Everything Small

St. Aurelius Medical Center. Lower Level Cafeteria. Thursday, November 7, 2024. 11:14 AM. The receipt opens the song the way all receipts do — read aloud, flat, as found evidence. Seven items. Scrambled eggs, small. Toast, white. Oatmeal, small. Chicken noodle soup. Orange juice, small. Coffee, regular. One chocolate pudding. Total: $14.10.

The man who bought these things had been in the surgical waiting room since six in the morning. Five and a half hours. A nurse told him to go eat something. He went down. He stood in the cafeteria line and he didn't know what he wanted, so he took one of everything small — the eggs because they were first, the toast because it went with the eggs, the oatmeal because it was there, the soup because it was warm, the juice because the nurse would probably ask if he'd had anything, the coffee because five and a half hours, the pudding for a reason he couldn't name. He carried the tray to a corner table by the only window in the room, which faced a concrete shaft that faced another concrete wall. He set it down.

He didn't eat any of it.

The song lives in the gap between what you order and what you do with it. His mother used to make scrambled eggs for him on sick days — butter first, she always said, don't rush the pan. He remembers the specific yellow of that kitchen at noon. He remembers how she said his name then, like time was something neither of them was using up. He is sitting in the hospital cafeteria and the eggs in front of him are hospital eggs under fluorescent light and they look nothing like those eggs but they are the only eggs in the room.

The bridge doesn't move toward resolution. They said two more hours. Could be two more hours. The soup has gone cold. The coffee too. Whatever a city keeps beneath its feet is right below the parking garage outside that window — and he has never once thought about it until now. He is not afraid, he says, of losing her. He is afraid of the particular way the eggs look in the tray, in this specific light, on this specific day. That's the fear that doesn't have a name at the admissions desk.

At the end, he puts the untouched tray on the conveyor belt. Everything still on it. Nobody says anything. He takes the elevator back up.

[Spoken Intro] St. Aurelius Medical Center. Lower Level Cafeteria. Thursday, November seventh, twenty twenty-four. Eleven fourteen AM. Scrambled eggs, small. Toast, white. Oatmeal, small. Chicken noodle soup. Orange juice, small. Coffee, regular. One chocolate pudding. Total: fourteen ten. Visa ending seven-eight-four-one. Thank you. Please visit Patient Services for assistance.

[Verse 1] The nurse said go eat something You've been up here since dawn So I took the elevator Past the gift shop with the carnations All the way down To the fluorescent hum of B12 Took a tray, took a pair of tongs Stood in line behind a woman With a yellow plastic badge Who ordered fast and moved along

I didn't know what I wanted So I took one of everything small

[Chorus] Scrambled eggs and white toast A little cup of oatmeal Chicken soup in a paper bowl A juice, a coffee, a pudding Carried it to the corner Set it down like an offering On a table by the window That faces a concrete wall

One of everything small One of everything small

[Verse 2] She used to make eggs on sick days Mine, not hers, not then Soft scrambled with the butter The butter first, she always said Don't rush the pan

I remember the particular yellow Of that kitchen light at noon I remember how she'd call my name Like I was still nine years old And she had all the time in the room

[Chorus] Scrambled eggs and white toast A little cup of oatmeal Chicken soup in a paper bowl A juice, a coffee, a pudding Carried it to the corner Set it down like an offering On a table by the window That faces a concrete wall

One of everything small One of everything small

[Bridge] They said two more hours Could be two more hours The soup's gone cold, I haven't moved The coffee too

Out there is a parking garage And below that is the street And below that is whatever A city keeps beneath its feet

I'm not afraid of losing her I'm afraid of the particular way The eggs look in the tray In this specific light On this specific day

[Chorus — slower, fragile] Scrambled eggs and white toast A little cup of oatmeal Chicken soup in a paper bowl A juice, a coffee, a pudding Carried it to the corner Set it down like an offering On a table by the window That faces a concrete wall

One of everything small One of everything small

[Outro] I put the tray on the conveyor Everything still on it Nobody said anything The elevator doors opened And I went back up

One of everything small One of everything...