The Donut Maker

Bob Spencer was owner and chief donut maker of the Western Donut Shop. His. He manned the grill in front during the day and at night kept the fryers busy in the back room. Donuts. Life sustaining. Drab as hell, long and narrow, booths and stools on either side, his life’s blood, the shop. Blinking pink and black DONUTS sign over the door, a welcome mat. Waitresses, Amy and Carol, a couple of upbeat peroxide blondes gave the place pizzazz, dressed it up. They were a great people draw with their fun-loving banter and gum crackin’ smart ass jokes. Both divorced and lovin’ it, even with all those kids.

At midnight every night, the white haired heavy set man locked up the shop, minced across the street to his room at the St Charles, for 20 some years, his birds, plants and bed. He took care of the menagerie, slept a little and then walked back across the street to start the donuts for the 6:00 AM breakfast crowd. A simple clear- cut regime; every minute accounted for, no slack time to get bogged down in needless stewing and pining.

Nelly lived on the same floor as Bob, saw him lots as she ate breakfast and dinner at the shop and sometimes she and her friends would drop by after dance class (next door) and order cherry cokes and eat anything and everything. It was a happy time the time spent at the donut shop. Bob sometimes would come over to their table and shoot the breeze but most of the time he kept to himself. He would talk to the waitresses and ask about the kids, not offer much in return all the while running his hand repeatedly over his unruly white hair, flattening it. For such a large man Bob had a delicacy about him. He walked with a cautious step placing his toes first, heels never quite making it down, hips swaying side to side each step. Bob told Nelly nobody wants an old fat gay guy. His birds, plants and war decorations kept him company in the small room on the 3rd floor, his memories and Purple Heart on a pedestal. He had birds of all kinds: canaries, parakeets, cockatoos, parrots, a regular arboretum. Nelly had a bird phobia so Bob kept them in their cages for the duration of her visit. Often. Bob was rarely out of his baker’s white uniform, minus the hat and spatula, of course, even when the shop was closed on Sundays. He knew who he was in it, she figured. Sometimes on Sat nights Bob would go out for long walks and not come back ’til all hours. Sometimes with someone else, usually alone. Saturday was the only night he didn’t have to open up the shop to get the donuts started for next morning. He could take it easy, enjoy life, sleep in. Come Monday and 3:30 A.M., Bob dragged himself out of bed, fed the birds, watered the plants then minced across the street to the awaiting fryers and ensuing donuts for the insatiable 6:A.M. crowd. Life wasn’t so bad for a guy with a purpose.