Raised Glazed Donuts (Stuck Up!)

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

It was early Saturday morning. I was trying to get my shoes on when I heard, “Come on, hop in or we’ll be late!” It was my older brother Ronnie. “Get a move on!” he urged. Him being 16 and me 12, I knew I needed to get a move on. He was a busy man with places to go, things to do and people to see.

“Coming!” I shouted.

Mom handed me a couple of dollars from her nearly empty coin purse. “You’ll need that for your haircut” she said, and offered a loving smile.  I stuffed it into my pocket, scrambled out the side porch door, flew over the steps and hopped into the blue and white ’58 Bel Air. We backed out of the driveway like bandits, shot past the high school and headed out of town.

Ronnie had stopped getting his hair cut in town at Ritchie’s Barber Shop. I suppose it was because Mr. Ritchie only seemed have two styles of cuts in his skill bag: crew cuts and butch cuts. But he only charged 75¢. Whatever the reason, we’d skipped breakfast for an early appointment in Sterling 12 miles away.

We cruised into Sterling’s downtown business area, parked the car, and ran into the shop. “Hello boys, have a seat. We’ll be right with you.” It was the first “Clipper King” near the door: A tall, chunky man with dark hair, mustache, black apron and friendly smile. He waved his scissors in the air and returned to his customer. There were three barber chairs in the shop but only two barbers. The second barber, a younger thinner man, stayed focused on his client.

Ronnie was first. I waited my turn and looked at comic books. The thin barber called to me, motioning to the chair. I hopped in. Speedily he caped me, chopped and cropped, snipped and clipped, thinned and trimmed, and finally combed my noggin. He finished me in no time! We paid the men and scooted out the front door.

I turned to go to the car assuming next stop was home. Ronnie, on the other hand was apparently on a mission.  He headed in the opposite direction and started across the street. “Where are you going?” I called. Watching for cross traffic, he turned and motioned to me to follow, then trotted briskly to the corner donut shop on the other side. A donut shop? We never go to donut shops!

I ran across the street and hurried through the shop entrance. That wonderful fresh baked aroma almost knocked me over. The place hummed with customers sitting at tables chatting over coffee and munching on their delights. Ronnie stood eyeing the selection. They’d sold out of about everything except glazed donuts, some with colored sprinkles and some just iced. The icing glistened as it dripped off the sides of each one. He looked a little disappointed but ordered a dozen anyway.

The cashier didn’t have any more boxes with covers so she made do with a lid lined with wax paper and loaded up the treats. Apologetically she said, “Sorry, we’ve run out of napkins.”

“That’s OK.” Ronnie replied. He paid the lady, grabbed the lid filled with those confectionary delights and marched out the door.

Crossing the street, he commented, “Let’s get home! Everyone’s waiting.” The summer heat had turned the sedan into an oven. As we got in, he said, “Roll down your window.”  I happily complied. He slid the prized package between us, cranked up the Chevy and took off. The breeze was refreshing as we headed for home.

My mouth watered! I couldn’t wait to dig in. We sped down the highway and then turned off onto a back road. “This isn’t the way home!” I chirped.

“It’s a shortcut.” he responded warmly. With that, he massed the gas pedal to the floor.  It felt like light-speed as we zoomed down the road!

Suddenly his expression became stern. He instructed, “Grab the bottom of the seat and the donuts!”

 I had no idea what he was talking about.  Excited and confused, I thought, “The bottom of the seat?  Where? . . .  and why?” But it was too late. Straight ahead of us and coming fast was an elevated railroad crossing! Ronnie had the steering wheel to keep him in place, but not me.

The car shot up the grade, thumped the rails and went airborne for a few seconds, with me and the donuts floating toward the ceiling. We lofted, then descended, and slammed down hard into the roadbed. I flew to the top of the car, slammed my head into the roof, and crashed back into the seat! I saw stars!

Trying to regain my bearings, I rubbed my head and looked over at Ronnie as we continued racing down the road. “I told you to hang on to the bottom of the seat!” he said and snickered.

Excitedly, I looked down to where the lid had rested. Still in place, I gave a sigh of relief. But wait, some of the donuts were missing. Startled, I asked, “Where are the donuts?” He glanced around quickly and then looked up. Fastening his sight back to the road, he retorted, “You dummy! I told you to hang onto the donuts. They’re stuck to the roof!”

I turned my gaze to the top of the car and there they were, glued to the cloth headliner by their icing. What a mess! Hitting a washboard area of the road, the vibration began loosening the donuts from the fabric. Sprinkles and drips of white icing began pouring back into the box and seat below. And we had no napkins!

“Well, get them down and back into the box!”

A couple dropped back in. I caught as many as I could with the sticky masses clinging to my fingers. Carefully I rearranged them in the lid, licked my fingers and reached for the rest. The remaining ones had to be peeled off leaving their gooey remnants of icing on the ceiling.

My head had stopped throbbing by the time we swung into our driveway. Ronnie delivered the mangled treats to the kitchen table, and disappeared. He probably grabbed a wet cloth and raced back to his car to clean up the mess before the sugar solidified. The rest of the morning was a blur. I don’t think I ate one donut, and who knows what happened to the rest of them. But one thing is certain: now, every time I see a glazed donut, I smile.