Somebody Stole My Donut…
Although my pal Bryan Hecksher has already outed me with this story, I feel it’s only fair to let all my readers know exactly how clueless, unbutch, and ignorant I am when it comes to motor vehicles.
Perhaps it was the poster I once saw on Christopher Street in New York that said, “If it has tires or balls you’re going to have trouble with it.”
Maybe that steered me away from cars and toward the lavender brick road, who knows.
But in any case, this story involves a donut, and not the jelly kind. The donut in question is the kind nestled in the trunk of your car in case of a flat tire. I learned the term some time ago as we suffered a flat outside Smyrna. Where it happened is not germane to this story but I love the name Smyrna.
Anyway, I learned of my donut ownership from my spouse who was cursing a blue streak and heading to the trunk for the aforementioned cute-looking little mini-tire for use just as far as the nearest gas station. But I guess that you, unlike me, already knew that.
So one morning a couple of weeks ago I came out to the garage…let me rephrase that…I went out to the garage. I didn’t need to come out to the garage. It already knows I’m a lesbian who doesn’t know my carburetor from my froo-froo valve.
So I went out to the garage and discovered my car had a flat tire. At this point I will tell you I had a friend with me, whose name I shall not mention lest everybody know that she didn’t fare so well in donut 101 either.
You see, I opened the trunk, lifted the protective mat and saw what looked to me like a donut hole without a donut in it.
“My donut is missing! Somebody stole my donut!” I sputtered, accusing some poor mechanic or desperate donut-less schnook of pilfering my baby spare. “What do I do, put out an APB on my donut?”
To her discredit, my pal looked into the trunk and, said, “Oh my gosh,” alluding to the fact that she, too, didn’t see any damn donut.
By my second, “Somebody stole my donut,” we both burst out laughing because that statement sounded so incredibly hilarious and stupid.
Little did we know how stupid. Mistake one. I did not call my spouse. I handled the crisis myself—never a good move. I called roadside assistance which immediately sent a tow truck. They should have just sent me a real lesbian.
Dumb and dumber show up with their tow truck and when I tell them my donut us missing, they peek in my trunk and verify that fact. I dunno, maybe they were just looking at the stack of books in the trunk with the donut-ignorant lesbian on the cover.
“That’s okay,” said one of the mechanics, further validating my conclusion about the errant donut,” Let’s pump up the tire, see if it holds the air, and we will follow you to the tire store.
Which is exactly what happened. Whereupon they waved bye-bye, I learned that the tire valve stem thingie, was leaking, I bought a new one for $15—clearly the cheapest repair ever, and went on my merry way. Oh, except for telling everybody who would listen about the hilarious fact that somebody stole my donut.
Then, like a schmuck, I put the tale on facebook. Ha-ha funny story, ha-ha somebody stole my donut. By the next day, one of my pals came by with a donut spare she got at a yard sale, another showed up with a rusty but serviceable donut, and a third generous but snarky friend brought me an actual Krispy Kreme.
Enter Bryan Hecksher the car guru. He stops by my house, gets out of his truck, wordlessly goes over to my car, pops the trunk and unscrews the wing nut in the donut hole, opens the plastic cover and reveals, ta-da, my donut.
Who feels like a wing nut now?
Mea culpa for the false accusations of theft, the blabbing about the missing donut on facebook and all the other fun I had with the tale. I came clean about it on my social network, live and cyber, and went about my business.
And then my Facebook account lit up.
Facebook friend: ”Hey, Fay, make sure you put “summer” air in those tires...you don’t want to be driving around with “winter” air in them now.
Facebook friend: ”Check your muffler bearings, too”
Facebook friend: “Don’t forget to change your turn signal fluid.”
Fay: “Go ahead, have your little fun, I deserve this.”
Bryan: “I outbutched Fay Jacobs.”
Fay: “That’s not hard.”
Facebook friend: “I’m amazed that a gay man knows more about this than a lesbian.”
Bryan: “I know my way around a car, truck or any other vehicle! I also know every isle of Home Depot, Lowes and I have power tools! I like sports and I can fix things too!”
Stefani: “That’s not the issue—the issue is WHY DOESN’T FAY?”
Bryan: “That part of my friend was replaced by show tunes! This is all part of our own diversity! Oh by the way, not a show tune fan here and get ready to take my card away; I hated Rent!”
Fay: “So much for stereotypes. I’m positive I wouldn’t know positive from negative on jumper cables if you put a revolver to my head.”
Bryan: “Okay, sung like Ethel Murmon, ‘There’s no business like the car business like no business I know!’”
Fay: “Oy, it’s Merman.”
So that’s the end of the donut story. Bryan outed me as mechanically ignorant, I outed him as musical comedy ignorant, and diversity is alive and well in the gay community.
Dammit, now I want a dozen chocolate covered donuts. If it’s got tires or balls or carbohydrates you’re going to have trouble with it.
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir and Fried & True —Tales from Rehoboth Beach, and the newly released For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries. Fay Jacobs