Of Karens & Donuts: Part II (+Part I)
WRITING PROMPT: “THE SCREAMING STRANGER”
I decided to repost part one rather than only part two to present the complete story. Enjoy!
Of Karens & Donuts: Part II (+Part I) by Nash Urban
The librarian stood at her usual bus stop at the usual time. It was a crisp fall morning. It was also Monday, and Monday was for donuts you see.
Six donuts to be precise, per the usual.
A Boston cream for Frankie in maintenance. Frankie with the warmest, kindest smile the librarian had ever known deserved no less.
Sarah in digital services preferred a glazed — a simple donut juxtaposed against an eccentric soul.
Martin, the archivist with his penchant for mismatched socks, enjoyed the sprinkles. Obviously. Those very sprinkles, inevitably finding their way into Martin's keyboard, left the librarian feeling equal parts guilt and joy.
For LaToya, her library technician, the delightfully sweet and savory combination of maple and bacon. The librarian made a mental note to finally take LaToya up on her offer to go geocaching, though she knew it wouldn't be until the weather turned.
Now, Drew in reference and research always liked to be surprised with donuts that were “on the edge” as he liked to put it. Today it’s a peanut butter and jelly filled. Not as edgy perhaps as his current kick of guerrilla gardening, but in line with the banana Nutella from the week before that he loved so much.
Then there was the honey old-fashioned. Arguably the perfect donut. Dense, craggy texture. Subtle sweetness. Perfect for dipping in a cup of strong black coffee. Timeless. This was for her.
Did I say six? Well, seven donuts then, because there was still the salted caramel separated from the others with a bit of decorative wax paper. What's that you say? Why yes, it is for someone special. And she did so very much hope that he would like it.
It was at that very moment of delightful donut adoration that her bus arrived.
She balanced the paisley box of half-dozen-plus-one donuts in one hand, her well-worn leather attaché case in the other. The librarian—simple, modest, yet undeniably well put together—took a final breath of crisp air as the Southbound 22's air brakes hissed and its door squeaked open.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and stale coffee greeted the librarian as she stepped onto the bus. The driver, a gruff yet approachable man named Earl with a perpetual five o’ clock shadow nodded at her. “Morin’ Ma’am,” Earl said as he tipped his well-worn hat. “Donut day, eh?”
She smiled warmly. “Indeed it is Earl. Might I interest you in one?”
Earl’s weathered features softened. “Aw, you’re too kind as always. But I best not. The missus has me on a diet. Something about my markers,” he chuckled, not unlike those stories of Santa one would hear as a child.
“Very well then. Maybe next week?”
“Maybe next week,” Earl said as he shifted the bus into drive.
The librarian tittered softly as she made her way down the aisle. And though the bus driver’s answer had remained unchanged for as long as she could remember, she couldn’t help but smile at their familiar Monday morning exchange.
Carefully maneuvering the precious box of donuts, she smiled at faces familiar and new as she found her usual seat - second row from the back, right side - and settled in carefully placing the box in her lap and her attaché on the seat to her side.
As the bus lurched forward, the librarian gazed out the window, thoughts crystallizing around the most idealistic outcome involving the salted caramel and that special someone. Today was the day.
It wasn’t long before she was jared from her delightful daydream by the grating voice of quite possibly the most inconsiderate and tactless person she had ever come across, real or fictional. Debbie.
Now, just so you know, the librarian avoided speaking to, much less eye contact with Debbie at all costs. It was best that way. The only reason she knew Debbie’s name at all was a result of her tendency to speak in the third person during her boisterous, neverending phone calls with well articulated phrases such as “girl, Debbie don’t approve” or the ever popular “Debbie doin’ it, Debbie doin’ it” with the second utterance adding extra emphasis in all the wrong places.
As the bus rolled to an abrupt stop in front Maplewood Drive (or Prima Donna Drive as the librarian liked to think of it) Debbie's voice permeated the exterior of the bus like water through a sieve. Yes, Debbie was indeed that loud. Hence, the aforementioned jarring.
Faces and figures attempted to hide as the doors to the bus screeched open and the metaphorical wall was torn down leaving the passengers exposed to the pending storm that was Debbie. You might also note that the doors to the bus usually squeaked open, but at this particular stop they screeched open. It was the darndest thing.
Earl forced a half smile and a hello as Debbie clomped onto the bus tapping her metrocard to the reader, not missing a beat in her all too important conversation about dryer sheets or perhaps detergent. It wasn’t entirely clear, but whatever it was, Debbie did not approve.
It is at this point that one might notice the woman's outfit was just as loud as she was: colors, patterns and pieces that should not be part of the same outfit, let alone in the same room together, and hair that was more of a helmet than a style.
What proceeded were several disapproving exhales and eye rolls as Debbie made her way to her seat in the middle of the bus, back to the window facing inward. As she plopped into her seat, she let out an overdramatic grunt letting everyone know that the world does and always has revolved around her. The librarian could feel her heart beating faster in her chest.
Body parts and belongings were audibly adjusted and an emphatic “take a picture why don’t you” was shot across the aisle at the poor patron directly across from Debbie, who quickly craned his neck to avert his gaze, banging the side of his head on the window as he did. “Didn’t think so,” Debbie scoffed.
It was in that moment that the librarian remembered to exhale realizing that she had been holding her breath. She looked down at the paisley box, corners crumpled by now shaking hands. Oh, no. A slow tear rolled down her left cheek and landed on the box,
Now, the librarian considered herself a kind, calm and understanding person, and anyone that knew her would say just as much, but Debbie was able to push buttons she didn’t even know she had, more often than not resulting in a kind of crippling social paralysis.
On most days, the librarian did her best to ignore or even avoid Debbie altogether, nose buried in a book or catching an earlier bus. And seeing as how there were only a handful of stops before hers, the situation was usually quite manageable. But today was not like most days, remember?
She looked down at the paisley box with crumpled corners. Enough, she thought, wiping the soft tears from beneath her eyes. She was tired of Debbie holding invisible dominion over her emotional state. This woman is a bully. She has no filter, no consideration for others, and perhaps most important of all—no manners. Unacceptable. Harumph.
On several occasions, the librarian had tried to muster the courage to give Debbie a polite piece of her mind. Uncharacteristic, yes, but necessary for the greater good of the Southbound 22. However, every time she emboldened herself up and marched toward Debbie, she simply marched on by. This wouldn't do. This wouldn’t do at all. If she lacked the confidence to confront a textbook antagonist, how could she expect to express her feelings to that special someone when the time came? Today was the day, after all.
A familiar bump in the road and a friendly chime indicated that the bus was approaching the librarian's stop. Okay. This was it. No more failed attempts. She had had ample time to ruminate on the particulars of what she wanted to “express” to Debbie, dare I say, give her a piece of her mind. Not that the librarian would ever phrase it in such a manner, but between you and me, that's precisely what she was preparing to do.
The bus once again hissed to a stop as the librarian let out an exaggerated exhale, brushed her lap, gathered her belongings, and stood up with determined authority. She took a moment to steady herself, both physically and emotionally, as she prepared to confront the source of her uncharacteristic ire. With a final deep breath and a newfound resolve, she eyed Debbie, determined to liberate the lovely passengers of the Southbound 22 from her ostentatious antics.
She moved towards the middle of the bus, catching Earl's approving nod of encouragement in the oversized rear-view mirror. His knowing look was all the confirmation she needed. Having witnessed Debbie's antics day after day, he too had longed for someone to take a stand. The glimmer of hope in his eyes and the unspoken support gave her the courage to continue.
As she approached Debbie, the librarian could sense the anticipation building among the other passengers. It was as if they were all holding their breath, waiting for the moment when someone would finally stand up to the bus's resident tyrant. It was electric and the librarian felt a surge of that energy coursing through her veins, a mix of nervousness and exhilaration that propelled the unlikely hero forward, slightly crumpled paisley box in hand.
She stopped in front of Debbie, who, as usual, had been talking incessantly since boarding the bus. She paused briefly, then turned to face the still seated Debbie who was almost as tall as the librarian was standing. Earl shifted in his chair leaning ever closer to the rear view mirror and would have surely fallen out if he wasn't belted in.
After a few tense moments, Debbie finally noticed the librarian stopped in front of her.
“Hold on a ticky tock,” she spoke into her phone before placing it on her shoulder. “Can I help you with something Mary Poppins?”
The librarian looked Debbie dead in the eye and then... nothing.
The words escaped her. She reached, but they weren't there. She knew them by heart, so much so she could feel the pang in her chest. But she could not bring herself to make the sounds. Nothing. No, not again.
“He-llooooo. Downton Abby. Anyone home?” Debbie snapped her fingers in front of the librarian's face, head bobbing like a chicken.
The anticipation deflated like a balloon, and a few of the passengers went about their business. Earl leaned back into his seat defeated from afar and waited for the librarian to exit.
An indecipherable voice emanated from Debbie's phone. “Yeah, no this homely woman is just standing here staring at me. What's that? Yeah, she should offer to buy me a drink, good one.”
The librarian hadn't so much as blinked.
“Well?” Debbie said, crossing her arms in front of her head cocking to the side.
Another moment passed.
“Listen here Betty Crocker. Just keep it moving or I'll report you to the transit authority for harassment and like being in my personal space. You'll never ride this bus again after I'm through. Speaking of, why aren't we moving? Bus driver, why aren't we moving?”
“This is her stop,” he replied hesitantly, indicating the librarian.
“Well get her moving. Poop or get off the pot. Don't make me report you and that crime against facial hair of yours too. And don't think I haven't noticed you up there giving me the stink eye on more than one occasion. Discrimination is what that is. In fact, what's your name? I need to tell your supervisor who they should fire. You know what, I'll just look it up right now. What do you think Nanny McPhee? Should this excuse of a public servant be...”
Debbie never finished her sentence.
The librarian was almost to the front of the bus. It had all happened so fast that she wasn't ever sure that it indeed had. Earl's jaw practically touching the floor would indicate to the contrary. The same shocked look populated the bus. Indeed it had.
As the librarian went to exit the bus, she turned back to Debbie still sitting there dumbfounded with a salted caramel crammed in her mouth.
"And my name is Elizabeth."
Cheers rang out all at once as Elizabeth walked away from the bus with her box of seven minus one. That special someone will just have to wait a little longer. I hope he understands. Elizabeth smiled.
© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.
A Note on Formatting: Due to the limitations of Substack's text editor, this fictional work appears without traditional indentation for new paragraphs. I will remove this note eventually, but not yet.
Nash's Notes:
FYI: The article voiceover contains additional spice! Also in Podcast flavor.
Yea, so part two. Funny thing happened.
Allow me to explain. Again!
WRITING PROMPT: "THE SCREAMING STRANGER"
From the previous post:
For this prompt, I was instructed to "Imagine your character has someone start screaming at them. What does your character do?"
Initially, I was going right for the throat and dropping the reader right into the inciting incident and subsequent conflict/reaction. This was what the exercise called for, after all. However, as I started to plot this out, I thought it would be more fun to have a bit of a set-up to make the moment more impactful, because, of course, it would.
The problem was (and just to be clear, it is a good problem to have) I was just having too much fun crafting that bit of the story. For whatever reason, I wanted to work on relationships in a coworker context. Moreover, I had taken my family out for donuts a few days before I sat down to work on this piece. Those dots are easy to connect. And let's be honest, researching donuts was quite fun.
As a result, the writing and iterating minutes slowly melted into hours and a handful of sessions, producing a delightful bit of story that has, as of yet, failed to satisfy the writing prompt.
Writer Pro-Tip #197: Just Keep Swimming… Some More, But Also…
By the time I posted part one on the blog, I already had a good idea and a few paragraphs of where part two was going to take me.
The same problem persisted, though: I couldn’t stop writing. I sat down for a session and had to stop writing before I finished. Then the same thing happened the next day. Then the next week. Then one last time. Then the edit and the rewrites. Sheesh!
Naw, it was all good. And it was fun. I just finally had to get off the bus, as it were. This was supposed to be a 10-minute writing exercise, after all.
Like I said in the last post, consistent “better than before” output. Just keep swimming. But also, get out of the damn pool before you become a prune.
See you on the next page,
Nash
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