2004 - Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science

we’d be fine. The donut shop was always coldwhen we arrived, but we knew better than toadjust the heat. Instead I would walk immediatelyto the fryer and flip the switch. It wouldn’ttake long for the enormous vat to start bubblingand popping, and in no time the entirestore would be hot enough to smother aMississippi water moccasin in a frozen pond.In no time, the entire shop would come tolife. The dough would be mixing in one of thegiant mixers, and the fryer would be meltingthe fresh vegetable shortening. Connie wouldalways turn on the radio, and we would spendthe entire night jamming to her old-schoolrock-and-roll. Dancing and laughing, we wouldknead the dough, making half a table of soft,pillow-shaped loaves. We held deeply intellectualconversations about the art of donut-making,and how Connie could make better twiststhan I, while I could make better cinnamonrolls than she could. We had contests to seewho could recognize the name and band of asong whenever it came on the radio, and sometimeswe would get so carried away trying toshout out answers before each other that anunknowing observer might think us near deaf.Connie would entertain me with wild storiesabout parties and concerts; and she wouldalways answer my complaints about working atnight, or being burned by the grease, or beingtired, with gruesome details about her last job,or one of the many before it.The way that donut dough rises, Connieand I would always have two “cigarette breaks”before things really got rolling. After the yeasthad been mixed into the dough for twelveminutes, it had to rise for twenty minutesbefore we could do anything more, and thenBreakswe had to knead it into loaves and let it rise anS V1 7additional twenty minutes. This was our quiettime, our time to relax and talk about our families,our hopes, our dreams, our goals. “Comeon, man. It’s time for a cigarette break,” Conniewould always announce, even though I wasusually already headed for the door. We’d gooutside and sit and talk, me rambling incessantlyin my mind but saying little and Conniecommenting between puffs as though sheknew what I was thinking. “We need to stayuntil five tonight at least, so I can get my hoursin. Rent’s due tomorrow.” I didn’t object;Momma needed the money as well.The blue “Heavenly Donuts Plus” signabove us cast a faint glow over the surroundings,which concocted a surreal setting whenmixed with the apparitions of Connie’s smokerings. Connie was the only person other thanmy grandfather I knew that could blow smokerings. During rainy days when there was nowork to be accomplished on the farm, mygrandfather and I would hollow out the nub ofa dried corn cob and plug it with a whittledcane shoot to make a homemade pipe. Papowould slit the tobacco out of one of my grandmother’slong cigarettes to pack the rude contraption,and we’d spend the rest of the afternoontalking about how we were going to getrich off of selling homemade pipes at theannual Watermelon Carnival while I watchedhim puff concentric circles of smoke into theair. Connie couldn’t blow concentric circles likePapo, but her smoke always stayed circularlonger than his, and was much thicker. Shewould move her lips, and tiny wisps wouldemerge and expand to the size of a glazeddonut before drifting up into the darkness ofthe night sky. I was always amazed to see therough old woman create something so delicate.Donuts were one thing—soft and beautiful, itwas quite hard to imagine Connie playing anyrole in their creation—but watching hermanipulate something as fragile and disgustingas cigarette smoke to form such beautifullymagic rings was extremely captivating. I couldn’thelp imagining where the rings were driftingoff to. Perhaps they floated off to join the smogof the big cities up north, or maybe theybecame the ironic aureoles of the seraphim.As the tinge of orange left her firstMarlboro, Connie would always ask the samequestion. “How’s your mom doin’?”“She’s okay… still working three jobs. She’salways tired.” Connie knew I didn’t work thenight shift just for spending money. My familyhad been having a hard time ever since wemoved to the city, and I volunteered to contributeas much as I could. It wasn’t too bad,though. Despite my protests, Mom wouldalways make me keep some of the money Imade to spend at the movies or on a new CDor something like that.“You still doing good in school?” She knewthe answer hadn’t changed since the nightbefore. “You’re a momma’s boy, you knowthat?” I would just look at her in response.“Nothin’ wrong with that. I’m the same wayabout my family. You can do whatever youwant to me, as long as you don’t mess with my