Thursday, December 3rd, 2020

I take a five shekel piece out of my wallet on the way from the bus to the bakery. The baker sees me coming. He’s seen me before. “One donut?” I nod. He takes the coin and hands me a bag. All they have left are jelly donuts with powdered sugar. They usually have a wider array. A group of teenage girls wearing identical white t-shirts over warmer clothes are carefully picking through what’s on the rack. To me, the donuts look identical. I pick up the tongs from the top shelf and take the nearest one. I drop it in the bag. A cloud of sugar poofs into the air. Much of it gets on my shirt. I brush it off. The street corner violinist plays a klezmer tune along with a recording of an orchestra. A man on a chair near him stomps, claps, and shouts in rhythm, speeding up and slowing down along with the music. I’ve heard the tune before, though not in a long time. I think my parents had a record of it. My mother may have played it when I was young. Bartok may have done something with it. I can still hear it clearly when I cross into the city square. I think of getting a mushroom burger, but I’m too hungry to wait for one. I didn’t get to eat anything in the later afternoon as I hurriedly edited video for another webcast. I stop into the pizza joint and get the nearest slice. It’s wonderful, with olives and other toppings that I can’t identify. Olive oil dribbles off of it as I eat. I catch the oil on the piece of cardboard with which I carried the slice to the small stone table. I avoid dripping oil on the chessboard embedded in the table top. The violinist stops playing right when I sit down. I had looked forward to hearing more from him. I settle into the silence and the sounds of the square.