Michael McGreggor is 7 years old, and he wakes up every day at seven o’clock. It’s a coincidence that he’s 7 and he wakes up at seven, but it is not a coincidence that 7 is his favorite number. Michael McGreggor lives in a really tiny apartment with his not so tiny Mom, who likes to sleep way, way, way past seven. She likes to sleep until maybe twelve o’clock noon. But this makes sense in a way, since she doesn’t really do much during the day. Michael’s mom had always told him that in 1969, they'd be getting the heck out of that tiny apartment and moving all the way to sunny California. And since Michael was born on the very first day of January 1962, he knew that his 7th year would be a lucky one.
But it helps not to look too far forward. So for today, things seem not unlike yesterday at first. Michael McGreggor stirs awake. He rubs his sleepy eyes, opens them, and lets their gaze fall upon one of the many cracks on the ceiling. Most seven year-old boys do not delight in the silence of their mornings, but Michael does. Because for the first few tranquil minutes of the early morning, before Michael shoots up and gets the paper, before he peruses the day’s classifieds for waitress jobs or receptionist jobs, circles them, and leaves them on the kitchen table, before he retrieves the mail and puts on his shirt and sole pair of slacks, before he notices the day’s first hunger pangs or mysterious tummy butterflies, Michael can simply stare at one of the cracks on the ceiling and be. But Michael can only stare for so long before it is time to get ready for the day. He strips the blanket off his gangly frame and gets himself up and to the closet like he normally does. But today is somewhat different, for the shirt he planned to wear is on the floor instead of in the closet where he thought he hung it, which causes him to get disoriented and spin around, at which time he notices his Flintstones calendar on the wall. The date, it seems, is April 21st, 1969; and it is circled on the calendar, because today is Michael’s mother’s 30th birthday. Michael’s sleepy eyes suddenly increase in diameter as he realizes he has forgotten to get his mother a present! He knew she needed a new nightgown, but it would have been impossible to afford one with his meager, however, well-earned savings, even if he did remember to go to Ms. Kitty’s shop yesterday. So, Michael scrambles to the kitchen in hopes that there may be some quarters in the quarter jar so that he can at least buy her some flowers. But alas, there are not. In despair, Michael’s shoulders slump, and he opens the cupboard to retrieve some powdered milk to mix for breakfast. Unfortunately, he sees that the powdered milk has run out, but it hardly seems to matter, because standing there in the cupboard, is something that Michael had never seen in his mother’s apartment ever before. It is a taxi-cab-yellow box of Bisquick instant pancake mix, and it is beautiful. As Michael notices his first hunger pangs of the day, he grabs the giant box of breakfast luxury and flips it over to read the instructions. 2 cups Bisquick, 1 cup milk, 2 eggs.
We don’t have eggs or milk! Michael quickly knocks aside any panic or resignation, and immediately jumps for his coat; he dashes out the door and down the seven flights of his mother’s walkup to 141st street and Hamilton Place, where he knows there is a grocery store. He doesn’t have to wait more than seven minutes outside the store before an elderly woman holding two paper grocery bags precariously exits the double doors. Michael scurries up to her.
“May I help you with your bags, ma’am?” he says in voice that is equally professional and adorably squeaky high.
“Yes, why thank you, young man. You may help me carry them to my front door down the street.” Michael eagerly takes the bags and tries his best not to stumble as he follows the elderly woman to 143rd street and Amsterdam Ave. He sets them down, and the woman thanks him; she then reaches into her pocket, and hands him three crisp one-dollar bills. Michael’s eyes grow wide with rapture, and he beams at the woman as he squeals, “My pleasure!”
He darts back to the grocery store on 141st and Hamilton Place. There, he collects a pint of milk, a half dozen eggs, and even springs for a small bottle of maple syrup, since the elderly woman had been so generous with her tip.
Groceries in hand, Michael races back up the street and seven flights of stairs to his mother’s closet-sized kitchen, where he lays out his edible treasures. He retrieves a pan from the cupboard and turns on the stove. In the biggest bowl he can find, Michael pours approximately 2 cups Bisquick, half the pint of milk, and exactly 2 eggs. He mixes the glorious concoction with a spoon and gently pours one beautiful round blob of batter into the pan. The sizzling sound and sweet smells consume the miniature kitchen, and Michael temporarily feels as if he has been displaced to somewhere far from Hamilton Place. While slowly stirring the delicious mix, Michael allows his mind to drift to what breakfast might taste like in California. He imagines his mom cooking pancakes with him over a bonfire on the beach. Mmmm, and bacon. And eggs. Not scrambled like he'd eat them at Hamilton Place, though. In California, he'd eat them sunny side up. Michael's mouth forms a dreamy grin. Somehow, he thought, even the food must look happier in such a beautiful place.
But at least for the moment, even his mother's kitchen seems doesn’t seem so bad. After his first pancake browns on both sides, Michael transfers it to the most new looking plate in the cupboard, and pours the brew into the pan again. One on top of the other, he flawlessly stacks five flapjacks. With his face and arms spotted with batter, Michael seems overcome with self-satisfaction as he garnishes his mountain of doughy goodness with a dripping layer of sugary serum.
He clears the dirty laundry and piles of envelopes off the kitchen table and gently places down the plate along with a fork and knife. The display seems perfect. Ecstatic and anxious all at once, Michael knocks on his mother’s door and opens it slightly.
“Mom? Mom, are you up?” He sees her stir, and enters the room a bit further. “Happy Birthday, Mom. I have a surprise for you!” he whispers in excitement. His mother rolls over and stands up in her tattered nightgown. Behind her typically sedated expression, Michael can see a small glimmer of interest, and he enthusiastically takes her hand. He leads her out of the dark cluttered bedroom, and to the table in the main room of the apartment. He pulls out her chair and has her sit in front of his extraordinary pile of pancakes. It seems to take forever for her to respond to the surprise, and Michael waits in eager anticipation of what he hopes is a “What a surprise!” or a “Thank you so much!” from his mother. But he receives no such reaction, because after about five seconds of staring at the breakfast display, Michael's mom begins to cry. Tears tumble down her face at the sight of Michael’s masterpiece, and she lets out a series of whimpers. Little Michael is horrified and terribly confused. No one had ever made him pancakes before, but he imagines that if they did, he certainly would not be so sad.
“Mom?” he offers. “Mom, are you okay?” Michael sees his mother look into his eyes for a moment and give him slight smile, only then to collapse into tears once more and return to her bedroom.
Michael watches her leave and then turns to the pancakes. His own hunger seems of no consequence as he picks up the plate and places it in the refrigerator, hoping that maybe his mother will eat them later. He puts away the unused baking ingredients and places the pan, bowl, spoon, and cup in the sink, where he plans to wash them after school. He walks into his room and retrieves his backpack. The anxious butterflies he feels in his tummy everyday resume as he exits the apartment and shuts the door behind him. Michael walks the seven blocks to school and wonders what they’ll serve for lunch today. He hopes whatever it is will satisfy his sudden and terrible craving for eggs sunny side up.
This was quite nice. Keep it up!
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