vituperation

It’s no great secret that I eat mucho healthy food every day of the week except Friday, and on Friday I eat crappy foods when I so choose. Today, being Friday, found me on my way to Burger King for what has become something of a weekly ritual: a lunchtime Whopper Value Meal, king-sized.

With a Diet Coke. Heh.

I drove down the road in my own little world, thinking about nothing more than flame-broiled goodness and the bag of almond m&ms waiting for me later tonight at home. If you are unaware, almond m&ms are a legal form of crack with a tiny bit of redeeming nutritional value. A sign caught my eye then, like it does every week when I’m driving to Burger King: Bakery Thrift Store. I always think about checking it out, but never stop. Today, my mind flashed back to earlier this morning, when I called Robyn after she’d been to the grocery store.

Did you get anything cakey, by chance? Little Debbie, or something? I’d asked. Sometimes I still like the Little Debbies, ironically. At least, ironically to those in the secret Fred club.

No, she’d said. Oh, shit. I forgot to get anything for the spud. I just got ice cream and m&ms. We generally get the spud some sort of junky sweet thing for Friday night, like a candy bar or a packet from a box of Little Debbies.

I can stop on the way home, I guess, I’d said, before we hung up.

Realizing I could kill two birds with one stone — not only finally see the store but also get something cakey to share with the spud — I turned into the parking lot. A sign taped to the front door informed me that the thrift shop didn’t accept debt cards, debit cards, or credit cards. A jangling bell announced my entrance, causing the three people in the store to look at me.

Loaves of past-date bread lined the walls of the tiny store, and the air was heavy with its pleasant scent. I nodded at the people looking at me and scanned the store for cakey items. Two shelf units stood in the center of the store, loaded with Entenmann’s boxes, each bedecked with signs announcing that with the purchase of two items, a third would be free. I took the three steps necessary to get between the shelves.

Like I said, it was a tiny store.

“That’ll be $21.89,” the woman behind the counter told the man in front of it. I looked over to see what might cost that much in a bakery thrift shop, and saw that he was buying about ten Entenmann’s cake and donut packs. “Who you trying to sweeten up?” she asked with a sly grin.

“People at church,” the man replied. The third customer, an older gentleman standing off to one side of the counter, watched them silently. The first man continued. “We have fellowship between the sermon and Sunday school and these are for that. And I’m going to freeze a couple.”

He finished his transaction and left while I studied the boxes of Entenmann’s. Everything looked good, yet nothing looked appealing. Such is the dilemma when you’re in the mood for a Whopper and staring at a lot of decidedly non-Whopper things.

After great deliberation, I grudgingly picked up a raspberry danish twist and a coffee cake. At $1.89 each, I could get both, try them later, and eat a nice piece of whichever I liked the most. Plus, I could share with the spud. Happy with my decision, I took the two boxes to the counter and plopped them down.

“You get a free one,” the woman behind the counter said. The other customer regarded us silently from the end of the counter.

“I know. I don’t want it.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

“But it’s free.”

“I know. Still don’t want it.”

“You don’t have to pay for it.”

“I understand. Really, these are all I want.”

“At least go pick out a few things from the snack-sized stuff,” she said, pointing to the large basket of individually-wrapped snack cakes. “Do you have kids?”

“I have one, and she’ll get some of this. We don’t eat stuff like this too often — matter of fact, after I eat a piece of this tonight, I’m going to throw the rest away.”

By her expression, one might think I’d just invited her to have a threesome with me and the other customer, the lot of us wrapped up together in a glistening and grunting pile of humanity in the back room amongst the boxes of overstock.

“Nobody’s ever turned down the free one,” she said.

“It would just be wasted if I took it.” I smiled at her. “If you really need to get rid of it, just give it to someone else who comes in.”

I paid, took my change, and left. On my way back by, after the trip to Burger King, I almost ran down the third customer as he crossed the busy road in front of me, clutching an Entenmann’s box to his chest.