Cinnamon Buns

September 16, 2009

How much do I love cinnamon buns?

I love cinnamon buns so much that you couldn’t give me anything in trade for them.

That’s not true.

If you could send me back in time to the morning when my mother’s uncle ignored her after church because her parents (my grandpa was his brother) had just been divorced, and your sending me back in time would permit me to interact with the past—without affecting the space-time continuum—so that I could, as an adult, approach my mother’s uncle and give him a look—not so much scornful, but a mixture of disappointment and ancestral rebuke—a look that would cause him to rethink his Catholic upbringing and examine his own mother’s turning her back on him and his dream to be, not a lawyer, but half of a vaudevillian act called Whistle Stop (with him, of course, as Whistle, the juggling wiseacre with a whistle-like note to his lisp; Stop, of course, his friend and mentor from the City who was experienced but not half as funny, though his half of the chemistry made Whistle Stop more dynamic than had Whistle been a one-man show—plus the pair had a palpable tension, which, although played for laughs, was highly sexual—enough to make straight men feel tugs in their prostate, though none of them knew to call it that) that would have made him famous, made him rich and famous enough to have pool parties where attractive people got naked and drank champagne out of one another’s navel’s, etc.

And if that look would prompt my mom’s uncle to approach my mother and her sisters there on the church lawn and apologize in a way children can understand (like when you eat a piece of their candy and they catch you and they tear up and you see that you’ve done something terribly wrong so you try to mend it with more candy, which they appreciate at first, until they eat too much of it, because you bought them too much of it, then they are sick and look at you from underneath the toilet, having thrown up everywhere but the toilet—and you’re terribly, terribly sorry for all that you’ve done to something so bright and innocent and ignorant of irony), then maybe I’d trade you my cinnamon buns.

But it’s pretty much impossible to witness the past as present and not affect the space-time continuum.

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