THE MORNING DONUTS

Crap! Jake still couldn't let himself say: O shit! He remembered it was his turn to bring the donuts. There was still time to drive over to the Kroger bakery. He'd be back lickety split with the donuts, long johns, and bismarks. The motley crew of old guys, come every Monday morning, always looked forward to the sugar and starch treats. Not a one was under seventy; but, to listen in on their conversations, the fifteen year old in each came out in style. Yet, after the risqué double talk subsided, another pattern repartee surfaced.

Funny thing, thought Jake, these guys had war stories they never tired of repeating, repeating, repeating. Jake had never been in the military. In fact, truth be told, he had been an enthusiastic and persistent anti-war activist. He never felt free or comfortable enough with this group to share his side of the story. His being tear-gassed during civil rights marches was not generally known by the group, either.

Jake's better half, didn't much like his stories, which by now didn't build up his confidence. At first, Sally had been enthralled by his adventures. She was attracted by his sense of bringing an all new world to birth as the old one was dying. Her misgivings? She dismissed them. Jake seems to know what's what; he was quite persuasive as she stiffled her own sense of reality since he seemed to know best. Over the years together, she began to come into her own again. She loved Jake. But, she no longer took him seriously.

Jake did not do reminiscing very well. He held it in disdain-but, again, this was a part of his life he didn't share. He tried to tolerate, without an air of superiority, how this band of brothers he lived with in the co-op played can you top this with their exploits. Army, Navy, Air Force, even Marine vets, regaled each other every first day of the week. Jake just smiled, hiding his annoyance with stories repeated as though for the first time.

When Sally died just stort of their fifty-ninth anniversary, having had multiple bouts with various cancer migrations-as well as a few years of progressive memory loss-it capped for Jake the uselessness of reliving the past. What's the point? he wondered, sometimes with deep sobs-yet, more often than not, with cold rationality. With Sally now gone, Jake retreated further and further into a solitude that hid him from himself.

Each Monday morning, however, he meandered to the common area for a bismark and black, sweetened coffee. There was something going on, about which he had no clue. Why was it Jake showed up to be there for story after story, repeated week by week? The interplay between being alone and being lonely never beached his intellectual defenses.

A few weeks after his turn to supply the goodies, Jake ambled down the three flights of stairs once more. There were no donuts, long johns, or bismarks, to been seen. There was a silence among the gathered vets; a silence, strange and somber. Henry, the only nonagenarian of the group, had died during the night. His stories, which expanded in scope while repeated each week, would not be heard again. It had been his turn for the donuts. At least someone had made the coffee.

No latent fifteen-year-olds emerged this morning. Men brought up in a culture that didn't allow them to cry, did have wetter eyes than usual, nevertheless. Napkins not needed for the donuts became substitute Kleenex as nose after nose was blown with great gusto. Even Jake was part of this mucus relieving routine.

On the way back to his apartment, uncharacteristically, Jake had to use the handrails as he climbed the stairs. He ascended slower than yesterday. In front of him, he pictured Sally as she had been able to bounce up those stairs when they had first moved into the co-op. They had consciously picked the third floor to reinforce their desire to stay as active as possible. Jake shook his head; he didn't want to dwell on memories, even if from not long ago. What's the use, what's the use, Jake kept shouting to himself. As he sobbed on the top landing of the stairwell, the use came crashing down on and in him.

Some composure helped Jake to make it to #311. When they first moved in, he tried to lift her up and over the threshold. He could still see Sally's laughing look: You've got to be kidding! So they walked in together, grow old with me, the best is yet to be, settling in both of their hearts. Only three years later, cancer and amnesia made short shift of the promise of the best. Browning's poetic magic fizzled out for them.

With a vengeance, Jake had trashed all the photos and mementos of their decades together. With no children to object, Sally's painful demise put an end to most of Jake's reality, as well. He had chosen to become only a missing in action shell who ate the bismarks and drank the coffee with the guys each week. That is, until that fateful Monday.

Slumped in his recliner, the gift of Henry's death rejuvenated Jake. Rejuvenated him by releasing the most profound and penetrating sobbing he had ever experienced. Story after story of their life together came, not to haunt, but to allow grief to surface. First one, then another, story embellished itself. Jake realized that repeated and expanded stories were the life blood connecting folks. To say nothing, of keeping Sally alive in his heart.

It wasn't the donuts, the long johns, the bismarks! It wasn't the who made this godaweful coffee they shared! It was simply the interplay of their who-ness each story enhanced.

How had they put up with his aloofness, Jake now wondered. What opportunities for real friendship were ignored, he pondered. Death had not only taken Sally from him; her death had taken him from himself.

Was it too late? Could he, should he, risk telling his stories? Was dialogue a possibility as old codgers donutted, long johned, and bismarked themselves with poorly made coffee to wash it all down?

Two weeks after Henry's internment, Jake learned: it was not too late. Even though, no one still knew how to make a good pot of coffee.