It has been a long time since I’d driven my car aimlessly. I used to do it when I was younger. It would be out of frustration. Don’t remember where I adopted the idea from, but it was likely a movie or t.v. show. Emotionally busted, I would get into my car and just drive. Even back then I didn’t care for it. It never really helped. But it was at the very least, action. Something that I could do when everything else around me was out of my control. Things have, again, gotten out of control. So, tonight I was driving.
I ended up at a tiny donut shop in Hollywood. Hollywood is so scummy. Landing out there didn’t make things any better. The donut shop was one I’d been to once before. From one donut shop to the next, you’ll find anywhere from average donuts to shitty donuts to tasty ones. This place, I remembered, had tasty ones.
Happily, I was the only one there. I asked for an old fashioned and a cup of coffee. They still made good donuts, which helped to lift my spirits if only a little bit. The coffee was sour.
Yet, none of this is why I’ve taken the time to write. It’s what I found at the table where I sat with my donut and coffee that I want to share.
On the seat next to me I noticed a crumpled white paper bag, just like the one in which my donut was served. Nothing special about it all on its own, but it was that I could see that it had been written on that baited my curiosity. I picked it up and flattened it out to read what had been written.
Although, what I read wasn’t any sort of real revelation, no spiritual key, but it, along with the donut, made my drive feel a little less aimless.
Here is what the donut bag read:
The gun is on the table. The bullets are in the drawer. And I’m waiting for the phone to ring as I pour another drink. There is music coming from the kitchen where the old radio plays. The cat is sleeping under the porch. Her dish is empty and her water needs changing. In the street, outside my window, the cars keeping passing along through the night. It’s been raining for three days. The sky is cold and grey as it has always been. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking, unnoticed. My left shoe needs new laces. I snapped them this morning, pulling them too tight.
The gun, the bullets and I, we wait. But the night waits for nothing. And my drink tastes of tears, but not my own. Thank God for that damn cat who’s awaken and scratching at the screen door to rouse me from the emptiness of regret. Thank God for finding one last cigarette in the pack. Thank God that the sun is coming up and that the phone never rang.