Left or Right

My fingers drum the steering wheel. My teeth scrape my lips. Decisions, decisions. Terrible decisions. I look right and then left. Not a soul in sight. Even one car in the way could have been used as an excuse to take the opposite road, but no, the decision is mine.

Right. The road home. To my family, who love me, who care what happens to me and would be wondering where I was. Work ended half an hour ago and it was only a twenty-minute drive home. Right is the safe choice, the loving choice. Right was right. My shame told me to go right.

Left was more difficult. The power of sin is that those who commit it often know it is wrong before they have even done it. Left was lies. Deceit towards those who believed in me. No matter how many times I had turned left in the past, Mary had forgiven me. She had forgiven me every time, no matter how many times I’d failed, and it had been many. Could she blame me? It was more addictive than cocaine. Sweeter than sunshine. Right was the road home, but left would take me to temptation. I was always a weak man. I turned the wheel.

As the car turns and takes me to paradise I can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. The weight of decision slides off my shoulders like a landslide on a mountain. I sit straighter without it. My conscience cries for me to turn back- there is still time to do the right thing- but I ignore it. Of course. I pocket my guilt, sliding it into a locked draw at the back of my mind. Let it be Future Me’s problem. Present Me’s just here to have good time.

With my guilt hidden away I am finally free to relish my choice. Sin was fun after all, that’s why so many did it. I would have to admit what I was doing eventually, fess up to the other fellas on the programe, humble myself before my family. But if I was going to be punished then I may as well as do something worth being punished for. I turn the wheel again as I arrive at parking lot. It was a golden palace, illuminated by shining lights and adorned with sculptures of the treasures purchasable within. In my darkest moments I sometimes wonder if anywhere makes me happier than here. My holy doughnut store.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter.

“No, George!” screams Sarah from behind the counter. “Absolutely not!”

“Hail, guardian of the frosted treat!” My heart lifts as soon as I cross the threshold of the sacred hall.

“George, no!” Sarah continues to protest as I float towards the display cabinet. “I promised, George. I told Mary I wasn’t going to sell to you anymore. You’re banned. You’re a diabetic for god’s sake!”

“Fret not oh priestess of pastries, a little bit of poison can make you immune don’t you know. Just a couple won’t hurt.”

“No, they wouldn’t, but you don’t eat a couple George. You eat twenty-seven in one sitting and then have to be rushed to the ER!”

I see that Sarah is not in a playful mood today. How unfair life is. Is it not shocking to think we live in a nation of laws, yet a man must fight for the simplest of pleasures. What is happening to society?

“Perhaps the gatekeeper requires some extra payment today?” I pull out a fifty.

Sarah hesitates.

“George, our doughnuts cost a dollar each. I am not selling you fifty.”

I throw my head back in raucous laughter. “No, no, no, my sweet deliverer of the divine. I wish to sample but a dozen of your most coveted offerings. The rest is for you.”

Sarah eyes the note and I can see she’s thinking about it. I roll my eyes. Life would be more fun if people just played along.

“Sarah you are a minimum wage worker. Take the money, give me my doughnuts, and get your nose out of my business, alright? Now are you going to give me what I want, or do I need to behave like a real addict and get violent?”

“Jesus Christ, George.” She takes the money, and I find my smile again.

The order is my usual, the one I dream about. Even thinking about it causes my mouth to fill with saliva, flooding it to the extent I need to spit.

Three chocolate creams. Three raspberry jams. Four custards. One with sprinkles. One glazed. God forgive me.

I sit in a booth and look at the box. It is an addiction, I know, but I can’t feel bad about it now. The world goes quiet. It’s just me and the box. I eat with gusto, devouring. I only wish I could unhinge my jaw like a snake and taste them all at once. A chaotic orchestra gluten and sugar and fat.

Twenty minutes later they are gone. I sit back, satisfied for a moment. Then comes the pain in my chest.

My ears wake up before my eyes and I can hear two sounds. One is the heart monitor beeping. It sounds quiet and slow. I don’t really know what that means. The second sound is weeping. I know its Mary before I even look at her. The guilt unlocks itself from the draw in my head.

I open my eyes and have a look at how many tubes are stuck in me this time. Last time it was four but now its six. That can’t be good. Mary gets the doctors and once they’ve done the checks she and I start the usual script. She chews me out, which I deserve. I make promises I’m already thinking about breaking.

There is one thing that’s different from all the other times which I don’t like at all. Normally there is a hope in her eyes, pining and wishful. No matter what the look says maybe things will get better. Change is always possible. Maybe I’ll stop doing this to myself. Today I can’t see it, and I wonder where it could have gone. It’s like she knows.

She does know.

It depends a little on when the doctors discharge me. Maybe it will be a week later, maybe a month. There’s a small chance that some new diet will work for me and perhaps I’ll go a whole year. But we both know that one night I’ll be driving home again. I’ll stop at that same intersection, and I’ll have a choice. Right or left. I’ll look both ways, weigh up my options. Then I’ll do what I also do and turn left. Next time I’m not sure I’ll make it back. I wish I could quit that damn doughnut store.