Of Dreams and Donuts

Twila and Thumbs sat in a pea-green booth next to a large picture window. The early morning sun slowly turning the stale air around them into a tropical inferno.

“You sure I gotta do this?” asked Thumbs. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“It’s easy. It’s mostly just talking to them; watch,” said Twila.

Her mop of carrot-red locks bounced as she rose from the booth and sauntered over to the counter where an employee stood emptying the basket on a large drip coffee machine.

“Woah there!” said Twila. “Before you go brewing up another batch of apathy flavored water, let’s have a chat.”

Thumbs watched as the goddess of coffee gave him a wink then turned to the unenthused worker.

“Look, I know you ain’t a barrister—”

“Barista.”

“Barista,” Twila continued. “This is not that kind of place. But have you ever actually tasted this coffee?” she said. “You do like coffee, don’t you?”

“Of course, I like coffee,” said the worker.

“Ok,” Twila said as she scanned the workers chest for a name tag. Unfortunately, this was not that kind of place either. “Look, what’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Ok Pete. Why don’t you go ahead and pour yourself a cup of your drink there from that urn?”

“Urn? You mean the coffee pot?” asked Pete.

“No, I mean urn. A coffee pot is smaller, like what you would use at home. Something like that big boy you got filled back there is called an urn. I guess you could call it a carafe as well.” She said. “Go ahead, pour yourself a drink. I’ll wait.”

Pete turned to the urn and mumbled himself a hot cup of coffee.

“Ok. Set it right here on the counter,” Twila said.

Exasperated and confused, Pete set the cup on the counter as instructed.

“Now. Look at it, what do you see?”

“A cup of coffee?” asked Pete.

“No, really, really look at it. When you think about coffee, what do you visualize?”

“A cup of brownish black, uh, water?”

“Pete. This is a teaching moment. If you say something like that again, I am going to have to smack you. Now, what do you see when you look at the cup?”

“Coff—”

Thumbs flinched against the sound of Twila’s hand smacking the poor kid.

“Ow!”

“What you see when you look at this cup,” Twila paused, “is a physical representation of your apathetic approach to one of the world’s foremost rituals.”

“Now smell it.”

“Wha—”

“I said smell it!” Twila said. She flexed just a little of her divinity into the words, slamming them into Pete like the head of a twelve-pound sledgehammer. “I want you to smell the coffee. Please.”

Gently, Pete’s shaking hands lifted the warm cup up to his flinched face. Like a deer testing the air for the scent of hunters, Pete let the aroma waft up through his nostrils.

“It. It. It smells like . . . nothing. I don’t smell anything.” Said Pete.

“Exactly,” said Twila. “A true cup of coffee should have a scent that rises through the air before tempting the senses with the aroma of dark brown beans that have been perfectly roasted and allowed to breathe before being ground just before the brewing commences.”

Pete nodded, hoping not to be smacked again.

“Now taste it.”

“I don’t wa—,” Pete started. Seeing Twila’s upraised hand convinced him to take a generous sip from the cup.

“Thank you,” smiled Twila. “Now, what do you taste? Don’t think, just say what comes to mind.”

“It tastes like . . . A mildewy, dark, hole in the ground,” said Pete. “I also get a hint of what I imagine a wet campfire would taste like.”

“Good. Do you think that is something that your customers would want to drink?”

“No,” said Pete. “Not at all.” He then took the coffee over to the counter behind the sink and dumped it out.

“Go ahead and make up another pot. I’ll wait.” Said Twila. “I trust we won’t need to discuss this again?”

Twila walked back to the booth and sat opposite Thumbs. She gave Pete a soft smile and wave then turned to her companion.

“Don’t you think that was a little harsh?” asked Thumbs.

“It’s called the Fear of God for a reason. Besides, I really, really hate bad coffee. I’m pretty sure it was left over from yesterday anyway,” she said. “Now, why don’t you walk down the booths to the manager and have your own little chat?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve raised my voice. It is not really my thing,” said Thumbs.

“It’s your job to give that poor guy the inspiration he needs to make good donuts. You just need some confidence. You are the God of Donuts, right?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said.

“You know you are. Now go. We got places to be, these aren’t the only people who need some divine inspiration today,” said Twila.

Reluctantly, Thumbs scootched his way out of the booth and stood up. Looking down the aisle that ran across the front of the diner, he gulped in some air and started walking. Each laborious step forward seemed to push the far booth with the owner backward as his vision tunneled. Closing his eyes, Thumbs filled his lungs to capacity and slowly let out the air before making his way down.

“Howdy,” said Thumbs as he slid into the seat opposite the owner. “Name’s Thumbs.”

“Ok.” Asked the bewildered man. He ruffled the fist full of receipts in a passive-aggressive attempt to signal he was not interested in conversation. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about your shop. I think it has a lot of . . . potential. It’s just your donuts could use some--,”

The man’s cell phone chimed. “Crap. One second,” he said. “Hello? Yeah, this is Steve. I know, I know, but the shop had to be closed for a month. I’m just now starting to turn a profit. Of course . . . I understand. Yes, I get it. I understand. The fifteenth? Sure, why not?” With a heavy sigh, Steve returned to the booth. “Now, what can I help you with?”

“See, that’s just it. I want to help you out,” smiled Thumbs. “I was a baker back before I . . . retired. Back in Indiana I had a successful shop. I could give—”

Steve’s phone interrupted with an angry ring.

“Hello? Yes, this is Steve. What do you mean the card is maxed out? What did you—” Whoever was on the opposite end of the conversation was clearly not going to be taking the blame. “Of course, of course, I understand honey, I know we’ve had to put a lot on the card lately. The diner just hasn’t been bringing in the customers lately. Don’t worry. I’ll call the bank,” said a worried Steve.

Hanging up, he bent over holding his head by the desperate whisps of hair still clinging to the sides of his head. “Crap. Crap. Crap.”

Thumbs decided to give Steve a couple of moments. Meanwhile, he scanned the table between them. There were stacks of invoices, miles of receipt tape, and an empty bottle of extra-strength, generic ibuprofen. The interrupting phone had a screen filled with notifications about missed calls, unanswered texts, and other urgent items. Had this been back in Thumbs’ day, he would have expected a carton’s worth of cigarette butts mounding in a too small ashtray.

Running a donut shop was hard work. Thumbs could remember the bills, the deposits, the long nights trying to figure out how to pay the rent. That said, no matter how bad it got, he could always pull the phone cord, close the shop, and vanish back into the kitchen where he could work the dough, tweak his recipes, and get away from everything. Steve had the potential for the same passion, that’s what brought Thumbs to this shop in the first place. He’d looked at the donuts in the display case and could see the effort that had been kneaded into each pastry. If they’d not been stale, Thumbs could imagine that they would have tasted amazing. As it was, all he could taste were the hours the confections had absorbed since their creation.

Thumbs watched as Steve continued to deflate after taking two more calls.

“I’m sorry, mister?” asked Steve.

“Thumbs. Thumbs McCrackin. I just wanted to say how glad I am to have found a place like this. It’s obvious that you love making donuts and running this little bakery. Keep it up.”

“Pleasure to meet you Thumbs. This place was always the dream. I scrimped and saved every nickel I could to raise the money to start this place. I love baking. My mom taught me, and it has always been something I really enjoyed,” said Steve. “Unfortunately, I never get to spend any time baking because I’m always answering calls from lenders, the wife, the kids, wrong numbers, salesmen. I spend more time talking than baking these days.”

“Trust me,” said Thumbs. “It gets better.” He put out his hand and gave Steve’s a good shake.

Thumbs pushed himself out of the booth and stood up. “Yeah. Just focus on your passion. The other stuff will sort itself out.”

Back at the booth with Twila, he put a twenty-dollar bill down on the counter.

“Mission accomplished. Let’s get out of here,” said Thumbs.

“Really? All I saw was a stressed-out little man talking to an equally stressed-out donut shop owner,” winked Twila. “He still looks pretty stressed to me.”

“Give it a second,” said Thumbs. “I had to use a little divine intervention.”

“What does that mean?”

“What the holy hell?” yelled Steve from his booth. “Why is my phone leaking . . . Bavarian cream?”

“He just needed less distractions. He’ll be ok,” said Thumbs.

Laughing, Twila said, “That works too. Now, before we go, I want to get another cup of coffee. That kid can do wonders now.”