Rock was at a major college football game somewhere in the Deep South. He was under the stadium near a concession stand when an elderly, obese man handed him a plate of rolls coated with white icing.
"Here," said the man, dressed in dark red pants, a matching sweatshirt, and well-worn, black Rockport dress shoes. He seemed to know Rock. "This here plate of cake is for you."
Rock eagerly dug in. The cake-rolls were hot, as though they had just come from a grandmother's oven, and melted butter ran down Rock's right arm from the first one he picked up. The outermost layer of the thick, warm icing was nearly crisp, so that Rock felt a smooth snap as he bit through it. After he had eaten two, his hands were sticky, and he felt the icing on his face. Festive football fans looked on and smiled in amusement, fueled by Rock's appearance and the joy of game day.
Another large man, built as if he were forty or fifty years removed from a high school offensive of defensive line, walked by laughing. "Where'd you git them sweet rolls, son?"
Rock simultaneously recognized his place in the immediate festivity and a concern for his blood sugar level. He was overjoyed but wished it did not make an insulin injection so inconvenient. Already he felt hypoglycemic and thirsty. He needed to go to the bathroom.
No comments:
Post a Comment