Donuts

If he hadn’t driven off with my passport and all my socks still on the roof of the car, my father would probably never have agreed to drive half an hour out of his way for donuts; and if he hadn’t agreed to stop for donuts my father and I might not be on speaking terms.
The road trip was supposed to mend the hurt of a two year silence between us. There was no real reason for the cessation of communication between us but I guess some times a new wife and kid will have that effect.
He was supposed to pick me up in Montreal - where I had been bumming around for the past year or so trying to get my head on straight and figure out what was next, a luxury my father seemed to resent- and drop me off in Calgary where a job on the oil rigs was waiting for me. In retrospect, the decision to drive across the expanse of Canada in a shitty hatchback with a man I hadn’t spoken to in two years was probably the biggest sign that I still didn’t quite have my head on straight, but I needed to get from point A to point B one way or another and I was somewhat pleased my dad was reaching out.
So, on a stormy Thursday morning I stood on my apartment’s front step, coffee in hand, backpack and boxes leaning against the wall behind me and waited for the rumble of an approaching beater, the car I mean, not my father; he was never physically abusive. Forty five minutes later, the coffee was gone and the boxes were getting damp in the chilly air. My bladder was ready to burst but I was afraid to leave my stuff on the stoop while I dashed up 3 flights of stairs so I held it, jiggling anxiously. Finally a shabby silver car lurched around the corner belching exhaust and spinning salt in lazy arcs. It puttered to a stop in front of me and my dad leaned over the passenger side to open the door. My first face to face words to my dad were “watch this hit. I gotta piss”, and with that I raced up the steps towards relief.
With much cursing we managed to stack the three cardboard boxes, my backpack, a duffel bag and my guitar into the back. Of course, coupled with my dad’s camping gear, which as far as I could tell was nothing more than rolls of plastic and rusty pots, and his own stack of clothes, which judging by the smell were none to clean, we could no longer see out the back. “S’okay” grunted my dad, “that’s what side view mirrors are for”. I didn’t really want to start the trip with an argument but my nails dug holes in my palms as he backed out of the parking spot and I envisioned squished puppies or worse, children.
Before we could even get a proper start on the journey we had to stop for coffee. This of course proved to be an ordeal too because my dad insisted on avoiding anywhere that served “fancy” coffee. “My coffee shouldn’t be poured in shots” he argued, “the only shots I like in my coffee don’t mix well with driving”. So we circled until we found A Timmy Ho’s which involved a hair raising swerve across three lanes of traffic. Back in the car I was forced to serve as cup holder since the car was too old to be equipped with such modern conveniences “but hey who needs anything fancy anyway right?” my dad asked as he handed me a hot coffee. I nodded as scalding droplets trickled down my wrist.
Things improved when somewhere in the vicinity of St. Therese a hail stone the size of an eye ball struck the windshield, causing spider cracks to bleed across the entire driver’s side. So, now both forward and rear vision were obstructed. Still, there was no way my dad would pay the $300 or so dollars it would cost to fix the thing. Instead he insisted on driving either with his head nearly out the window or nearly resting on my shoulder in order to look through a clear patch of windshield. Naturally this became a pain in the neck both figuratively and literally. Furthermore, the cracks, it seemed, let moisture in and soon the moisture caused the car to smell like mildew. The smell of mildew combined with my dad’s unwashed clothes, made it almost unbearable to breathe in the car. We had planned to spend warmer nights sleeping in the hatchback if no campgrounds were nearby when we were ready to stop for the night. The smell made this option highly undesirable. So, on the second night, we pulled into a motel.
Calling the motel creepy would be an understatement. After watching Psycho all motels are a bit creepy but this one actually made your skin crawl, a fact we only discovered the next morning when we woke up covered in bed bug bites. There were also some pretty insistent mosquitoes. Their whining didn’t keep me awake but my dad’s did. Finally, after about an hour of his moaning and slapping I sent him to the car to dig out my duffel bag which I had been smart enough to pack a mosquito coil. I was worried that in my bleary state my dad wouldn’t be able to locate it but I was too tired and irritable to offer to hunt for it myself. I should have known better. My dad had no trouble locating the coil, he devised a handy system which consisted of him dumping all the contents of my bag onto the roof of the car and he quickly returned to the motel room and slept soundly.
His system, however, didn’t extend past finding the coil and the rest of my stuff stayed on the roof of the car even as we drove off. Perhaps if the rear window hadn’t been so obstructed we might have noticed a trail of socks and papers billowing out from the car but, as it was, we noticed nothing until I rolled down the window to get rid of the smell that permeated the car. The duffel bag was somehow caught on the roof rack and was began blowing in and out of the window like some salute to madness. By this time we were already a three hour drive away from the motel. The socks and passport were on a trip of their own.
Some heated words were exchanged. They don’t bear repeating but the gist was that I accused him of being an irresponsible father who would abandon passports and families due to his own selfishness. He accused me of being aimless and lazy, the curse of my whole generation, he claimed. As if he hadn’t had everything handed to him back in the days when a high school education was a good and a university degree was a gold ticket. He practically said that he had to cut wood and carry water growing up, which just turned his whole list of accusations into a farce. Sure dad, growing up in Vancouver in the 70’s I’m sure you road a horse to school too. Suddenly were weren’t just arguing, we were fighting, screaming at each other fists clenched, faces red but at about the time when the conversation took a sharp turn, so did we. Next thing we knew we both had a faceful of dashboard and the car was wrapped around a tree.
After a stunned moment where we assessed the damage, we turned to each other and laughed. We were fine but the car, with its crushed mid section, looked like a lobster’s claw. Amazingly though, it sounded no worse for the wear and soon we were chuffing along. We breathed a premature sigh of relief, premature because about ½ a mile down the road the car started sputtering a smoking, emitting bangs that sounded like a box of firecrackers going off under the hood. I thought we should stop immediately and try to find a mechanic but my dad wanted to push on until either darkness or the bumper fell. We argued some more.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a worn roadside for the exit to Spedling. The sign rang a tiny ant sized bell in the recesses of my mind. “Turn, turn” I shouted, not really sure why. My dad was so startled he obeyed instantly. As we swerved onto the turnoff, boxes and pots rattling fiercely in the back and a cloud of black smoke erupting from our side, I realized why the bell had been ringing. According to my friend Margaret, who could be trusted on these matters, Spelding was home to the world’s best donuts. As we rattled into the town I spotted the even more faded wooden sign that read simply “Bakery” with a blue arrow pointing along a dirt road. “Turn, turn” I screeched again. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” my dad cried, an exclamation he saved for particularly harrowing experiences, as he cranked the wheel again, almost causing our second accident in less than an hour as we narrowly avoided being hit by a re pick up truck ambling towards us in the opposite lane. “What? What? What?”, he sputtered. “Donuts”, I sighed. His face relaxed and he nodded.
We road along the dirt road in silence for a few minutes but as the motor began to strain even harder my dad began clearing his throat irritatedly. The throat clearing turned to sighing and hmphing and then to muttering. After about 15 minutes of dirt road my dad turned to me. “What is this, the donut shop at the end of the world?” he barked. I almost felt guilty, almost. “Yes”, I replied “this is indeed the donut shop at the end of the earth”. “Smart ass” he snarled. “Better than a dumb ass” I mumbled under my breath.
Finally the dirt road turned into a wide driveway. At the end of the driveway was a small, tilted wooden building. In fact hut might be a better description as it couldn’t have been much bigger than four porta-potties stuck together.
My dad turned off the motor and the car whined and then went silent. “Better be the world’s best donut” my dad said as he slid out from behind the wheel. The litany of “betters” continued as we tramped up the path. “Better than sex”, “Better than winning the jackpot”. The path to the shack was long. “Better than fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
When we got to the top of the hill, slightly out of breath, we spotted a small hand lettered sign thumb tacked to the front door. Gone on an errand, Back in 30, it read.
“You’ve got to be kidding me” snarled my dad, “I’m not waiting 30 minutes”.
-“But dad this could have been written a while ago. Someone will probably be back any minute now”.
-“Or, it was written years ago and the person died while running the errand, or decided to move out of this dump of a town.”
- “If I thought you were being anything other than ridiculous I would point out that the paper is not at all weather worn. However, since I know you’re simply being contrary all I’m going to say is socks, passport, you owe me a donut”.
So, we stood awkwardly by the building. Then, we sat. We made Inukshuks out of pebbles. We counted ants. When I suggested we play tic tac toe in the dirt my dad sighed, got up and brushed the dirt off his jeans.
-Enough is enough. Let’s blow this donut stand.
-Five more minutes, I argued.
He chewed his lip and kicked a nearby boulder. At that moment we heard a rustling behind us and turned. A grey haired woman propelling herself along with ski poles hoved into view, followed closely by a mottled German Shepard.
“Terribly sorry”, the woman puffed. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, don’t get much business at this time, and well Rolf, well this is Rolf, Rolf went on a rabbit hunt.”
I fully expected my dad to make some snide comment about town businesses or rabbit hunts but instead he simply reached over and patted Rolf on the head.
“Rolf eh? You catch anything?”
“Rolf no. Me, Hopefully my breath soon”, the woman replied extending her hand.” Hi I’m Mathilda”.
My dad grabbed her small hand in his two mitts and pumped it up and down.
-Mac. And this sullen boy is my son Ian.
“Hi” I mumbled rising.
“And you’re both here for donuts right?”
Our grins answered her question. Rolf seemed to have understood as he bounded up the rest of the path and into the bakery, whose door had apparently been unlocked. We followed. The smell inside the building was intoxicating, a sweet dust that settled right into our lungs.
“Plain or cinnamon?”, Mathilda asked. “Wait, never mind, half a dozen of each”.
My father and I glanced at each other eyebrows raised; I’m pretty sure we were both thinking that a dozen donuts seemed excessive but before we could reply Mathilda had disappeared behind a partition. Seconds later we heard the crackle and spit of hot oil and the smell intensified. Soon we were holding brown paper bags dripping grease. It was with slippery fingers that we paid the whole two dollars Mathilda asked for.
“Go boys. Before it gets dark and the donuts get cold” Mathilda insisted as she nearly threw us out the door. We stumbled to the car protecting our treasure. When we arrived neither of us wanted to put down the donuts long enough to unlock the doors so we sat on the hood and peeled back the sweaty paper. My dad was faster and he popped one in his mouth first. His eyes opened larger than I had ever seen them. His smile was even wider. With a mouthful of hot donut he just barely managed to gasp “Fuck son, now that’s a donut!”