Interrogated over Pancakes.
The only kind of “food” Jack Driscoll excelled at cooking was coffee. He honed his craft from necessity. There were times when his maid was not available, such as early in the morning, late at night, or on the occasion of inclement weather, when he desperately needed the beverage. Today was a day of inclement weather. Snow. His maid was late. He did not think she’d be able to travel in these conditions, which meant he would have nothing to eat.
Having experienced the wonders of the fast and instant food of the future, he began to see his culinary “skill” as little more than a trifle. Sure, he could brew coffee, but in the future he could cook entire meals in 5 minutes, and if the microwave baffled him, which was often the case, he could easily buy pre-prepared food from a local fast food restaurant-not that he would try to retrieve that food in this weather.
So it was that he faced the morning upset over the absence of microwaves in 1933 and stared down a day that promised little more than coffee. He settled into a chair by “library,” a book in lieu of the newspaper that wasn’t on his doorstep, the newspaper he wouldn’t read regardless if it was there. The tint of winter chill had crept inside his home despite efforts to keep it away. He draped a blanket knitted by his mother over his legs to keep warm.
A loud series of knocks rapped against his door.
Jack jolted up in his chair, the book, the blanket, his reading glasses and the cup of coffee all going askew. He set the book and mug aside and stared at the door, hands on the edges of the armrests. Due to the angle of his glasses, one eye had a clearer view of the door than the other.
Another loud series of knocks. “Jack?” said a voice, low and gruff. Jack blinked in surprise, pulled the blanket off his legs and stood up, walking to the door. Once there, Jack opened the door wide enough to see whom he already expected to see: his father.
“…dad? What are you…?” He pulled the door open even wider and saw a military vehicle waiting in the middle of the street. Jack looked back to his father, his brows furrowed.
“Come to ask you a few questions and take you to breakfast. Else’s cooking.” He waved a large, stubby hand. “Get your coat on, c’mon. Gotta get back before the pancakes get cold.”
Jack smirked. “As sturdy as that piece of metal looks, I don’t think we’ll be getting anywhere quickly. Hold on, I’ll change.”
A few minutes later, Jack was out of his house, his winter coat flapping behind him as he trudged towards the vehicle.
“So, son, want to tell me what happened over there, at the Empire State Building?”
Else had waited until they got back to make the pancakes. She was not with them now-she was in the living room, listening to the radio. The volume was high enough to require that both men speak in slightly elevated tones.
“It’s a long story.”
“That’s why I’m interviewing you. To get your long story.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“I am, but the boys needed my help. I was the only person they knew you’d talk to.”
Jack poked his fork into one of the pancakes, twisting it within the floury mass. “Newspapers, huh? Or was it you who told them that?”
His father shrugged a shoulder. “If you won’t talk to your old coworkers, I hope, or hoped, you’d talk to your father. And if you won’t talk to me…I don’t know.” A pause. “What happened? And be as specific as you can.”
Jack sliced off a bit of pancake, ate it, sipped his coffee. In the living room, the almost constant wall of music had been interrupted by a bit of news. More murmurs about Kong. He hoped Else would turn the channel. She didn’t. He sliced off another piece, ate it, and proceeded to tell his father exactly what happened. It went beyond that night in the city, back to Skull Island and the Venture, but the military, Jack insisted, didn’t need to know about what happened before. That, he suspected, was information Carl needed to give to the military.
This was the story he needed to tell his father, his mother and his sister, so that they understood what had happened to him and why he had gone missing, and after it had all been told, all the food on the table was neglected, and cold.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” his father asked.
“I wasn’t…ready to tell it. And I didn’t think I…I didn’t…accomplish anything.”
“Acomplished?”
“Yes. I mean Ann.”
His father raised and lowered his head in a slow, understanding nod. “But you have now.”
Jack looked up from his pancakes. And smiled. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
General William Driscoll, retired except on occasions of great need, extended his hand and patted his son on the arm. “Good luck, kid. Bring her over for some pancakes or…hell, just bring her over, and we’ll talk. She sounds a hell of a lot better than that Victoria character…”
Jack sighed, rolled his eyes. “Speaking of Vikki…”
Having experienced the wonders of the fast and instant food of the future, he began to see his culinary “skill” as little more than a trifle. Sure, he could brew coffee, but in the future he could cook entire meals in 5 minutes, and if the microwave baffled him, which was often the case, he could easily buy pre-prepared food from a local fast food restaurant-not that he would try to retrieve that food in this weather.
So it was that he faced the morning upset over the absence of microwaves in 1933 and stared down a day that promised little more than coffee. He settled into a chair by “library,” a book in lieu of the newspaper that wasn’t on his doorstep, the newspaper he wouldn’t read regardless if it was there. The tint of winter chill had crept inside his home despite efforts to keep it away. He draped a blanket knitted by his mother over his legs to keep warm.
A loud series of knocks rapped against his door.
Jack jolted up in his chair, the book, the blanket, his reading glasses and the cup of coffee all going askew. He set the book and mug aside and stared at the door, hands on the edges of the armrests. Due to the angle of his glasses, one eye had a clearer view of the door than the other.
Another loud series of knocks. “Jack?” said a voice, low and gruff. Jack blinked in surprise, pulled the blanket off his legs and stood up, walking to the door. Once there, Jack opened the door wide enough to see whom he already expected to see: his father.
“…dad? What are you…?” He pulled the door open even wider and saw a military vehicle waiting in the middle of the street. Jack looked back to his father, his brows furrowed.
“Come to ask you a few questions and take you to breakfast. Else’s cooking.” He waved a large, stubby hand. “Get your coat on, c’mon. Gotta get back before the pancakes get cold.”
Jack smirked. “As sturdy as that piece of metal looks, I don’t think we’ll be getting anywhere quickly. Hold on, I’ll change.”
A few minutes later, Jack was out of his house, his winter coat flapping behind him as he trudged towards the vehicle.
“So, son, want to tell me what happened over there, at the Empire State Building?”
Else had waited until they got back to make the pancakes. She was not with them now-she was in the living room, listening to the radio. The volume was high enough to require that both men speak in slightly elevated tones.
“It’s a long story.”
“That’s why I’m interviewing you. To get your long story.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“I am, but the boys needed my help. I was the only person they knew you’d talk to.”
Jack poked his fork into one of the pancakes, twisting it within the floury mass. “Newspapers, huh? Or was it you who told them that?”
His father shrugged a shoulder. “If you won’t talk to your old coworkers, I hope, or hoped, you’d talk to your father. And if you won’t talk to me…I don’t know.” A pause. “What happened? And be as specific as you can.”
Jack sliced off a bit of pancake, ate it, sipped his coffee. In the living room, the almost constant wall of music had been interrupted by a bit of news. More murmurs about Kong. He hoped Else would turn the channel. She didn’t. He sliced off another piece, ate it, and proceeded to tell his father exactly what happened. It went beyond that night in the city, back to Skull Island and the Venture, but the military, Jack insisted, didn’t need to know about what happened before. That, he suspected, was information Carl needed to give to the military.
This was the story he needed to tell his father, his mother and his sister, so that they understood what had happened to him and why he had gone missing, and after it had all been told, all the food on the table was neglected, and cold.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” his father asked.
“I wasn’t…ready to tell it. And I didn’t think I…I didn’t…accomplish anything.”
“Acomplished?”
“Yes. I mean Ann.”
His father raised and lowered his head in a slow, understanding nod. “But you have now.”
Jack looked up from his pancakes. And smiled. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
General William Driscoll, retired except on occasions of great need, extended his hand and patted his son on the arm. “Good luck, kid. Bring her over for some pancakes or…hell, just bring her over, and we’ll talk. She sounds a hell of a lot better than that Victoria character…”
Jack sighed, rolled his eyes. “Speaking of Vikki…”