The Bacon Butler
I don’t even remember rubbing the lamp. It’s wild how we never see the most impactful moment in our life as it happens.
I stumbled out of a hookah bar into the streets of the Marrakesh night markets. Hawkers shouted their wears as I staggered through the souks. More to the point, I staggered from shop to shop, shoulders brushing the wares and was fortunate not to bruise their goods. It may be the newest millennium, but punishments were still harsh to the unwary foreigner.
Even in my somewhat altered state of mind, I realized I must have turned down the wrong narrow alleyway. The shopkeepers were odd. Vaguely unhuman in a way that was too close to reality. Ears and noses only slightly too pointed. Eyes slit vertically, not round human pupils. Every so often a shopkeeper was a slight shade of green or blue, nothing that screamed mystical, but not human either.
I had just enough sense left in my head to turn and flee before I could be ensnared.
Given my mental state, I suppose it isn’t surprising that my shoulder must have brushed the lamp as I staggered out of the unhuman souk. It was equally unsurprising that I didn’t notice the djinn that followed me for several city blocks back to my hostel. Or that the djinn stalked my every movement, even after I had staggered drunk and high into bed.
But when I awoke, he loomed over my bed. Big, blue, and lacking the friendliness a certain early 90s cartoon would have led me to expect, the djinn lingered in my room as I slowly rose.
“Bro, what the actual?”
“Salam.” The words were a deep rumble that seemed to shake my chest and the walls around me.
“Uhm, yeah peace, bro,” I mumbled out. “But seriously, what are you doing in my room?” My head pounded and my stomach roiled from too many unfamiliar beverages last night.
“You summoned me.” He stated plainly. No hint of expression on his face. And yet, somehow, I felt like I was being insulted for being so dense.
“Dude, what are you even? Why are you blue?”
“I am a djinn, we are blue.”
I looked at him, waiting for further information, but he only stared at me with a suspiciously bland expression. Frustrated, I groaned and flopped back on the hostel’s thin mattress.
“How did I summon you?” I asked, pressing my head into the pillow.
“You rubbed my lamp as you crossed the market.”
“Wait, hold up. Are you saying I rubbed a magic lamp and now I’ve summoned a genie?”
“Djinn.”
“Whatever. So, I can make wishes?”
“Wish. One. Use it wisely.”
“Holy fuck.” I bolted upright in excitement. “I mean, shit man. I can make a wish? Damn. Yes. It needs to be good.” Just then my stomach lurched and grumbled. “Fuck. How long do I have to make the wish? Like, is there a time limit? I need food. I would love a piece of bacon for breakfast.”
“As you wish,” the djinn told me and gave me an elaborate bow before disappearing.
“Fuck! Damn it, I wasted it.”
In the djinn’s place, a man appeared. Short, but human. He was dressed in an immaculate black suit. His black tie was elegantly knotted and tucked into a perfectly pressed vest. Equally perfect black trousers ended over highly polished black wing-tip shoes. In his white-gloved hand perched a domed silver tray.
“Your bacon, sir,” he said as he whisked the domed lid off the tray.
“This better be the best damn bacon in the world,” I told him as I snatched the piece from its tiny white plate in the center of the tray. I took a bite and smiled. It was the perfect balance of chewy and crunchy.
“Hey, how did you get pork bacon in a Muslim country anyway?” I asked around the last bite I stuffed in my mouth.
The butler merely bowed his head briefly and disappeared.
“Damn. Bacon for breakfast. It was good, but kind of a waste of my wish,” I said to the empty hostel room.
I explored the city after a hasty shower in the hostel’s communal restrooms. My feet led me through the streets of Marrakesh, and I pondered the absolute absurdity of my encounter with the djinn. Had the encounter occurred the night before, I could have brushed it off as booze or bad green. But his appearance in the morning, when I was fully sober, led me to the conclusion that it had really happened. And I, an idiot, pissed away a real wish by thinking with my stomach.
Eventually, my feet found their way to the strange night market where I must have rubbed the lamp. The stalls were the same as I had seen before, but the assortment of non-human vendors had been replaced by very normal looking men hawking their wares. Maybe I could chalk some of this experience up to an altered state of mind. I swallowed down my disappointment and turned to head back to my hostel. The merchant in the strange little souk gave me a nod and a little wink. When he then smiled, I could see the same vertically slitted pupils I’d spotted the night before.
I choked down a laugh. I guess I wasn’t so addled.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of street food, enticing smells, and catching up with fellow travelers I had met in the hostel. I politely excused myself from joining their night of revelry after a humorous retelling of my stagger back the night before. I carefully left out any mentions of the strange inhuman souk vendors, the djinn, or my curious little butler as I was already starting to doubt I’d really seen him. My evening passed as quietly as one can in a hostel filled to the brim with travelers and by the time my head hit my thin pillow, I had fully convinced myself that the morning’s strange interaction was nothing more than an extended dream.
The scuff of a wingtip shoe on the carpet woke me in the middle of the next morning. I groggily cracked open one eye to see the immaculately pressed trousers of the bacon butler at the edge of my bed.
I bolted upright in the bed with a shout of alarm.
“Your bacon, sir,” the butler said, completely unphased by my startled reaction. He leaned towards me slightly and doffed the silver domed lid from the tray. Once again, a single perfectly cooked slice of bacon sat atop a single white plate.
“I thought my wish was done. Spent?”
The bacon butler merely looked at me, holding his tray at my eye level. I took the slice, and he recovered the tray.
“So, like, are you going to come every morning now?” I asked, stuffing the slice in my mouth.
“Yes.” He watched me chew and swallow the slice then disappeared.
“The fuck?” I asked the open air.
I spent my last day in Morocco going from souk to souk, looking for the inhuman market. No matter where I went or how I turned, it eluded me. With increasing desperation I queried vendors, trying to get my questions across in a mix of English and Arabic but with each attempt, either our lack of common language was too great a barrier or, as I strongly suspected, they were unwilling to tell me about the odd little market space. Frustrated, I returned to my hostel to pack and idly wondered if a djinn’s wish granting abilities could follow me home to America.
I lay awake that night pondering what would happen tomorrow as I flew home. I laid awake possibly too long, getting only a few hours of sleep before having to be up for the trek from the hostel to the Marrakesh airport. The beautiful white and gold airport stood gently illuminated at the ungodly pre-dawn hour. I wanted a full night’s rest upon returning which forced me into a horrible early morning flight from Morocco to France.
The early morning departure had afforded me the opportunity to drop my humble traveler persona, ditching my cargo shorts and sandals for well-tailored slacks and a polo shirt. I had learned the trick from friends of “dressing down” during foreign travel to make myself less of a target for thieves. I was able to leave the dingy hostel with none of my new travel friends seeing me and questioning the sudden change.
My first-class seat to Paris sadly lacked the fully reclining seat and suite my flight from Paris to Washington DC had, but it was only three hours flying time. I had sunk gracelessly into my seat, accepting a quick glass of champagne from the flight attendant, before dropping back into a deep sleep.
I awoke a few hours later to my elbow being jostled. I expected to see some inconsiderate fellow passenger and was stunned to see my bacon butler. Still dressed in his immaculate uniform holding his domed silver tray, he stood in the aisle beside me.
I stared mouth agape, wondering how on Earth he had gotten on a moving aircraft. I quickly looked around at my fellow passengers to see if they had noticed a man suddenly appear in the aisle. To my very great relief, it seemed most had followed my lead and were asleep.
“Your bacon, sir.” His voice barely carried over the noise of the flight, but it was as crisp and polite as ever.
I snatched the bacon from its plate as soon as he doffed the silver dome. I stuffed the piece in my mouth, chewing and swallowing faster than was safe. He gave a polite nod and disappeared once more. I scanned the cabin again, looking to see if anyone had seen the brief bacon drop off but it seemed that it had transpired with none the wiser.
The rest of my flight to France was easy but after the bacon butler scared me awake, I couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind whirred as I jetted across the Atlantic. Was this my life now? To be woken up every single day by the mysterious bacon butler? I had no wife or even a girlfriend, but how would a one-night stand handle this strange little man appearing in my bedroom to feed me a single slice of bacon?
I laughed then at that thought. I was rich. Very rich. The kind of rich where the appearance of a little butler bearing bacon might be brushed off as a simple eccentricity. As long as the butler afforded me my privacy, I supposed he wouldn’t impact my life too much.
My last flight landed in Washington, DC in the late afternoon and I stumbled through my door, exhausted from travel and jet lag, only two hours later. Customs had delay after delay and then my driver had been caught in the last of evening rush hour. I dropped my bags in the foyer, assuring myself I would unpack later, snagged a bottle of water and a sleep aid, and fell into a deep sleep.
“Sir.”
I felt a gentle push on my shoulder but ignored it.
“Sir?” The voice was more insistent this time.
Another gentle push was ignored.
“Sir.” The voice held a hint of annoyance under its professional calm.
The hand shoved my shoulder and I slapped at it, annoyed. Annoyance shifted to fear when I found my wrist caught in a vice like grip and yelped in pain.
“Hey man, what the fu-”
“Your bacon, sir.” He cut me off mid-swear, his hand still locked on my wrist.
There was a steely glint in his eyes that told me his professionalism only went so far.
“Jesus man, give me a break, I’m not even awake yet.”
“Your bacon, sir.” This time it was said in a tone that brooked no arguments.
I twisted my wrist, trying to escape his grip, but he remained locked onto me.
“What time is it?”
“It is nearly nine o’clock in the morning for this location and the time for breakfast is nearly done. Your bacon, sir.” On the last repetition of his offer, he dropped my wrist, flung the domed top off of his tray, and all but shoved the tray under my nose.
I locked glares with him but took the bacon. Satisfied, he pulled the tray back from my face and replaced the dome.
“What happens if I don’t eat this?”
“You will eat it, sir.”
Feeling petulant and jet lagged I responded, “I don’t wanna.”
His free hand shot out and grabbed my chin. The fingers of his well manicured hand curled just so and pried my jaw open.
“You will eat it, sir.”
Horrified, I shoved the piece in my mouth and chewed. The bacon butler straightened as I chewed and the hand that had pried my unwilling jaw open smoothed his uniform.
“Every day?” I mumbled through the last crumbles.
“Yes, sir.”
“No matter what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck,” I said and swallowed the last of the bacon.
He nodded politely, any hints of violence gone from his demeanor, and disappeared.
“Holy hell. Every day?” I asked my empty bedroom. I pondered my circumstances again. While no one would bat an eye at my assumed eccentricity, the little bacon butler had proven he was willing to use force to accomplish his daily duty. I worried about what implications that had for my daily life.
The remainder of my week passed benignly. Each morning I woke to find my bacon butler waiting, tray in hand. Each time I grudgingly ate the single slice before getting up and hurrying on with my day. I asked no more questions and didn’t refuse his offering. He said nothing more than, “Your bacon, sir.” And yet, there was an aura of expectation. Of waiting. From him or from me, I wasn’t sure.
On Friday, my friends convinced me to try a new restaurant that was doing a soft opening. It was supposed to be a new, high end French restraint with a menu that caters to the very rich, like us. I knew it would be trouble when I walked in because the odor of fish permeated even up to the seating area. I ignored my doubts about their quality and opted for a salad.
It was a terrible plan because even the salad proved how little care they paid their food preparation methods and by three in the morning, I was turning myself inside out with food poisoning.
My misery came in waves. First chills, then a stomach cramp, then sweating on my bathroom floor before the next round of nausea forced me to expel the tainted food. My misery compounded when I realized in only a few hours the fussy little bacon butler would be here insisting I consume his daily offering. Just the thought of eating bacon caused me to dry heave as there was nothing left in me at this point.
As surely as the sun was rising outside the window of my bathroom, the bacon butler appeared. I gave him one miserable glance before the smell of his bacon had me gagging over the toilet.
“No, man. No. Not today.” I said before he could doff the lid. One hand raised weakly as if to fend him off.
“Your bacon, sir.” His tone was the same as always, but I caught the tiniest hint of sympathy in his face, the merest micro expression gone in a fleeting instance.
“No, please,” I begged.
He raised his free hand in a gentle movement but the threat he conveyed remained.
I took one ragged breath, choking down my nausea, and reached for the piece. As soon as my hand touched the bacon my stomach quailed and I dry heaved again. I looked up at the bacon butler. His expression remained unchanged.
Gagging, I stuffed the piece in my mouth. My stomach roiled and I dry heaved as I chewed. I looked once more at the bacon butler who simply nodded.
I swallowed, feeling each piece go down my raw throat and my stomach started to heave.
He nodded and disappeared as the slice came up again.
I’m sad to admit I laid on the cold tiles of my bathroom sobbing after that. But I had learned something valuable: as long as the slice went down, he would leave me alone, even if it came back up immediately.
Later that day I lay in my bed recovering from my food poisoning and wanting to curse both the friends who had pulled me out and myself for ever having accepted a stupid wish from a stupid djinn. My mind worked through a week’s worth of interactions, hoping for a loophole.
An hour and one more round of dry heaving later I came to three solid conclusions. First, the bacon butler always appeared in his uniform with the tray no matter where I was, including over the middle of the Mediterranean Sea on a plane. Second, he always appeared at some sort of breakfast time and always before I ate anything else, so I quite literally broke my fast with the bacon. Third, I had to eat the whole piece of bacon, swallowing it all, even if it came back up immediately, and the butler seemed willing to use force to ensure I consumed his bacon.
Unfortunately, my conclusion led to more questions. What would happen if I stayed up late for a middle of the night cheeseburger? Was there a time limit for how long between meals counted as a “fast”? What if I ate only half the bacon and refused the rest? Would he really use force or violence to ensure I ate the rest? The memory of his grip on my chin made me unwilling to test that question.
My final thought, if not really a conclusion, was that the little bacon butler rarely said anything other than “Your bacon, sir.” And if he did, it was only in response to a direct question or to wake me. The thought of this tiny but powerful little butler harming me to complete his task worried me but perhaps I could engage him in conversation. I resolved to test his responses the next morning. I rarely set alarms for a Sunday morning but before bed that night, I set the alarm for seven o’clock.
My alarm startled me awake right on time. I sat up and slapped it off, searching for my butler. To my shock, he wasn’t there.
I scowled at my empty room. This little asshole had been so deep into my personal space it was almost an affront for him not to be here now. I stomped to my bathroom to start my day. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, I found the bacon butler waiting in my kitchen, tray in hand.
“Where were you?” I asked before he could speak.
“Your bacon, sir.” He stood calmly in his perfectly polished uniform but something in his face hinted that he was annoyed by my question.
“You didn’t wake me up this morning,” I said. Then I realized I didn’t ask a direct question. He also hadn’t answered my first direct question. This plan wasn’t working as I’d hoped.
I walked over, forcing myself to be calm, and took the bacon off his tray. Holding it without eating, I calmly asked, “Why didn’t you wake me up today?”
“You seem imminently capable of rising with your alarm when not in an altered state of mind.” He seemed to think this was enough of an answer.
“So,” I tried to clarify, “you aren’t required to wake me?”
“No, sir.”
“But if I look like I won’t eat before your ‘breakfast’ window ends, you will?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happens if I refuse?” I asked and waved the piece I was holding.
He took a step towards me. It wasn’t fast. He was so short he didn’t loom, but there was still an aura of menace in that single step.
“Ok, ok! I’m going to eat it, but you seem bound to stay until I do so I’m getting my questions answered while I still hold you here.”
At that, he seemed very agitated. He quivered and I couldn’t tell if it was a shiver or him controlling his rage.
“You don’t like that.” Damn it, not a question. “Are you bound to this service?”
“Yes, sir,” he said through a clenched jaw.
I stepped back. This was the most emotion I had seen from him.
“Against your will?”
He frowned but didn’t answer.
I thought hard. The answer must either be more complicated than a simple yes or no. His agitation made me decide to leave the rest of my questions for another day.
“Thank you, bacon butler,” I said and gave him a polite nod.
Once my piece was consumed, he gave me a polite nod in return and disappeared.
The next work week went smoothly as we seemed to settle into a routine. I set the alarm and he waited in my kitchen. I hadn’t come up with any new ideas for loopholes, but I was at least satisfied that he would leave me alone as long as I was responsible and set my alarms.
My Friday night date went well. So well, in fact, I forgot to set an alarm and he appeared while I was engaged in the most harmonious of activities.
“Your bacon, sir.”
My head whipped in his direction and I swear I could detect a hint of a smirk on his prissy little face.
“Dude!” I yelled but snatched the piece from the tray all the same.
I made no attempt to explain him to my date, I’m not sure I could have if I wanted to, and I got the distinct impression that she would not be returning for a second date. Fuming, I realized that like the plane, the bacon butler didn’t seem to care where I was or who I was with. He would complete his daily task regardless.
I briefly contemplated living a celibate life to avoid this morning’s embarrassment again. Ultimately, I decided that I would simply find a better way to handle this and dutifully set an alarm for Sunday morning. One might say I was finding personal growth in my predicament.
On Sunday I woke before my alarm and lay in bed, curious if he would remain in my kitchen. I lay waiting, scrolling through my phone but didn’t hear so much as the scuff of a wingtip shoe on my kitchen tile floor. A minute before my alarm was set to go off, I turned it off and padded to the kitchen in my pajamas. My bacon butler stood expectantly in the middle of the kitchen, perfectly polished as always.
“Bacon butler,” I said by way of acknowledgment.
“Your bacon, sir,” he said formally and gave a little bow as he offered the silver tray. The little bow was, perhaps, a way to acknowledge me not only setting an alarm, but getting up before it went off and he had to force feed me bacon in bed.
I took the piece and bit into it. As always, it was the perfect balance of crunchy and chewy, thick and meaty with a bit of salt.
“Excellent bacon, as always, bacon butler. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said and for the first time, he smiled.
I smiled in return. It was progress.
“I can’t keep calling you ‘bacon butler.’ What should I call you? Do you have a name?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t have a name? Wow.” I held the last quarter of the slice of bacon in my hand.
He must not have felt the need to repeat himself and stayed silent, but I could see him eyeing the remaining bite of bacon.
“Sorry, I promise I’ll finish. But you need a name. Bacon butler. Bee bee. Bob? How about Bob?”
“Very good, sir,” he said but I was rewarded with a second smile.
I smiled once more and popped the remaining bite in my mouth, dutifully chewing, and gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks, Bob!”
Bob gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and disappeared.
Progress.
I took personal responsibility for my alarms; Bob didn’t force feed me bacon. I act like a courteous person and thank him; he smiles in return. Damn, I had been kind of a dirtbag to Bob. I resolved to find ways to show my thanks and respect to the prissy and invasive little butler. I spent my week remembering to set my alarm so I could meet Bob in the kitchen rather than in my bedroom. I even foreswore my evening drink or toke to ensure all my things were prepared for the morning. By Thursday my CFO remarked on how focused I’d seemed this week.
“My trip to Morocco really helped, I guess,” I told him with a little shrug.
On Friday night I set my little breakfast nook for the next morning. My fridge was stocked with an assortment of prepared breakfast foods and I even remembered to set my coffee maker to start thirty minutes before my alarm. I planned to invite Bob to join me for breakfast. I couldn’t imagine how frustrated he must be to cook a perfect slice of bacon and never eat it.
I gave the table one last glance before heading to bed. It was probably more effort than I had put into anticipating a date staying overnight. I decided to reach out to my date from the week prior, offer an apology, and beg for a redo. Perhaps a setup like the one I’d made tonight would encourage a third date. Once again, I was struck by how one silly wish gone awry had forced so much growth on me.
Nervous energy woke me well before my alarm and I bounced out of bed to prepare the table. The coffeemaker hadn’t started and Bob had yet to appear. A swift glance at the clock on my stove told me I had a little time before I expected him to appear.
I snatched my prepared breakfast items and threw them haphazardly onto plates. My coffeemaker clicked on as I surveyed the sloppy effort and I decided to tidy it up while I waited on Bob and the coffee. A few minutes later it wasn’t perfect plating, but it did show that I had put effort into the meal.
I pulled out two coffee cups and poured the fresh coffee. My cup was halfway to my lips when I wondered if drinking coffee would count as breaking my fast and put Bob in a bind. I set the cup back down.
“Your bacon, sir,” Bob said quietly behind me.
“Good morning, Bob. May I offer you a cup of coffee?” It was a simple start but perhaps I could entice him to stay for more.
“Your American coffee is very weak,” he said bluntly.
The American accent is what had thrown me this whole time, I realized. Magic. Bound to service. Loved stronger coffee.
I smiled.
“Yes, Bob, I suppose a djinn would be more accustomed to Turkish style coffee.”
Bob gave me a very deep bow without so much as a wobble of his silver tray.
“Would you stay for breakfast?” I eyed him. “Can you stay for breakfast?”
“I’m afraid there is only so much I may accept from you, sir.”
“And breakfast isn’t one of those things?”
“No, sir.” His smile was sad but accepting as he doffed the domed silver lid once more. “Your bacon, sir.”
“You’ve really helped me, Bob,” I told him as I reached for the bacon. “I’ve never had my life so on track.”
Bob didn’t say anything, only a small bow of his head acknowledged my statement.
I broke the piece in half. “I get that you can’t accept breakfast, but can you have some of the bacon?”
Bob’s face held no expression. “I do not think you understand what you are offering, sir.”
I smiled at him, my hunch solidifying. “Bob, I think I do.”
I held out half my slice of bacon.
Very slowly, his hand reached for the slice, as if he didn’t believe I would let him have it.
“It has been a pleasure, Bob.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bob said and ate his slice.
He gave me one final bow and disappeared for the last time, unbound from my silly wish.
I hope you enjoyed this silly, whimsical little story. It was spawned by a conversation my husband and I had as we headed to the Huntsville Expo in April 2024.
Copywrite 2024, KR Paul.
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