by J. A. Tyler

He ordered a cruller. And a coffee black. The other ordered the same to drink and something chocolate chocolate. Double-layered. Then they sat and took their hats off and hung them on the corners of their chairs and adjusted their glasses and choked their hands on cups of coffee and started to talk as they nibbled and warmed and sat and thought.

No. It was a new recipe.
A new recipe. Huh.
Yep. Something out of one of those. Magazines. Or something.
No kidding.
Nope.
That’s a shame. And on Thanksgiving.
Yeah. And it was. Crumbly. You know. Dry as all get out.
Huh.
I had to soak that thing in gravy.
Jesus.
Barely choked it down. Took almost the whole boat. The whole lot.
But she’s new.
Right.
Your son’s wife. Right.
Right.
Then what can you do.
Right.
Nothing.
That’s right.

And they ate some more and let their eyes wander. Idling like cold engines on frosted mornings. Sitting like gallons of milk near freezing in white crates on farmhouse porches where hens are laying and the sunrise is smoky with steam from the ponds like wells all around. And the balding man saw the little baby first cooing and babbling about. So he talked to it and the mother instead of the old man anymore. Not really caring about the stuffing disaster anymore.

Yes. Yes. You’re a cutie. Yes you are. O. He’s so cute.
Yes he is. And a handful.
Aren’t they all. Are you? Are you a little handful? Hm. Well. I know how it goes.
Right.
I had some kids like that too. Yes I did. But you’re a cutie. Yes you are.
How old are yours?
O. Long gone anymore. Don’t see them anymore. That’s how old.
Huh.
Will happen before you know it.
I’m sure.
Well. He’s a cutie that’s for darn sure. You’re a cute little man little man. Keep your mommy on her toes huh. Keep her going huh. I’m sure.
He does. No joke.
I’m sure.
Well.

And then it broke because that’s what it has to do if you don’t know them. Can’t keep on talking to strangers. Even in a donut shop the day after Thanksgiving. Even at eight or nine in the morning. Even under a sky that is stripping its clouds to show its bright blue innards and loving wispy rays of glorious sun. Even then. There’s a need to break even then. So they were back to one another. The old men. Sitting. Warming. Wondering. Talking.

You brought your hat.
O. Yeah. Saw it on the seat. Thought I’d bring it in.
I don’t ever see you without that thing.
O sure you do.
No. I don’t. You’re always wearing that goddamn thing.
Watch your mouth. There’s a baby.
Well. You’re always wearing it.
You’re always wearing yours too.
Not me. Only sometimes. But my son. God. He’s always wearing his. Can’t pry that thing away.
Huh. Well. Yours is on a fair share too I suppose.
I suppose so. A fair share.
Well. That’s settled then.
Your boy did too I’m sure. Wore his hats. All the time. I’m sure.
Well. I’m sure he did too.

And the woman with the baby had already left. Cleaned up the trays and the napkins and the empty cups and left behind only a glossy sparkling table in the morning sun and a handful of crumbling sprinkles on the ground. A rainbow stepped on by feet in shoes hard and clunking with drifted snow. And the old men wrapped in scarves still were finishing their breakfast one by one in soft bites made of dentures. And the men were still gazing at the walls like watching ghosts traverse Everest. Thinking about here and there and what is in between. Dreams undone by donuts and morning coffee.

Well. That’s a shame about the stuffing.
Yeah. It was. Had to gravy that whole damn thing.
Sounds like it.
Yep.
But it was good otherwise.
O. Sure. Good. Took a nap. Rested. Feet up. Played with the grandkids.
Right.
Well.
No. It’s fine. That’s what you did.
Well. Watched some of that game too.
Yeah.
They trounced on Wisconsin.
They did.
They did. Hell of a game.
Well.

They sighed collectively like marionettes hung from vines growing grape juice in mid-summer.

That was a cute kid.
It was.
Before.
Yeah. It was.
I miss those cute little kids.
I know you do.
Yeah. Gets. A little lonely.
It does. Sometimes it does.
Yes. Sometimes it does.
Well. At least the Thanksgiving was good.
Yep. Except that stuffing for you. New recipes huh.
That’s right. Nothing like these new-fangled recipes.
That’s right I guess.
Well. You tell Cheryl I say hello.
I will. I will. And you tell those kids. Hello from me.
I will. I’ll pass it along.
And take care of yourself.
Always. You too.
Right. That’s about all there is to it anymore.

And they left an empty table behind where two more old men with two more trays of uneaten donuts would converse and travel as they did thinking back and forward and elsewhere. Talking to one another and warming in scarves and black coffee and grandkids and lives unwinding as the ends of yarn fraying. Swinging in a cold wind that never ceases. Even when the sun is shining. Even when others smile. Even then.

 

 

Among other publications, J. A. Tyler has work most recently with The Feathertale Review, Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, & Word Riot. He is also founding editor of Mud Luscious. Read out more at www.aboutjatyler.com.

 

artwork by Jenny Ostraff. Separation From Myself. Intaglio print. 2007.