by David Hudnut
Demons preferred the dark.
Besides, it was almost midnight, and the place was empty. No one would be watching him.
Unless someone comes in…
He glanced over his shoulder at his car and considered driving off. The sight of the Mazda made him wince.
Randy was afraid that if he got in the car, it would somehow resurrect the horrid wakemare he'd just escaped.
It was not an option.
He would have to gamble and hope no one came into the Hole Donut while he was eating.
And start staring at him…
And point and laugh and mock and…
(—like a little FAT bunny—)
He shook his head, and in a harsh whisper said:
“Leave me alone!”
He chose the remotest back-corner booth of the doughnut shop and sat down on one of the contoured yellow Formica benches, facing the back wall like a scolded child.
It seemed crazy. What did the car have to do with it? At the moment, he wasn’t sure, but the car was where the memories had come back
(tonight)
so just to be safe, he would avoid it until he had consumed his doughnuts.
(It’s not your poor car, Randy, it’s you. YOU’RE the problem Randy. You look like a Weeble-Wobble, you’re so TERRIBLY Roly-Poly! SHAME ON YOU RANDY! You are nothing but a slobby BLIMP!!)
Randy’s face pinched tight and glowed red as he clenched his teeth. With his fists, he drummed the tabletop with increasing intensity. His attack quickly became a violent hammering.
“Shut UP, shut up, SHUT up, SHUT UP. SHUT UP! SHUT UUUUUPPP!!!!” he screamed.
The table quaked under his assault. Because it was bolted to the tiled floor, the vibrations spread throughout the entire store, the walls amplifying the waves of energy like a giant drum.
The bleary-eyed clerk peaked over the low dividing wall between the kitchen and the sitting area nervously. His eyes were now wide open and sharply focused with naked fear.
The clerk’s sole customer was a very large man, both vertically and horizontally, and the two of them were all alone, in the middle of the night, trapped inside a 24-hour donut shop together.
The large man looked capable of eating anything.
The large man might eat him.
Slowly the clerk sank quietly back down like a periscope and disappeared behind the dividing wall.
Randy’s backside faced the dividing wall, and he hadn’t noticed the clerk. Even if Randy had been facing the young clerk, he still would not have noticed.
Why?
Because Randy McArdle was too consumed with his own internal holocaust.
Although Randy was no longer pounding the tabletop, he clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly while his shoulders and chest heaved and his body quivered. He inhaled and exhaled heavily through his teeth in great hissing gasps, puffing like a steam engine with a hot fire and a full boiler. Unless Randy threw the pressure release valve soon, he would most assuredly explode.
Knowing that only one thing would cool his fire, Randy peeled his eyes open and looked at the two boxes of doughnuts smiling at him lovingly from the tabletop.
His internal pressure and temperature gauge needles crept down a notch, but were still in the red-hot danger zone.
Randy opened up the first box and took it all in at once, devouring every doughnut instantly with his eyes.
The needles dropped another fraction of an inch, hovering on the edge between imminent disaster and cautionary alert.
For a second helping Randy inhaled the sweet smells of chocolate, then maple, then vanilla frosting, and the beautiful aroma of fresh-fried dough.
The needles crept fully out of the red zone and into normal.
All systems go.
With a great sigh, Randy began his third and final gluttonous course. He gingerly selected a chocolate fancy with sprinkles and lovingly brought it to his lips with delicate, chubby fingers.
A wide smile eased onto his features.
His mouth was already watering when his lips kissed the chocolate frosting, and he took his first bite, tasting sweet chocolate delight.
A divine peacefulness settled over him like a gentle, blessed shroud, swaddling his heart in the cocoon of a warm, loving embrace.
. . .
Thirty minutes later, two ransacked Hole Donut cartons rested on the faux-wood veneer tabletop, empty except for random crumbs and sprinkles.
Randy was laid out flat on the hard yellow bench, his head nestled up against the wall, staring at the ceiling. One arm dangled limply, knuckles scraping the tiled floor. His legs—too long for the bench seat—sagged over the end.
He looked like a homeless degenerate sleeping off a drunken bender. Disheveled and satisfied.
The pain in his stomach was severe.
The pain in his entire body was worse. Even his toes ached.
All to make room for his beloved doughnuts.
His swollen stomach had taken up all the room in his rib cage and torso, filling his body cavity to bursting. The mass of doughnuts compacted the two super-sized dinners he’d eaten earlier in the evening down into his intestines.
His engorged stomach was twice normal size. It shoved his lungs up into his throat, squeezing his over-worked heart, and it compressed his liver and intestines into the bowl of his pelvis.
His stomach was taxed beyond normal functional limits. It spewed out acid in a desperate attempt to digest the huge wad that threatened to tear it open.
Randy could breathe only shallowly, blissfully unaware.
Yet a look of profound happiness rested angelically on Randy's face. The pain blessedly blocked out any thoughts of shame or guilt; it had even silenced the nagging voice of his mother.
The only coherent thought in his brain was of the loving doughnuts he’d just consumed.
Deep in his bowels, something popped.
Acidic combustion commenced.
Randy burped gently, smelling powdered sugar and tasting the greasy dough in rerun.
Then something tore, followed by a faint burning sensation.
"Yum," he whispered, still smiling wide, his glassy eyes barely open.
Then searing pain spread throughout Randy’s body and bubbled up his throat.
But Randy never noticed. The pain was blotted sweetly out of his awareness by his one true love.
Doughnuts.
Randy fell peacefully asleep.
. . .
No other customers came into Hole Donut after Randy had that night.
And no one noticed Randy McArdle’s body until the shift change at 6:00 a.m.
Cause of death: Acute toxic hyperglycemia in conjunction with massive internal abdominal rupture and gastric distress.
. . .
Remember everybody, doughnuts don’t kill.
People kill doughnuts.
HAVE A DOUGHNUT!
ENJOY IT!
But please, eat them responsibly.
Wink.
. . .
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HANDS OFF
by
David Hudnut
. . .
. . .
Drew Bowman was a normal man with a normal life. When he woke up Friday morning, he had no idea that on Friday afternoon his life would turn upside-down in the span of four seconds.
As Drew drove his truck to work, he didn’t know any of that yet.
The summer morning air was still cool, and Drew enjoyed the drive with his pickup’s windows rolled down. His favorite classic rock station was playing ‘More than a Feeling’ by Boston.
That guy sings like an angel, Drew thought to himself as Brad Delp sang that high note near the end of the song. Like he’s telling you “Today will be a good day, Drew. I promise.”
Drew eased into his seat and hung his arm out the driver’s window. He made a wing out of his hand and let the
rushing air lift his arm up.
Life is pretty damn good, Drew told himself.
It wouldn’t be in eight hours.
. . .
Drew worked as a backhoe operator for Halstead Excavation, a medium-sized heavy equipment company. Halstead was in the middle of a sub-contracting job on a 75-unit luxury housing development, and Drew was the lead digger.
The daily commute to and from the job site was a long one for Drew. Three hours. Each way. Longer if traffic was bad. He hadn’t seen much of his wife Jaime and four-year-old son Baker in the last two weeks because of it.
Every night, Drew came home and kissed his son’s sleeping forehead. Drew felt like he was turning into an absentee father. Each night the feeling got a little worse.
When Drew would climb into bed with his wife, she would kiss him groggily then roll over and go back to sleep.
How long would it be before his wife and kid forgot his name? At this rate, it seemed like any day now. Maybe one night Drew would come home to an empty house, and they would both be gone. Forever. Stolen into the night.
Drew sighed heavily.
It was no way to live. But long commutes were part of Drew’s job, and his job paid the bills.
And besides, it was Friday. He would have the whole weekend to spend with his wife and son. That’s what mattered.
When Drew arrived at the job site, he asked his boss Bill Halstead if he could leave work early that day. Drew was scheduled to excavate a 1,700 square foot basement by the end of his shift.
“You get today’s pit dug true and level,” Bill replied, “walls square—and I mean laser checked—and the floor to code, then yeah, I guess you can bug out early.”
“Thanks boss,” Drew said. “I haven’t seen my wife and kid all week. They’re both asleep by the time I get home every night.”
“I know what you mean,” Bill nodded sympathetically. “Haven’t seen much of my wife either. She wants to know why I haven’t taken her out for dinner since this job started,” Bill chuckled. “Well, get ‘er done, and you can go home to your wife and kid. Throw the football around for your son like I know you like to do. Once that boy of yours gets into the NFL, you won’t be working for me no more.” Bill winked and tipped his hard hat at Drew. “Just make sure you hook me up with season tickets is all I ask.”
“You’re first on the list, Bill,” Drew grinned and slapped his boss affectionately on the shoulder. He walked out to where his backhoe was parked.
Drew had been running iron through dirt for ten years, and had an artist’s touch with heavy equipment. The bucket on the backhoe was an extension of his own hand, the bucket teeth were his fingers.
Drew was done with his pit by 1:30 p.m. and checked in with Bill before leaving.
“I’m all finished, ready for inspection,” Drew said.
“We’ll check it Monday,” Bill said. “Knowing you, I’d lay money it’s good to go.”
Drew brightened. “You sure?”
“Season tickets,” Bill grinned shrewdly.
“Oh, I see how this works,” Drew smiled knowingly. “You think you can bribe me?”
“Bribe?” Bill said sarcastically. “In the construction business? You must be talking about someone else.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Drew grinned.
“Go on, get outta here. Go see your kid. Work that arm of his. You want, I can come by and hang a tire from a tree for him to throw the ball through. Or do you have one up already?”
Drew smiled. “Oh, I’ve had one up since he could throw the ball.”
“Good man,” Bill replied. “See you Monday. Bright and early. And say hello to Jaime for me.”
“Will do!” Drew jogged toward his pickup
“Fifty yard line!” Bill hollered after him.
“Fifty yard line!” Drew promised, then hopped in his truck.
Traffic was still light on the freeway. Drew was home in under three hours. He made a quick stop at the local auto parts store two miles from the house to buy new brake pads for his wife’s sedan.
After, Drew cruised his pickup through the familiar streets of his neighborhood, windows rolled down, taking it all in: hot, still air; lush green grass; blue dome sky covering the world like a breathing ocean. The ribbiting sounds of distant lawnmowers. Scattered barks from distant dogs, kids playing. The promise of cool iced drinks waiting to be consumed from perspiring glasses under shady trees. Kisses for hard-working husbands from their appreciative wives.
Paradise.
Drew smiled to himself. This summer afternoon weather was begging for good old-fashioned shirtless outdoor work and ice cold beer after a dusty day sitting at the controls of his backhoe.
Drew’s ‘Honey-Do’ list had been piling up all week. After buckets of rain Monday and Tuesday, followed by three days of roasting sun, the yard had gone jungle and needed mowing, edging, weeding, and pruning. He also needed to fix the downspout which now hung precipitously by a single rusty screw from the side of the house (he’d knocked the downspout askew when he’d wheeled the heavily-loaded trash bin out last week); change the front brake pads on Jaime’s sedan; tighten the loose front porch step. That was more than enough.
Jaime hadn’t said a thing to him about the ‘List’ yet this week, so he was determined to cut it down to size before she mentioned it, and with any luck, finish everything before dark. Drew wanted to relax on Saturday and Sunday with his family, not do a load of sweaty yard work.
He also knew if he killed the ‘List’ before dark tonight, he would score extra ‘Good Husband’ points with Jaime. Because of his long commute, he and his wife hadn’t made love in two weeks—a long dry spell for them, a literal drought.
But before the chores on his ‘List,’ his play-date with his son Baker was top priority. Baker first, chores second. With any luck, husbandly duties third. If he finished everything early enough tonight, and Jaime wasn’t already under the covers sawing logs by the time he got cleaned up and ready for bed, he would take care of his marital duties.
Excellent. Fingers crossed.
His day was panning out even better than he had hoped when he had gotten up that morning and put his feet into his work boots.
Drew did not know then that his plans for a smooth, relaxing evening were about to be torn apart.
Disaster was only a few blocks away.
. . .
As soon as Drew got home, new brake pads in hand, he stripped off his work shirt, walked into the kitchen and kissed his wife Jaime hello.
“Daddy!” Baker cried gleefully, surprised to see his father home so early.
Drew plucked Baker from where the boy knelt on a chair at the kitchen table surrounded by his crayons and a coloring book. He put his son on his shoulders and carried him outside so they could toss the Nerf football around for awhile, before Drew started hacking away at his mammoth ‘Honey-Do’ list.
They spent nearly an hour horsing around in the front yard with the neon-orange football. Then Drew threw the ball down the length of the green front lawn one final time. He was sweating pleasantly in the summer heat.
At four years old, Baker still ran like a baby billygoat, all flailing limbs and delicate torso, with a big head bouncing on top. But he caught the ball anyway and spiked it clumsily into the grass.
“And Baker scores a touchdown easily! The crowd goes wild!” Drew hollered, and then mimicked crowd-roar sounds. He ran across the lawn, fist raised in victory, then swept his son into his arms and squeezed him tight. “Great job son, you’re a natural. One day that arm of yours is going to build a football dynasty.” He rubbed his nose into Baker’s soft yellow T-shirted chest and made raspberry noises.
“Daddy! Stop!” Baker was giggling.
Drew started to spin around, Baker’s legs flying out ragdoll fashion from the centripetal force.
“You’re flying!” Drew said, “I think you’re turning into a helicopter! Brrrrmmmm!”
His son laughed fully, a huge smile on his face.
“That was fun! Can we fly some more Daddy?”
“I think Daddy’s going to be dizzy.” Drew plopped to the ground and sat cross-legged on the lawn. “Daddy needs to take a break.” He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his arm.
Baker scampered straight at his dad and fell into his arms, bowling them both into the soft grass. He immediately felt himself rising up again, lifted by his father’s powerful arms.
“Baby bench press time! One! Two! Three!” Drew said, pressing his son up like a human barbell.
Baker was bouncing up and down so much he could only giggle wildly like a happy chipmunk. His smile was gigantic, as wide as the infinite joy of childhood.
“What are you two doing?” Jaime asked from the front porch, smiling. She held a cold beer in one hand and a glass of red Kool-Aid in the other.
Drew pressed Baker a final time, tilted the boy onto his feet, then stood up and sauntered over to his wife. “Wow, hon, right now you look better than that beer.”
“Then I guess you won’t be wanting it,” she smirked, holding it out of his reach.
The loose porch step creaked as Drew climbed it, angling toward the beer.
“I’ll take that,” he said, grabbing the beer from his wife and putting an arm around her waist.
“Oh my goodness,” Jaime joked, waving her hand in front of her face, grinning. “I smell man. You need a shower, babe.”
“I’ll need two showers by the time I’m done with the yard work tonight.”
“Baker honey,” Jaime called, lazily shaking the cup so the ice cubes clacked against the acrylic plastic sides. “You want some Kool-Aid?”
“Watch me Mommy!” He was standing on the far edge of the lawn near the sidewalk, levering the football up in the air as high as he could with both hands—which wasn’t very high—then catching it as it came back down.