Loopy’s Adventures at Ye Old Donut Shoppe: Part II

I bowed into the waiting police mobile while at the same time blowing a massive snot rocket. Officer Dibble winced approvingly. The wince is the mainstay of Dibble’s facial expressions, along with his crooked grin. He only grins at those whom he considers his chums–the kind of people he would share a donut with–but his wince is universally bestowed. I think he imagines he looks like Clint Eastwood when he does it, although truth be told he looks more like he’s trying to get out that last little reluctant tip of turd that refuses to slip out with its brethren. You know what I mean. It’s probably ruined many a contemplative afternoon.
He sniffed at me threateningly. “You been smokin reefer?” he asked, staring me down like the dad I never had.
“Naw, Officer Dibble. You’re smelling pizza. I was playing Ninja Star 3. I died on the 4th level.”
“The 4th level?! What’s gotten into you, boy?” He slowed down the car and cruised by a nun, perusing her intently to see if he could make out any hint of the female form in her dark, cryptic folds. “You haven’t been eating enough, can’t concentrate. Gotta get them carbs, kid. Breaded materials.”
“See this?” he asked, wincing and flourishing a welded bicep, “Go ahead, feel it. Go on.” I didn’t particularly want to, but it seemed more of a command than a suggestion. I wasn’t in the mood for a round of noogies.
“Yeah! Now that’s what a man feels like, junior! You think I got that from eating salads?” He stared at me violently, accusingly, as if I had said that he had gotten it from eating salads. I shook my head. “Shit. I’ve been eating meat and potatoes and corn bread since I was three. And there ain’t nothin, NOTHIN, like a good chocolate coated donut. That’ll put some hair on yer chest.”
He drove in silence for a while, letting the wisdom of his words sink in. My stomach sounded as if it were speaking in tongues. I was starting to get jittery. And then we were there, finally, just as my palms were beginning to sweat. The sweet neon yellow sign proclaiming “open 24 hours” shined like a beacon before me. Just as we were getting out of the car, Officer Dibble spotted Ms. Jesperson swaying down the street in platform shoes and a lipstick red miniskirt. “Goddam,” Dibble muttered, wincing, “justice must be served. Get me a chocolate iced custard filled, son,” and he drove off to do his duty. He was always talking about his “duty.” It was his duty to pat down the young boys if they were “up to no good” in the street, and it was his duty to pick up women in his car and “ensure that they are safe and protected.” I wiped my hands on my pants and entered the donut haven, harbor from the sea of life, where things are sweet and fried and go well with either milk or coffee, depending on the time of day.
“Josephine!” I barked, “are you ever a sight for sore eyes! These glazed devil’s food donuts pale by comparison.” I glued my face to the donut window and salivated eagerly. Josephine got out a box and stood ready with her tongs. Josephine is undoubtedly the top donut server in the world. She’s silent, efficient, and she knows exactly what donut you mean when you point vaguely at the donut display.
I took in a deep breath and commandeered the troops, checking for freshness, thickness of icing, and general integrity of appearance.
“Ok. I want 3 chocolate iced, 1 lemon filled, 1 chocolate iced creme filled, 1 chocolate iced custard filled, 3 chocolate iced with sprinkles, 1 raspberry filled, 1 cinammon apple filled, and. . .,” here i hesitated, poised between the sour cream and the maple iced, “and 1 maple iced.” I watched with satisfaction as Josephine scooped the chosen into the box.
“And a chocolate milk, please. Josephine, you are an amazing specimen of human endearment. You make my heart palpitate even more than running the mile in PE once did.” I’m not even sure that Josephine speaks English. But she knows her donuts, and that’s all that I could ask for in a woman. Plus she’s got these really big tits that press against the counter when she bends over to nab a donut.
I took my box and my milk and scuttled out the door into the night, the night that was now friendly, secure, and centered about me. Dibble’s car was parked in a dark spot down the street, and it appeared to be shaking back and forth. I figured that he must be struggling with some dastardly criminal, and could use the extra stamina provided by a hearty donut, just like Popeye with the spinach. I approached the car and took out a
chocolate iced custard filled. Officer Dibble was in the back seat with Ms. Jesperson bucking up and down on top of him and clinging to the wire mesh.
”Goddam,” he was saying, “Don’t make me break out the handcuffs and hog-tie you, bitch.”
“Here you go, Officer Dibble,” I said, holding up the donut. He winced at me sweatily and then grinned at the donut.
“Now that’s what I call service. Go home now, son, and stay out of trouble.” He took a generous bite from the donut and dribbled some of the custard onto Ms. Jesperson’s bared left shank. I steeled myself for the journey home with a chocolate iced and zipped up my windbreaker. Nothing like a walk at night armed with a box of donuts. The desire now was sweet, when the donuts were so close, so warm, and so fragrant. I cradled them
in my arms and envisioned the satiation that would take place before the TV that night.

Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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