| |
The Wonder Bread Man
By
Arlene Heitner
I’m fantasizing about the Wonder Bread man again.
I watch him unload the bread with the red and blue dots on the white background packaging. White, soft, bland Wonder Bread.
I look into the Wonder Bread man’s face. Smooth, no frowns, no deep, complex furrows. He would be easy to live with, I’m sure.
“Hi,” he says, smiling, a question in his eye, as he slams down another crate of fluffiness.
I turn away, and I think of you, your darkness and how it makes me long for a white bread kind of life, where I wouldn’t want to wonder. I don’t want sharp edges ripping into my heart and making me bleed anymore.
“Are you seriously thinking about dating the Wonder Bread man,” asks Nancy, that evening. We are sitting at an outdoor café on Columbus Avenue, sipping Sangria and eating tapas. The night is sultry, the streets filled with exotic-looking citizenry, the exact opposite of the white bread I think I crave.
“You know, Rose had an affair a few years ago with the Duggan donut man,” I say, musing about that disastrous episode in our friend’s life.
“And that makes you want to hook up with the Wonder Bread man,” says Nancy, biting into a spicy shrimp, and fanning her mouth.
Ignoring her sarcasm, I wave to our waiter to bring us another pitcher of Sangria.
“Wouldn’t it be agreeable to have someone smiling all the time?”
“Sounds nauseating,” says Nancy, pouring more Sangria, spilling a little on the table. I watch the purple stain spread on the white cloth.
“Well, how about those gloomy, I-feel-so-sorry-for-myself-because-my-mother-never-loved-me discussions? I could live without that!” I slam my glass down and watch the marinated mushrooms jump in the bowl.
“See that great looking guy coming up the street,” asks Nancy, her eyes bright.
“Yeah,” I say, eyeing the fabulous looking creature.
“Well, he’s not so white and he’s not covered in red and blue polka dots, either,” she says.
“I know,” I say, feeling light-headed.
“What else do you know,” says Nancy, sounding far away.
Much later that night, sleeping on Nancy’s couch, I dream about the Wonder Bread man. He walks toward me in a white jumpsuit. He’s carrying a red and blue polka-dot child who’s eating a donut. Wonder man has a powdery smile on his face as he looks at me beatifically. It’s very, very bright and soon they begin to disappear into the white glare as sugar rains down on them.
I wake up clutching something soft. Is it a loaf of Wonder Bread? I open my eyes. It’s something red. Oh, God, blood red. I’ve bled over white and ruined everything again. The white is gone, I’m drowning in red. I sit up. No. It’s my red B.U.C.K.Y, my neck pillow. I look up. Nancy and her vicious cat are at the foot of the couch, staring at me.
“You were screaming,” says Nancy, “are you okay?”
“I think so, what was I screaming about?” I eye the cat, who’s eyeing me.
“Something about the star spangled banner.”
“Oh, God, everything is all red, white and blue, now!”
“The Wonder Bread man?” asks Nancy, pulling the cat off the couch.
“Yeah,” I mutter, leaning back, clutching my B.U.C.K.Y, still shaking a little.
“You want breakfast,” asks Nancy, walking into the kitchen. “And are you over the Wonder Bread guy yet?”
“I guess so, but I’ll always wonder how it would have been with that kind of guy.”
“I don’t wonder. You’d end up killing him and I’d have to visit you in jail. You know, all that
smiling?”
I might as well surrender to the dark one, the one filled with angst. Yes, he’ll always complain about his family, going to parties, fried food, spicy food, soft mattresses and people in general. But…but...
“What do you want for breakfast,” calls Nancy from the kitchen.
“Toast.”
Copyright © 2006 Arlene Heitner
|
