Mornings with Curtis and Eric
Another day gone by, another grave robbed, I thought as I walked into the kitchen for my fourteenth cup of coffee since midnight. I filled my cup with the silken black liquid and looked down at the counter, and something was missing, almost as if it had gotten up and run away screaming.
"Satan's Trident! ERIC!" I yelled.
"What?" He called from his place on the couch, where he had fallen asleep the night before; with music and lyric sheets strewn everywhere. "God, Curtis, I'm right here." He sat up, papers shifting under him, some slipping onto the cold tile floor. "What do you want?" Eric said, lumbering into the kitchen. His jet-black hair was sticking up in tufts about his head and his suspenders hanging down from his black skinny jeans and striped shirt.
"You ate the last of the bacon!" I roared at him. He knew that was one of the components that was needed for me to create my music. It was my muse, to say the least; the very thing that I needed to give me inspiration, nutrition, and sustenance to survive. Not to mention it was my favorite food.
"So? There is more in the fridge, just make that." Eric retorted, becoming agitated. His eyes bugged out of his caramel colored skin, as I wheeled around and threw the frying pan at his head. He ducked just in time to avoid being hit with the chunk of metal.
"No, that was the last pack! You know that I need bacon, coffee and fanghoul souls to write my music!" I ran my hands through the tangled mass that was my hair and down my massive sideburns, clutching at my cheeks. I didn't care that I was being irrational, and I ignored the fact that I was screaming like a banshee over a few strips of bacon; but I was on the verge of creating a masterpiece! And how could I do that if I did not have any bacon? Nevertheless, Eric could see that I was not going to let up, and, muttering obscenities under his breath and pulling up his suspenders and combing down his hair with his long slender fingers that were cracked and calloused from years of playing guitar and keyboard with me. Our band growing more and more successful by the day, more and more popular by the hour, he turned to go to the store. "Thanks, Eric, sorry about the frying pan!" I called to him as he walked out the door and into the blistering heat of our home in Ventura, California.
I slumped against the counter and sighed as I drained the rest of my coffee in a single gulp and filled it again. However, when I sat the pot back down, I noticed a stray dishtowel, and upon moving it to its proper place, I laughed. "Oh, so there was a pack of bacon left, ha-ha." So either way, I had more bacon, fried it, and set out to finish my work of art; and all before ten o'clock in the morning.