Rainbows and Donut Holes

It was Saturday night, and I remembered, suddenly, that I had a leeson with Mrs. Hartford on Tuesday, but I couldn't remember what time. I was slogging around my old bedroom in Savannah, stepping over clutter that seemed to be my stuff, and frantically trying to recall the details of the situation. I remembered that at some point she had accepted my plea to give me a lesson, in an almost evil this-should-be-interesting-you-hack manner, but I simply blanked on the meeting time. Was it 10am, before work, or was it after school? I knew I would have to call her, but I didn't have her number. I knew there was a phone book in my Dad's living room, and I thought ahead to where it would be as I maneuvered out of the mess.

Then I'm at a school. I've never seen this school before, but I seem to know my way around pretty well. Brandon Holloway is trying to say that he's not gay. I start to print off a document at his station and rainbow colored paper starts shooting out. I laugh hysterically and start to make rainbow-colored paper wads to throw at him. He runs over in consternation and insists that I stop wadding the paper up because he's going to return it. He adds loudly that he bought it by accident. He says there has to be a certain number of sheets left for them to accept the return. I look at the monster ream and then glare at him. "You counted all that?!" He nods. Then I realize that I absolutely must use the rainbow paper. He has some pastel pink and blue, but that is no substitute for the brightly colored reds, yellows, oranges, and greens. I tell him that I must use it. He reminds me that he's returning it. I ask how much it was. "Thirty dollars," he replies. I look again at the monster ream. "You paid thirty dollars for that?" He nods. "Okay, I'll buy it," I say.

I turn to the back of the classroom and notice that there's a written conversation that someone has doodled over a sign that's taped to a long table. It's more like a podium fashioned into a bench for students to sit at than a table. Upon closer inspection I realize that it's Brandon and Lindsey Turner's writing.

Lindsey writes: BrandonY's Sarah ?. Brandon has written a response that Sarah Saint is just a friend. Lindsey has written a sarcastic reply. (I did know this, but I've forgotten what she said). I look up and see Sarah sitting in class.

Then I'm asking which mall is the best for shopping for holiday gifts. Candance Durbin is supposed to answer this question. "Is it Florence? Or is it the one in Jackson? Or how about Selmer?" I prod. (To my knowledge there is no mall in Selmer.) There are holiday lights all around, and I'm wearing a black leather jacket. I realize that I'm supposed to be Mrs. Hartford. We are in a nice room with plush chairs and dim lighting that could totally be a hotel lobby. I realize I've got to keep them fooled into thinking I'm Mrs. Hartford. "I was going to take the Jeep," I begin, lying, "but it's in the shop." Brandon sits down at the computer. Sarah says, "Want me to drive?" I throw my keys onto a bed. "Sure. The Jeep's in the shop." Brandon is MapQuesting the mall. "Want some gas money?" He asks, sending an email. "Sure," I say. But he's planning on luring a friend on the trip to donate gas money by promising for them to get lots of dirt on me from riding with Sarah Saint. I can't believe what's going on, but I'm supposed to be Mrs. Hartford so I keep quiet. Brandon is proud of his accomplishment.

Then I'm at a family gathering, having driven some maroon car there, briefly wondering why I hadn't used this car before if it was so obviously at my disposal. Inside the kitchen there is drama. Someone is drunk and pregnant. My grandma and me and other members of the clan I don't recognize tarry in the lawn. Granny says, "Whose maroon car is that?" I crane my neck and see only mine. "That's mine," I respond. "No," she says. "Whose is that one?" I look at her and repeat, "Mine." Granny gets an attitude and responds, "NO, it ISN'T! Whose is THAT one?!" I lean around the corner of the house and see three more maroon cars. They begin to pull out of the driveway onto the highway.

Then I'm wandering down a street with a couple of bums. One guy is trying to swindle me out of whatever it is I have, and he promises to get us some food with his old glazed donut holes. I don't question whether the cafe will accept this as payment, so I hand over whatever it is he wants. We sit down in the cafe, so glad that we're about to get real food. I decide I want a sundae, order it, and start counting out donut holes to pay. Then one of my bum friends comes to the table and says, "They don't accept that as payment! They're talking about what they're going to make us pay with! Either liver donation or even jailtime!" I look at my sundae in disdain and mash a donut hole into it. I decide I'm not that hungry.

1 comment:

phallicpen said...

I wish we could pay in donut holes. I'd go to Krispy Kreme right this second. What do you think the exchange rate is?