Onion Rings

CLOSE YOUR EYES AND IMAGINE:

Sam walks down the cobblestone street, intent upon his onion rings. They are airy discs of fried delight, heaped on top of each other, waiting to be consumed. Sam bought these onion rings on the corner, from an Indian man with a silk suit and a yellow caravan. The Indian man was energetic--twirling the deep fryer and splashing hot grease all over himself in excitement. Sam wanted to ask him: "how do you know anything about onion rings, Indian man?" but he didn't for fear of being politically incorrect. After all, he tries to be graceful.

Sam reaches for an onion ring and brings it to his nose. He inhales and it's heavenly: sweet onion inside and crisp dough surrounding. He takes a big bite, and onion juice trickles down his chin and onto his skinny tie. He winces, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and takes another bite.

Sam can't control himself; he eats one and another and another. He keeps up his pace, traveling down the cobblestones, toward the creek, when he perks up. He hears music, full and soothing, just behind McSweeney's garage. His legs go without him; he's helpless but to follow his body through puddles, past the garage, and into the woods.

The music gets louder. It's a strange symphony, all organ and flute and piano and cymbal. The forest is lush, voluptuous, heaving with rain and velvet peacocks. "Peacocks in London?" he wonders to himself before pulling the pregnant branches apart with his greasy hands, going deeper into the music. A boxing ring appears before him. Two men box silently, jabbing and ducking with leather gloves and jutting teeth. They are flanked on all sides by women. These are beautiful women with big blooms of hair and diamonds on their tongues. They cheer for the men, clapping and shouting wordlessly.

Sam looks down into the empty cardboard container. Were those onion rings magic? Suddenly, the container shoots forward out of his hands. The box twists and mutates until it's a golden accordion, with leather strap and ivory keys. The golden accordion settles onto Sam: the leather strap zooms behind his back and the keyboard adjusts to his hands. He licks his fingers and begins to play, enchanted by his newfound musicality.

From his yellow caravan, the Indian man twirls the deep fryer and smiles to himself.