Breakfast time:

I ambled groggily to the table. The air was full of the usual smells that accompany an excellent breakfast in a house with plenty of money: coffee, butter, eggs, toast, bacon, meat- no oatmeal or cold cereal here. Dennis was planted solidly at one end of the table relishing his perfectly basted sunny-side-up eggs. A building contractor, his Mexican laborers were also at the table, eating eggs and chorizo. One of the workers lived nearby, and the other had a little room in the downstairs portion of our home. Mike was sitting right next to Dennis as usual. They called out to me in greeting. Dennis hollered out to my mom:

"Mary, make her some eggs! Hey kiddo, what kind of eggs do you want? Over easy?"

I quickly replied that I couldn't stand runny eggs, and that I'd like the entire eggs fried very thoroughly. He thought sunny side up was best and only real way to eat eggs, but was amiable enough, contenting himself with remarking that he couldn't believe I could possibly like them that way.

So, we were all sitting there munching away on toast with homemade pomegranate jelly, eggs, bacon, and herbal tea, when my brother shrieked and stood up hurridly. We all looked at him. He looked accusingly at Dennis.

Dennis said, "Mike, what are you yelling about? Eat your breakfast."

Mike giggled: "Oh no....I'm not going to.."

After a few more stern admonitions, he did sit down and resumed eating, but within a minute or two, he yelped again and backed away from Dennis, wild eyed and half babbling about Dennis having done "it" again. The Mexicans looked uneasy. I tried to understand what the fuss was about, but it was like a game where everyone but me knew the order of play, so I just watched. Mike was induced to sit (reluctantly) again, but he kept edging as far away from Dennis as he could and giggling and saying,

"Oh no, you're not going to get me this time!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Quit fooling around and eat your breakfast."

"Oh, yes you do, yes huh!" Mike continued to eye Dennis warily as he ate in a way reminiscent of a scavenger at a carcass, ready to flee again at the slightest warning. Dennis ignored him and started talking in Spanish to George and Valente, the Mexicans. I looked at my mother. Her movements were restless and short, but she hadn't said anything. I started eating again.

Mike screamed!! He jumped up from the table and started yelling. Tears were in his eyes.

"I knew you would do it! I knew you would!!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't do anything to you. Quit making a scene and sit down here."

"Denny...." My mom said. She was looking at him, spatula in hand, passive.

Mike seized the opportunity to break off and ran crying to his room.

"Mary, I keep telling you, you're going to spoil that boy and he'll turn our just like his father. He needs to learn how to behave at the table."

"Denny....." That was all she said. George and Valente looked down at their plates and ate studiously. I shoveled in the last of my food and left as soon as I could. I couldn't understand what had gone on, but it was unpleasat.

I sought Mike out. He was hiding from Dennis, his face puffy. I asked him.

"He pokes me with toothpicks!" He showed me where the toothpick had broken the skin.

"Why?"

"Because, he likes to! He does it all the time!"

It didn't make sense to me then. And I can't really say that it makes any sense now, either.