The woman who ran the café was a woman, and I remember thinking the first time I entered the café that if she tried, she would scrub up quite well.  Because I frequented the place I became quite pally with the woman, and we would talk and I eventually married her and now she is dead.  That is pretty much the whole story.

Of course, I have missed out many things.  I must confess to you all that those missing incidents were in fact happy incidents, but to recall them would only make me sad, and in turn, may mutate into what miserable folk call regret.  And I must confess this too; a man can die if his head and heart swells with too many regrets.  I know because my father died of a similar fate.  I once asked my father of his regrets, and he said he had many, but the single most regret he had was he wished he had slept with more women before he met my mother.  I left the room, shortly thereafter, with a red face and much confusion in my mind.

I’m retelling this story now because I recently visited another café to buy boiled egg on toast, and it struck me how different the egg tasted, and how brash and swift my experience had been.  The woman I spoke of earlier, the same who I married and is now dead, her name was Rose.  I do not know the name of the woman who served me in the café where the egg did not taste very good, given that teeth sucking and grunts were the only means of expression there.

At that time in my life, when my pockets were laden with hopeless dreams and wishful thoughts, Rose and I had plenty to thrash out.  And from what I can recall, there were neither whistles nor grunts to be heard from either of us.  Not at least until the honeymoon.  In truth, my first conversation with Rose involved the suggested cooking time for a boiled egg.  It appeared my request had befuddled her, and she took my order to mean I was in possession of this culinary conundrum.  I did not have a clue.  I had never cooked an egg before because my mother was a woman and that was her job.  I could not tell Rose this because she may have deemed the remark a little chauvinistic, or worse, a sign that I was a layabout.  I stated that five to six minutes would be ample, adding the caveat that firstly said egg should be immersed in boiling hot water before the clock commenced its countdown.

On that first occasion, I spent those five to six minutes watching the woman Rose with great interest.  In my youthful head, images rendered her simple face much more favourably, and turned the shabby tabard she wore into a long red cocktail dress.  Fiery red hair draped loosely over her modest shoulders, and around each saddened blue eye, lashes drew dark and curled like those beautiful women I had seen in the movies.  During this time, my mind grew jittery with the romance, and I saw myself dancing with Rose before stockpots and pans filled with bacon and broth.  Even more peculiar was the passion that overwrought my insides and made my toes tingle.  In those five to six minutes I had danced and grew very fond of her, and I dare say a little in love too.  I must confess that had Rose been anything other than a woman, my actions would have been immediate and delivered with much spirit.  For example; had Rose been a fiddle, then in my hands she would rest, my fingers working her till a sweet sad ballad left her body and warmed the hearts of all near.  Had Rose been a timepiece, a pocket watch perhaps, I would have wound her accordingly, sat back, and spent the rest of my days in the welcome presence of each minute and hour she gave, gazing blissfully upon her round face and long, slender arms.  As it was, Rose was only a woman, and time had to be bide before courtship could commence.

Opportunity struck me a swift blow that first meeting, and made the egg’s inners soft and runny.  This I didn’t know until Rose apologised, and handed me the toast with the yolk spilling from its side.  She then did a very queer thing and smiled; not so much a friendly, how-do-you-do smile, either.  Her tongue pushed its way between both front set and bottom set of teeth.  There it sat, clamped, if you will, while the corners of her mouth pulled wide to reveal each tooth.  A man of my age (if you’re looking for numbers here, keep on looking, because none will be divulged in this particular account), with vulnerable limbs and heart, can find himself on his knees quite easily: a strong wind; a quart of whisky; a steep kerb, wet or dry, it makes little difference.  Even one so delicate as an infant, if said infant was in command of two or three wheels (for arguments sake, lets imagine a tricycle), could easily, and without protest, topple a man of my age by veering too close as they passed.  But at that time in my life, when my pockets were weighed down with apathy and the hunger, to find myself upon each knee would take a much stronger force than that of the elements, alcohol or a vigorous toddler, even with my stoop.  But that half crescent beam that presented itself to me that day, one that split the years from Rose’s simple face, and my heart in two halves, found its way to buckled my legs beneath, and provoked many tingles in areas of my body I care to omit during this account for the sake of the children.

And so began an ongoing interchange, each day, very much like the last, upon my entrance each morning at the café, an order would be placed for boiled egg on toast.  Rose, dressed with half smile upon her face, would ask me the appropriate cooking time for the egg, and my reply would be one minute more than the previous day.  Each day thereafter one minute was added, allowing not only the yoke longer to set in the boiling water, but more time for myself to set the scheme in place that would woo her.  Turns out, an extra minute is not long enough for such a task.

Being at the age when one’s pockets are tearing at their seams with inexperience and much incompetence regards the romance, I had little choice but to glean advice from the only man I knew who had wooed and gained a healthy, buxom wife.

My father cared little for the responsibilities of fatherhood; a leaning he extended to my predicament regards the romancing of the woman Rose.  Instead of advice, he spoke languidly of preserves instead, specifically his fondness for apricot jam on thick farmhouse bread.

You must understand, he said languidly, that the serving temperature for each preserve in paramount if one cares for its taste.

I knew of the great book of tall tales that folk called the bible, and I also knew that in one volume, named the Old Testament, most of those tall tales served up moral answers to questions neither person reading had poised.  For this very reason, I took it that the old man I called my father was doing likewise, and within his account of the preserves the answer to my problem lay.  I sat patiently, listening to him ramble on about different preserves and their correct temperatures, and the preferred technique of spreading said preserves so not to rip the bread.  He went on to expound how some preserves did not care to be accompanied by the rich salty spread of butter, but instead longed to roam free across the doughy substrate, lounging (which is the word he used) like the neighbour’s cat lazing upon his lawn.  And would you believe it, at the end of his account I found no clever subtext, no moralistic tale, and no great advice.  The man was talking of preserves, and preserves alone!  After all that talk, he and I grew very hungry, and shortly thereafter we shared a fine cut of bread topped with a thick layer of Blackberry jam.

With no advice from my father, and no friends to speak of, or turn to, I had little choice but to pursue Rose using my own methods.

It has just occurred to me I have not addressed the reason for this account.  Given the words I have committed so far, you’d be forgiven to think this story is about the courtship undertaken with my wife.  Though an interesting yarn in itself, it is not my full and only reason for this particular extract, as that lies in the indifference one is subjected to when purchasing boiled egg on toast these days.  One would expect disinterest and ill-manners of the young, because their pockets are laden with such, but the woman who served me recently was a woman of Rose’s age (when Rose served me on that first occasion, that is).  She did not ask my opinion on the correct cooking time of the egg, nor did she deliver my food with a half smile.  She was, frankly, quite rude.  Even this I could set aside had the egg tasted like I remembered those Rose had made.  But it did not.  Moreover, I have found in recent months most foods I remember from my youth – beans, spam, boiled cabbage, ham shank, black eyed peas, stout, to name a few – do not taste the same either.  I told the woman this who served me the bad egg and she did not care for the remark, but offered me another boiled egg on toast by way of compensation.  I took it, not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful at her dismal attempt at kindness.  But that too tasted revolting, and made me quite sick.

This is why I have stopped eating.

I believe my mouth, and brain, have accumulated enough over the years to feed each other freely without my interaction.  And yes, at first I found myself the weaker for it.  But every morning I awake pretty much the same as the last.  In this house where both Rose and I lived, and she died, I sit at the dinning room table and I remember those eggs Rose made, and all at once my stomach is full, my mouth satisfied, and my hunger slaked.  When I require a kiss, or words of faith and devotion, a similar method of imagination and sensory incitement is embarked upon.  There is little I need, nor care for.  I have a wealth of life within, and what I do not know, I will have no need for.  There are no regrets to swell my heart, for no regrets lie in my past, which is where I live, in moments already lived, and where boiled egg on toast taste as sweet and delicious as the very first time I ate them.

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Twenty-two years from now and the doctor will give you a set of instructions that read:

We would strongly advise a 2-5 day period of abstinence prior to producing your sperm sample.  Abstaining for longer than 5 days can actually reduce the sperm count.  Shortly before producing the sample, you should urinate and then wash the penis with warm water (not soap).  The sample should be produced by masturbation only.  The entire sample should be collected into sterile container provided.  If you are unable to collect all of the sample, please write “incomplete specimen” on your form.

Jenny will be reading this aloud while sat in bed the night you return from the doctor.  She’ll look to you and say, “I don’t understand what they mean by, ‘The sample should be produced by masturbation only’?  How else do they think you’ll produce it?”
Readjusting the ice pack on your balls, a procedure Jenny heard about to help increase sperm level, you’ll tell her, “I think it might be possible through the medium of dance.”  And your wife, Jenny, will laugh.
I tell Gabe that humour will play a very important part in all this.  It’ll help redirect the seriousness that seven years working as a chef in front of industrial ovens may have left him sterile.

The blonde brings over two coffees, smiles briefly at Gabe, and then moves over to take an order from another table.  I look back at Gabe and he’s following the blonde’s arse, his chapped lips stretched wide.
“Don’t even go there, kid.” I tell him.  “She’s out of your league.”
Gabe doesn’t like this remark.  His forehead caves, eyes narrow.  I take a sip of coffee and hold Gabe’s stare.  Before it gets uncomfortable, I tell him that while sat in bed that same night, you and Jenny will both go through everything the doctor said, picking it to pieces, trying best to find a glimmer of hope in all the technicalities explained.
Jenny will say, “Least it’s quality over quantity, right?”   And you’ll nod your head.

Gabe asks, “What do you mean by that?”
I ask Gabe to clarify.
“The waitress, you said she’s out of my league.  What did you mean?”
Looking at the bags under his eyes, the crooked teeth and retarded expression, I wonder why it needs explaining.
I tell Gabe, “Forget about her.  She’s a whore.  It’s Jenny you love, not that bimbo.  Jenny is the reason I’m here.”
Gabe huffs and takes a sip from his cup, then says, “I don’t even know any Jenny.”
“You will,” I tell him.  “Seven years from now, you will know Jenny.”
I ask Gabe for a smoke and he reluctantly hands me a spare from behind his ear.  As I put it in my mouth, Brylcream coats my lips.  Pulling a Zippo from the top pocket, he lights the cigarette.  I draw in the smoke, let it out into the air and sit back.  I tell Gabe, “I forgot how great it is to smoke in public.”
He doesn’t say anything.
After a few seconds, Gabe pulls from his trouser pocket the letter I wrote a few days ago.  Holding it in front of me, he asks, “This letter, it’s a hoax, right?  Makes out you have something for me, something that will change my life.  I don’t see you holding a briefcase filled with money.  So what, you a clairvoyant, is that it?  Come to read my palm and then fleece me for a few quid?  You’ve chosen the wrong guy, mate.  I work in a greasy spoon washing dishes and cleaning tables.  I don’t have two pennies to rub together.  Look, why don’t you go, yeah?  You got a free coffee out of it so it wasn’t a wasted journ –”
I grab his hand.
“I know you have no money.  That’s not why I’m here.  Twenty-two years from now you’ll be close to losing the one thing you value more than anything in the world.”
“You keep saying that, twenty-two years from now… If you’re no fortune teller, how the hell do you know what’ll happen in twenty two years?”

I let go of his hand and tell Gabe that twenty-two years from now it’ll be November.  Outside it’ll be blowing a gale.  Before you start your job as head chef at Bella Rossa, Jenny will say, “Couldn’t you just, you know, do it at home, and drive the sample to the hospital?”
You will have thought about that.
The instructions the doctor passed on clearly say the sperm sample should be as fresh as possible, and be delivered within the hour.  The doc stresses again it has to be fresh, and then draws comparisons to holding a fish out of water too long, only not just one fish, but five million, exactly fifteen million under the minimum healthy level.
You’ll tell Jenny the journey from home to the hospital is forty minutes, which gives you a twenty minute window for contingences, i.e. traffic jams, temporary road works, finding a parking space.  Knowing what your luck is like, twenty minutes will never be long enough.  But time is not your concern at this point.
You’ll discover, after speaking with your doctor, that the hospital where you have to give your sample provides no “secured” room.
I tell Gabe that all the movies where you see the young man sat in a plush, warm room with no windows, surrounded by wank-mags and tissue boxes, it’s all a lie.  The reality, he’ll discover, is a small smelly toilet cubicle as close to the pathology department as possible.

Gabe asks, “Did you just say I’d be head chef of a restaurant?”  His eyes light up a little.
“Don’t get too excited,” I tell him.  “Your food isn’t going to win any Michelin Stars.”
“Seriously, if you’re trying to win me over here, you’re doing a lousy job.”
“I’m not here to make a friend out of you, Gabe.  I know you better than you know yourself, and because of that you and I could never be friends.  All I’m asking is for your time, and a little patience.”
“Well you best hurry, because both are running out.”

I tell Gabe the toilet near the pathology department is, for want of a better description, unreceptive toward the situation.
The room is no bigger than a janitor’s utility room.  There is one urinal, and one toilet.  The toilet is partitioned using second-rate brackets and plywood.  This means every time someone enters, and the outer door closes, a small gust of air causes them to shudder as if they are going to fall in on you.  Also, because the partitioning does not meet the floor, those entering the room will be able to see your feet.  This is going to be of great concern.  The natural rhythm of masturbation has a tendency to cause the body to shake.  So not to draw attention to feet shudder, I tell Gabe to wear a pair of loose, baggy pants.  The looser, and longer, the better.

I stop for a moment.  My thought process is distracted as Gabe takes a bite from the dead skin around the fingers of his right hand.  I forgot how much he did this.  I look down and notice the knuckles and tips of each finger already suffering from blisters.  Considering his age, Gabe’s skin should be tight, unmarked.  Instead, he has the hands of a man twenty years his senior.  A man of my age.  In another five years, once he lands the apprenticeship at a local restaurant, Gabe’s hands will look more like Freddy Kruger’s than a man turning twenty-five.

I tell Gabe that if he wants his sperm to count, he’ll need to shoot, then surrender the sample all within ten minutes.  Upon hearing this, Gabe spits out a chuck of skin on the table.

The container, I tell him, will have a little sticker on that requires you to fill in the date and time the sample was produced.  The pathology department is open between the hours of 9.00am and 3.30pm.  The restaurant where you work, the same one who claims to be 100% Italian but is run by two brothers from Scotland, will allow you a lunch break at 2.00pm.  It will be a twenty to thirty five minute drive to the hospital, which will leave you approximately thirty minutes to park up, deliver the goods, and get it to pathology.  Taking all that into consideration, and the fact you’ve allocated ten minutes maximum for wanking, the time you enter the cubicle will be approximately, 2.45pm, with the intention of leaving at, 3.00pm.
Only the time you write on the container is not 3.00pm.  It’s not even 2.30pm.  When you check your watch, it is 3.00am, the previous day.  Outside the hospital, it’s pitch blank.

Gabe stops biting his fingers, leans in and says, “This is a great story.  I mean, hats off for thinking this shit up.  And really, the letter, and the picture of the pretty brunette, they’re both really nice touches.  But I’m guessing this is either a really elaborate joke, or you’re just some lonely guy that likes to talk with strangers.  I have to admit, before we met, you had me thinking for a moment that maybe this is the day my luck changes.”
“This could be the day your luck changes,” I reply.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but hearing about you masturbating is not making me feel any better about myself.”
“How can I make you feel better about yourself?”
“You can try by telling me the truth.”
I say, with earnestness, “The truth is, Gabe, twenty-two years from now I masturbate in a stinking toilet and travelled back in time twelve hours.”
Gabe leans back and laughs a little.
“Man, you’re one fuck-up dude.  Seriously.  But hey, I like a laugh so I’ll go along with this if it makes you feel better.  So, let me get this right, you’re sat in a toilet, what, twenty years in the future?”
“Twenty-two,” I say, correcting him.
“Okay, you’re sat in a toilet twenty-two years in the future having a wank, and you somehow travel back in time twelve hours?”
“That’s right,” I say.  “Like I said, it was dark out.”
“And since then, you’ve been masturbating four times a day for, how many days?”
“If I’ve got my math right, 4,015 days.”  I tell Gabe, “It sounds a lot, but it’s only 11 years.”
“Aren’t you like, tired?”
“I have developed carpal tunnel syndrome in my right wrist, and I have noticed it takes a lot longer for me to stop bleeding when I cut myself.”
Gabe falls silent.  The indulging smile he had has now vanished, replaced with a look of complete disgust.
Standing up, Gabe says, “That’s it, I’ve heard enough.  I have to get back to work, and you, well you need to get back to the loony house.”
Before he walks away, I tell him I’ll prove to him I’m not crazy.
He stops, and says, “You have ten seconds.”
I remove my sunglasses.  I take off my baseball cap.  I roll up my sleeve and reveal the Ace of Spades tattoo on my forearm.  I then say, “Try and picture me without the beard,” and as if facing a mirror where the reflection is delayed by a few seconds, Gabe rolls up his sleeve too and reveals the same tattoo.

I tell my younger self you are Gabriel Thompson.  You live with you god-fearing mother, Margaret, and alcoholic father William, in a small terraced house owned by the council.  You are seventeen years old, and have dreams one day of owning a small bistro in the city, one you will call, Gabe’s.  You got that tattoo one night last year when very drunk.  It was a dare set by your friend, David Coleman.  He got a heart pierced by a dagger on his left shoulder.  A week later, Davey died in a car crash.  The car set on fire.  When he’s brother identified the body, David was covered in third degree burns, expect for the tattoo, which remained untouched.

Ten seconds pass.  Twenty.  Gabe is frozen still.

You currently work here at Scotties, a small greasy spoon exactly seventeen minutes walk from your home.  The pay is shit but you fancy the blonde waitress, Helen.  One day you’ll get over your nerves and ask her out.  She’ll turn you down.  The reason: she fancies your best friend, Carl Henderson.  By the way, they marry seven years later.  When Helen finds Carl fucking one of the oriental maids during their honeymoon in Thailand, she divorces him six months later.  She now lives in the West Country with some stockbroker.  Carl, he’s not looking too good.

When you were nine, you smashed your mother’s favourite porcelain figurine of the Mother Mary with a BB gun.  Because you didn’t want to take a beating from your father, you spent the afternoon scratching away the skin on your forehead with a set of keys.  When she got home from work, you convinced your mother you fell and landed head first on the statue.  That night you ate vanilla ice cream.

If my younger self needs more reassurance, I lean toward him and point to the fine scars on my forehead, a web of lines that match the same on his in every detail.

I tell Gabe he believes in a cosmic balance.  This helps him justify the fact that some kid, somewhere on the other side of the world, has a great life where his sober father takes him to football games and fishing trips.  This kid’s father shares more than just his fists.

For the past three months, I have visited that same toilet in that same hospital and masturbated on a daily basis.  Every time I ejaculate, I lose up to twelve hours.  There is no reason, no explanation.  I have long since trying to figure it out.  But I do know my slipping back in time has allowed me the chance to correct my wrongs, and make my wife happy again.  I am here today, twenty-two years before this all started, to tell you Gabe not to become a chef, to never sit on a radiator for longer than ten minutes, and to get plenty of zinc.  Stop smoking.  Exercise regularly.  Get a less stressful job.  Do all you can because the man on the other side of the world, the one who has the sober father who loves him and takes his fishing, this could be you.  You can be that father.

I pull the photograph of Jenny from my wallet again and hand it Gabe.  I say, “Seven years from now, on July 8th, go to the bowling alley on the Buryside Industrial estate at 8.00pm.  Jenny will be in aisle three.  At some point, you’ll reach for the same ball.  That’ll be when you’ll touch her hand for the first time.  And please, for me, never let it go.”

I smile at myself, stand up, and say, “Oh yeah, one other thing.  Just before you turn thirty, you’ll get this crazy idea to learn how to ride a motorcycle.  Don’t.”

I then limp out of Scotties’ Café, the place I worked for three years and lusted over the waitress Helen.   It is 1991, and my life here has been lived.  I might never know if the younger me will carry out the instructions, or if Jenny will fall pregnant.  But if I know myself, and I think I do, I believe I will do the best I can.

Craig Wallwork lives in Manchester, England.  He has had work published on Laura Hird, Cherry Bleeds, Dogmatika, The Beat, Theives Jargon, and Rotting Clock.