Once I was off the treadmill and into the bathroom, the high-pressure showerhead did its duty, the icy pricks from its many concentrated jets feeling like a thousand stabs from icy needles. They kicked me back into high gear, like cryogenic sleep in reverse.
Air drying on the way to the bedroom, I acquiesced to the demands of society, laying on a thin sheen of cologne before slipping into my work clothes.
Then I hurried to cook breakfast, throwing on an apron that had been my grandfather’s. A humble man in all ways but his talents, he’d made it all the way to the White House, serving as head chef for several administrations. Nixon was particularly fond of his omelets, or at least that was the legend.
Once I was suited up in the apron, I chose my weapons. The entire arsenal was also bequeathed to me in my grandfather’s will, much to the surprise of almost everyone. I was a boy, after all, and society had not been quite so progressive then. Besides which, the plan for my life was already clearly laid out.
The eggs popped softly in the cast iron skillet. It was Grandpa’s famous recipe, and I was mostly just trying to do it justice. There was a lot of very subtle nuance to the perfect omelet, not least what was put into it, but most of all, the egg was the crux of it. Grandpa had me cracking the suckers one-handed by the time I could ride a bike.
I’d seriously thought about becoming a chef. I certainly had the proclivity, as well as a good bit of training, particularly by the time I’d started investigating culinary arts programs for after high school— ones that had somehow mysteriously disappeared from my bookmarks and search history when I went back to look at them.
Taking the hint that my parents did not approve of that vocation, I pushed the matter no further. My inheritance and trust fund were later held over my head if I dared to suggest any other occupation other than becoming a doctor.
The seasoning joined the cheese and diced green peppers in the middle of the quietly cooking eggs. With a flip of my spatula, the decorative egg became a delicious omelet.
I still had the urge for toppings. If not ketchup, which was apparently sacrilege, than a nice, smokey barbecue sauce. My first and only attempt to put ketchup on an omelet had gotten my hand smacked with the flat of a spatula when I was small. That incident left enough of an impression on me that I never tried it again.
Once freshly squeezed orange juice was rendering my glass half-full, I transported the bounty to the table, which was just steps from the kitchen, in a designated dining room between the living room and the kitchen.
“Never fails,” I observed, my phone going off as soon as I touched the varnished rosewood chair.
“Darling,” my mother pronounced, as though it was three syllables, as soon as I had answered the phone and before I could even get in a word of greeting.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Now, now, Jacobie. What have I told you about this ‘Mother’ business?”
“And what have I told you about calling me Jacobie? It’s Jake.”
“What was that, young man?”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Still, that’s really no way to talk to the woman who put a roof over your head for so many years. And a very fine roof, at that.”
“Was there something you wanted, Mother?”
“It is your father’s reunion next week, and he wants to know if you are coming.”
“There’s a lockdown order in place, Mother.”
“Of course there is, Dear. And what safer place is there to be than at a reunion of retired doctors?”
“I meant I’ll be working. I’m the one working as a doctor now, thanks very much to your insistence, and am on unofficial call until God knows when, due to this thing called Covid.”
I couldn’t help but let the sarcasm seep out, because my mother just acted so clueless sometimes.
“Are you sure you can’t spare just a couple of hours?”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
My phone safely returned to my pocket, I set myself back to the task of eating the mega omelet before me. I was fueling up for what promised to be a very busy day. At least if it followed the trend set by the first part of this week.
Coronavirus cases were spiking again— enough to make the politicos panic beyond their normal basic need to hold onto their base. I felt humbled to be able to help out during this pandemic.
The honest truth was that I never really wanted to be a doctor, least of all in an intensive care unit, but I was suddenly very glad I’d been practically forced down such a path, my parents threatening to disinherit me if I didn’t choose this career.
For the first time in a long time, I actually felt useful, as if my life had a purpose that was of my own choosing or at least my own liking, rather than something pre-ordained since before I was born.