova's here" Tim responded back to Larry and the rest of the cooks.
"I know her!" Chubby Ceaser called out to Tim as he was thinly slicing bananas.
"Yeah dog, she won the AVN for Best New Starlet in 2014" Tim called back to Chubby Caesar.
"Look buddy I'm glad your mom came in for breakfast but quit distracting my guy your foods getting cold." Larry said back to Tim. The Epson Printer received an order and the whirring noise of the engine coupled with many tennis balls being run through a dryer with a kazoo drew the focus of Larry's attention away from Tim. As Larry held the receipt with blue latex gloves he belted out the word "bacon!" louder than Esteban alerting the other cooks that they needed to throw three strips of bacon onto the grill. Tim took his omelet and walked back toward section C.
This Mia situation is producing stress for Tim. To accurately describe the emotions associated with beholding an individual in the flesh who he's seen in porn is currently beyond him. He can't fathom having to ask Mia Malkova, whose specific vaginal likeness is known to him, how'd she'd like her eggs. Tim's seen her face in orgasm, a purely neural and unprotected expression that he has to carry with him if she ends up sitting in his section; and yet Tim feels the dissonant emotion of shyness in terms of the prospect of interacting with her.
Tim also feels a complicated titillating anxiety. In most of Mia's "films" everything is hyper sexualized. In Sexy Yoga and or Yoni Yoga it only takes Arnold a bare chested, muscular, short haired, and wearing cargo shorts with no shoes, six minutes of "stretching" before he tears Mia's yoga pants wide open while she is bent in the down dog position. His motivation for ruining her sports apparel is unknown to the viewer but apparently Mia the inept yoga student has no qualms. Which then sends the two of them into a heap of limbs and orifices.
There is a strange subliminal assumption coupled with a feeling of worry coupled with a feeling of primordial desire that perhaps taking Mia's order will lead to some insane experience in the bathroom that shares a wall with Subway that always smells like bread. However, he also realizes that thinking that way is similar to thinking that waiting on a doctor would yield him a free medical procedure. Tim hopes he doesn't have to wait on her, or perhaps she'll be discouraged by the long wait, and will realize that dinning alone in a busy restaurant is a not the most fun you could have on a Sunday morning.
Tim delivers the omelet to C-5. "here is your two egg omelet, Sir. More coffee?"
"That's not two eggs." His customer replies to Tim in a mischievous and jovial tone.
"You're not two eggs." Tim hurriedly whispers under his breath as he twists toward the Bunnomatic machine warming several large coffee pots. Tim clenches the cool black plastic handle of the regular coffee with his right hand.
