By Jeff Gard
Sunday morning, Bobby Jo Evans walked into Raiders Donuts and bought every single old-fashioned, jelly, long john, and cruller in the establishment. Armed with her pocketbook and righteous conviction, she knew only two things could kill the holy fire on that sacred day: faith without works and church without donuts.
Not since Nazis plundered Europe’s masterpieces had the world witnessed such desolation. Despair threatened to fill the void.
Yet, there was a ray of hope. On a slanted shelf in the bottom row remained a maple and bacon cruller—the holy grail of Raiders. But only one lucky soul could acquire it.
Sitting at her table in Raiders, Constance read the obituaries and coaxed her coffee to an optimal temperature with a few ice chips. Her withered lips sipped the black elixir, and its warmth spread down her torso toward the flickering ember of life that remained in her.
She smiled when she discovered that Gertrude, the bridge-cheating, husband-stealing liar, had finally gotten what she deserved. Who’s laughing now, Gertrude?
Although Gertrude’s obit spun more hogwash, half-truths, and fabrications than competing politicians at the Iowa State Fair, Constance eagerly read it.
When she finally set down the paper, she sucked on her dentures thoughtfully. How to celebrate this victory over her archnemesis? Her eye fell on the cruller perched in its hiding place. Gripping the sides of her walker, the widow pulled herself to her feet. Arm flab swinging wildly, she shuffled toward the prize.
Gertrude couldn’t take this away from her.
Her last nerve fraying, Mary stirred the oatmeal as the twins bawled over recently sprouted teeth. The gray sludge bubbled over on a stovetop glazed and grease-splattered with previous cooking disasters.
While she served breakfast, her husband watched sports from the couch.
“I could use a hand, Steve.”
“In a minute, dear.”
She’d underestimated the destructive potential of oatmeal. James slid his pudgy fingers into it and smeared clumps in his hair, then tossed the half-empty bowl at the wall. John dumped his breakfast on the floor where Rodman waited. One lick and the dog retreated, ears backward, tail tucked, eyes full of disbelief.
“We’re out of milk!” Mary grabbed her keys and fled. “Watch the kids.”
They weren’t out of milk, but Steve wouldn’t notice until she’d already escaped. Hopefully, the kids wouldn’t murder one another in the time it took to peel himself away from the television. Twenty minutes. I just need twenty minutes of sanity. And a cruller.
Stomach rumbling, Mary drove to Raiders.
The world was bullying Floyd into a healthy lifestyle. First, his wife wrapped her arms around his midsection. “Remember when I could touch my fingers?” Then, the doctor ambushed him with the life-threatening trifecta: pre-diabetes, heart murmur, and high blood pressure. Finally, his children bought him running shoes and an XXL track suit for his birthday.
Exiled from the kitchen with a coerced promise of four thousand steps before breakfast, Floyd slogged through the neighborhood in his stiff shoes. Blisters quickly blossomed on his heels as Tank strained against his leash and pulled Floyd farther from home. After an excruciating thirteen hundred steps, Floyd realized they were heading toward Raiders Donuts.
“Good boy.”
I’ll soak my feet in two buckets of ice with an entire carton of crullers on my lap and a fresh cup of coffee to wash it all down. The image energized his last aching steps.
Tank hauled Floyd into Raiders’ parking lot just as a minivan left, cartons of donuts jostling against the backseat windows. He clipped Tank’s leash to a bike rack.
The doorbell dinged as Floyd pushed inside and blinked the sweat from his eyes. The donut display was completely empty. Shelf after shelf bore the sticky silhouettes of missing pastries. Floyd’s legs buckled. He dropped to his knees.
And spotted the last cruller.
Constance stood at the counter, rummaging through her voluminous handbag for her coin purse, when Mary swooped in, breathless and crazed, pointing at the bottom shelf like an army of tarantulas nested there.
“Give me the cruller,” Mary ordered.
The cashier cocked her head, as if she had not consumed enough caffeine to make language possible.
Mary reached across the counter, grabbed the teen’s striped shirt, and tugged her downward. “Give. Me. The donut!”
Constance swatted the younger woman. “Cheater! Hussie! I saw it first.”
The widow’s gelatin-packed arm carried quite the wallop. Mary released the cashier, who eyed the cruller on the bottom shelf. The teen wobbled toward a box of wax paper, extracted one, and reached for the cruller.
Floyd lurched forward, rupturing several blisters with his leaden footsteps. Between two armpit stains, his heart rumbled like a rusty pickup on a frigid morning. Spots danced in his vision, but they couldn’t obscure the cruller falling into the paper bag.
He tossed a sweaty, crumpled twenty toward the cashier and snatched the prize, dodging blows from the widow.
“Thief! Thief!” Constance chirped.
Mom-rage boiling in her veins, Mary charged Floyd.
“Men! Always thinking of themselves!” She kicked the back of his knee.
Floyd crumpled in the doorway as she reached for the donut. Mary’s broken fingernails clawed at the bag before latching on. Triumph sparked in her manic eyes and she smiled gleefully. She had won. The cruller was hers.
Riiip.
One moment the cruller was in the bag. The next, it tumbled through a hole, twirled in the air, bounced on the pavement, and rolled straight into Tank’s waiting jaws. The terrier finished it in two gulps, licked his lips, and flashed an unrepentant doggy grin.
Floyd wept. “Tank? How could you? I raised you better than this.”
Mary blinked. “I had it. The last cruller.”
Constance hauled herself through the door. She smacked her withered lips as she surveyed the damage. “Anyone know where Bobby Jo goes to church?”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “I do.”
Panting, Floyd scrambled up off the sidewalk. “Can I get a ride?”
Tank wagged his stubby tail.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hysterical! How I wanted to see this live action with everyone diving for the cruller!
P.S. Having suffered lutefisk in my childhood on multiple miserable occasions, your humor is much more palatable.
This was highly entertaining! And totally made me crave a donut! The donut shop was so relatable, reminding me of my hometown’s 24 hour donut dive, and the best part — the dog got it! Hilarious. I’m curious what sort of dog Tank is, with a stubby tail! We had a mini schnauzer and her nickname was “stubbykins.”
Of course the dog got it. The perfect ending.