Running Towards Eggslut
by Luke Kanter
illustration by Carly Jean Andrews
The Westside Woman bolts out of her Brentwood bed after a night of light sleep and shallow breathing. She can’t believe this day is finally here. She’s finally going to Eggslut.
She remembers where she was and what she was doing when she first laid her eyes on the fabled Bacon, Egg and Cheese on a Brioche Bun. She was sitting with her dear friend Gretchen T. at the Brentwood Country Mart in the middle of a weekday when Gretchen T. recoiled in response to something on her gold iPhone 6 Plus screen.
“Oh my god!”
“Look at Lucy V.’s Instagram account.”
The Westside Woman immediately pulled out her black iPhone 6 Plus (although let’s be honest, she likely had it in her hands already) and typed “LucyLooks” into the Instagram search bar. And that’s when she saw it.
“Can you imagine?”
“Apparently there’s a lot going on Downtown.”
She leaves the Bacon, Egg and Cheese Country Mart — sorry, Brentwood Country Mart — and goes about her day. She runs to the Third Street Promenade to pick up a Bacon, Egg and Cheese — sorry, a Beats speaker — for her husband’s birthday. She goes to a special screening of Eggslut starring Bacon, Egg and Cheese at the Arclight and afterward puts her lovely Eggslut to bed before her big first day of school.
Perhaps it was the half-hour she spent drooling over the bacon aisle at the Brentwood Whole Foods on Wednesday, or maybe the realization came when she whimpered “Eggslut” during brief foreplay with her Then-Husband on Friday night; regardless, she knows what she has to do and where she has to go when she awakes the next morning.
The Westside Woman, in all of her bright coral pedal-pushered, cotton-bloused, Tory Birch–heeled glory, has arrived at Grand Central Market, ready for one perfect moment of baconed-egged-and-cheesed bliss.
She sniffs out DTLA Cheese. Is this Eggslut? She whooshes by Wexler’s Deli. Excuse me, is this Eggslut? The Pupuseria? La Huerta? Could either of those be Spanish for Eggslut? She goes down to the bathroom. There’s no way — this — this can’t possibly be Eggslut!
The Westside Woman, weary from the running and weight of her iPhone 6 Plus, limps toward a small booth that sells a strange beverage that’s apparently very good for you, Debra P. absolutely loves it, good for the stomach, and sounds like Kabocha? Kambochu? Karachi? She finally blurts out to the rapidly texting cherubic college theater major behind the counter:
“Please tell me: Is. THIS. EGGSLUT?!”
“No ma’am, this is clearly another business. See that sign? The yellow neon one?”
She slowly turns her head toward an egg-shaped neon sign that reads—
The Westside Woman’s voice echoes from Hill to Broadway. She could lean over and KISS the Kabuki salesman (though he’s too young for her and quite gay) but she’s physically overcome. She runs toward the divine Eggslut, her shoes click-clacking against the concrete floor.
She waits in line for an hour between a tall, black-hatted, cerulean-haired hipster witch and a couple from Portland who can’t quite wrap their head around LA’s diversity, waiting for her moment in the eggy sun. And when she finally gets to order:
“Hi, welcome to Eggslut. What would you like?”
“A side salad, please.”
Like a real eggslut.