The Cinnamon Bun

Enjoying my cup of joe and blueberry muffin, I was making a few notes on topics to write about when this old guy slowly walked up to the table next to mine and prepared to sit down. He was a large man, about six three, big boned and a little stooped over. He carried very little extra weight and was probably in his eighties. His hair was snow white and he wore bright red suspenders in addition to a leather belt. Some things you need to be sure about.

Walking and setting his plate and coffee cup on the table were deliberate efforts. There may have been a time he was light on his feet but that time passed.

Whenever it was, a few years ago my then significant other and I shared a cinnamon bun at Counter Culture. It was delicious and we took at least half of it home. This is not because we were delicate eaters - quite the contrary – it is because these cinnamon buns are huge. One bun pretty much covers a dinner plate, and is about three inches tall. The experience had faded from my screen until yesterday, when there was the bun on the plate which the old man had set on the table.

He took his coffee mug over to the dispensers and came back with it, full and steaming. He quietly sat down. I thought, “This man knows how to live.” If we’re lucky enough, we get to a point where even though we know what we’re about to eat may not be the best thing for us we eat it anyway. What the heck. Life is short.

I never did see the man’s face, but I bet he wore an expression of being pretty well satisfied with things. He was still working on the bun when I got up to leave. He had eaten most of it.

Gordon Bunker