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Death Throes and Donuts ã 2000 Tom Hale
What our coffee maker lacks in speed, it makes up for in melodrama. It brings to mind a Hollywood death scene. Not a modern one where someone’s head explodes and there is no doubt about the person’s physical condition, but one of those old movie scenes with Henry Fonda lying in the dust of Tombstone or Cagney sprawled in a wet alley, while everyone they know comes by for a final bit of advice or defiant, witty-even-in-the-face-of-death sarcasm. Our coffee maker will sputter, spit a few drops of water on the grounds, and then seemingly die. But wait! Twenty seconds later it gurgles and spews again. It’s still with us. Lend an ear: Bgack…chaaaa! “Tell young Smitty to get those fences mended before the snow hits.” (Silence. Grimace at fellow standers by, lower head and shake it somberly. He’s gone now.) Fwitz!…grushhaa…”I never was one for sayin it out loud, but I love ya’, Nell.” (Take a vow to track down the killer, even if it takes—) Chu-pwishhhh…chaaaaKA! “I told you dirty coppers I’d never go back to the Big House.” (Better get old spooky Gus, the undertaker. Tell him to bring a box.) Sccccchmitz! Frak-schnahhhh… “You know, if you’d have just run a cup of lemon juice or vinegar through me, we could have avoided all this.” This is too much suffering for an old country boy like me. I’m going down to the Stop ‘N’ Rob for a cup of coffee. It’ll be quicker than waiting for this ham of an appliance. See ya’ later, drip-o-lator. No need to wash off, just put a hat on over the bed-head hairdo. Give the pits a quick check. Good enough for a convenience store. My wife is awakened by all the racket from the coffee pot. She comes staggering into the kitchen, rubbing and blinking. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, it’s just Mister Coffin over there.” “Thought I heard an alligator hissing or something. Where you going?” “Stop ‘N’ Rob. Gonna get some coffee. Want some?” “It’s expensive.” “Yeah, but I’ve got that paper route now. Anyway, it’s good coffee and if you get the half-gallon cup, you get a free refill.” “Would you mind picking up some donuts?” Jeez! Well, actually, that sounds pretty good—a fresh, gooey one with Bavarian cream filling. (We don’t do diets; if my pants get too tight, I just start mowing the yard again.) “The donuts at Stop ‘N’ Rob are really nasty.” “You could go to Wallow-Marts. They have a bakery.” “Yeah, and on a Saturday morning there won’t be but ten or twelve thousand people there.” Fifteen minutes later, I’m staring at the donuts through the smeared, plastic doors. Still no coffee. My head itches and my cap is askew from sporadic scratching. It’s becoming abundantly clear, from the enveloping fog of funk, that the pit check was a bit hasty. They have those unfold-it-yourself boxes. The filthy doors are spring-loaded. The top of the box wants to flop over; there is no way to bend it so it will stay up. I’m holding the door with one hand, snatching suspect tissue paper and a pretty decent looking donut with the other. How on Earth am I supposed to keep the box open? Should have gone for that engineering degree. After twelve assorted bakery goods are wrestled into the box (the frosting and sparkles have gone from festive and decorative to looking more like a cheap prom date at three in the morning), I look up to see an impatient lumberjack glaring at me, a seven-foot, mouth-breathing Sasquatch of a fellow. What’s his problem? It probably had not taken me more than fifteen minutes, and I did not charge any admission for this show. I step aside and smile politely. He snatches the plastic door open, decides to forego the tissue scraps, grabs one lousy donut and points his massive head toward the express lane. His body has no choice but to follow. I holler after him, “Hey, Jethro, if you’re in such a big hurry you should have gone to Stop ‘N’ Rob! Anyway, who can eat just one donut?” He stops, pulls a .357 from somewhere in his overalls, and bellows for everyone to freeze. Without even thinking, I zing a maple bar. It flies, approaching light speed, twirling end-over-end like a batter-fried Bowie knife, and hits him right between the eyes. Immediately two crullers (the throwing stars of tart land) are embedded in his chest. I uncoil a cinnamon roll and beat him senseless with it. Thousands of grateful shoppers cheer and line up to wring my hand with heartfelt gratitude. The manager tells me that my money is no good at his store; the donuts are on the house. Of course, all this takes place only in my head. The line is moving slowly, but I optimistically predict that I should be able to have my audience with the scowling teenager in the blue vest before the Christmas rush hits. I catch a whiff of coffee. Where’s that coming from? Smells great. Impulse items thoroughly considered, salacious shenanigans of the stars duly noted, I stand, at long last, humbled and brain dead before Binkie Ann, the 13-year-old checker. She’s reading my hat and sneering. I take off the hat to see what’s so interesting/disgusting. It’s a black hat; the white, block letters spell out “Not A Dirty Old Man, Just A Sexy Senior Citizen.” My mother’s idea of a joke for my fortieth birthday. I had never worn that hat. I distinctly remembered putting it in a box bound for the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. Gads! I would be less mortified wearing one that read, “Boy, My Butt Itches!” or even a Tommy Hilfiger sky piece. Paying fifty bucks for the privilege of advertising for a rich designer doesn’t seem nearly as stupid as it did yesterday. She’s probably going to announce it over the PA system or call the good taste abuse hotline. No, she’s not reaching for the phone. She’s reaching for a can of air freshener. Eventually, she notices the scruffy box on the conveyer belt. She picks the box up and says, “What’r these?” “I’ll give you a hint: I got them in the bakery.” “How much?” “Twelve—kind of mashed into one big one now, but twelve in volume.” “I mean what was the price on them?” “They’re donuts. Didn’t they teach you anything at your ten-minute orientation?” “Well, they’re like, different prices.” This has gone from bizarre to rather interesting. “Do tell.” “Well, the plain ones are, like, one price; and if they have stuff in ‘em it’s more.” “Seems like if they had stuff in them they would be free, or at least served with an apology.” “We don’t serve ‘em. You can’t eat ‘em till you get outside.” Back home, empty handed. “Where’s the donuts?” “The bakery was being sterilized.” (Translation: I dropped them in the parking lot while digging for my keys. I did manage to kick them a good one before they hit the ground.) “Well, shoot a monkey.” “If you want, I can take out a loan against the truck title and get you some Twinkies at Stop ‘N’—” “Nah, I’ll just make some pancakes.” “We have ice cream?” Smiling. “Yeah.” Screwing my courage to the sticking post, I glance at the coffee pot. It holds an eighth of an inch of brown water. “Looks like the coffee pot finally bit it.” GsssHwhaaa—fzzzzSSSSSSSSS! “Don’t (choke!) ever give up. (Hack! Gritting teeth…lids drooping… Shake it off!) Always give back better than ya’ get.” From somewhere, the familiar strains of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The music swells until it drowns out the neighbor’s lawn mower. “Rose…bud.” Time to yank the plug.
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