Buttercreamed Frank

Buttercreamed Frank

Frank stared at the different bottles of butter cream in the baking aisle of Shoprite. His plastic red hand basket empty, he stood uncertain, allowing his eyes to gloss over the potential choices. Dozens of tubes stared back at him, all in their shiny containers, seemingly mocking his limited knowledge of baking and confectionary.

Why had he allowed Missy to talk him into this errand? Choosing the right icing for the cake should have been his wife’s undertaking, but she fussed, and he, as always, relented. Married for twenty-nine years, Missy acted nothing like a gentle helpmate, proving more stubborn and difficult than an armed soldier at the opposite end of the front line. Not wanting to hear her tirade of complaints, Frank thought it better to step into his trusty Ford wagon and drive to the supermarket. True, he missed some of the baseball game on television, but caught what he could on the radio as he drove to the store.

There were so many choices in flavoring. Raspberry, blueberry, chocolate cream cheese and vanilla teased and taunted him. Their brighter casings outshined the simple blue bottle containing the petitioned flavor or butter cream frosting. His fingers tentatively reached out to the flashier, smooth fillings, but he pulled back, fighting the allure presented by the bottles’ bold lettering. He reminded himself of the importance in choosing the conventional ingredient for the mixture. Any other might lead to a hellish reception back home.

“Just take the damn bottle, Frank,” his brain commanded, but his senses tingled at the idea of some creamy tart strawberry coating pushing past the back of his throat. It longed for a different taste. “Something new wouldn’t be bad,” he mumbled.

Missy always wanted things the same. They’d lived in the same house for thirty-five years, watched the same movies, did the same activities on the weekends. Missy liked safe. Missy thrived on conventions. Routines likened to godliness in her eyes. To bring home something out of the ordinary would prove dangerous.

With a heavy sigh, Frank reached for the trusty powder blue container that read, “Butter Cream”. His fingers deftly closed around the short, stout bottle. He watched it a moment, musing how something so small could significantly impact his life.

“When did I turn into a pushover?” He asked aloud. The question ran through his mind several times before, but never had he uttered it verbatim. To hear the words did something to him, something he could not understand but simply react to.

Straightening, he released his tightened grip around the hand basket, the loud crash filling him with smug satisfaction. With confident strides he reached for a shopping cart, a huge four wheel cart with an infant child seat attached, reminding him of the days he placed his son, Albert, in said seat, his fresh and youthful eyes watching his father in proud admiration. Now a man of thirty with a child of his own, Albert could not be expected to materialize into the cart, but Frank felt a resurgence of the manhood he had allowed to slip away.

Pushing the supermarket vehicle with a determined gait, Frank made his way to the meat section, his eyes ogling the calorie filled, artery-chocking items. An array of muttons, pork and other variations of red meat lay displayed before his wandering gaze. Never had he dared venture more than a darting glance at them. Now he stared until his mouth watered.

“What to choose?” he questioned aloud.

A young lady, sporting a tight pink tank top and extremely short shorts that hugged her every curve, overheard the question. With a bright smile, revealing two perfect rows of teeth, she responded, “The pork chops are on sale. I’m getting two cases. My husband loves his meat.”

Lucky man. Frank swore she deliberately bent over in front of him to give him a lasting impression of her “assets”. Once placing the meat packages safely into her own cart, she straightened, cast the elderly man a final glance and sauntered away, her hips swinging in flirtatious fashion. What a difference from the way Missy walked, with a stiff, determined stride. Never had his wife displayed any sort of feminine delicacy. Rather, she thrived on dominating her husband, claiming she did not wear the pants, but had sole ownership.

Well, no more! Today Frank Grishom reformed, and his first step towards independence meant changing the strict diet his wife kept him under. No longer considering consequences, he moved his cart deftly through the aisles filling it with all the items on Missy’s forbidden list. He grabbed four packs of the bargain pork chops followed by sausage links galore. After the meats, Frank moved to the dairy section and loaded the cart with whole milk and creamers. No substitute eggs for him. He reached for the real deal this time. Down the drinks section, he seized three liter soda bottles and family size sports drinks. And at the cereal section, marshmallow filled, sugar packed cereal found its way into the quickly cramping cart.

“One more turn. I want to go back to the baking section,” he muttered, earning troubled glances from eavesdroppers who had nothing better to do than listen in on an elderly man’s private soliloquy.

The hand basket still lay discarded on the floor. Several feet from it laid the blue powder bottle of butter cream. Spotting it, Frank gave the object a defiant kick, sending it scrambling to the other side of the aisle. He lamented being the sole witness to such rebellion, and grew impatient to display his assertiveness to his dictating wife.

Grabbing five flavored bottled fillings, Frank rushed to the checkout. He didn’t blink when the cashier announced the total of the groceries: one hundred and ninety dollars. Of course, one had to pay the price for sinful foods.

Dashing out the store like a sprinter, Frank loaded his car and sped home. In his eagerness to prove himself, he ran several stoplights. He told himself the lights still glowed yellow as his Ford raced underneath them, but he knew they flashed an obtrusive red. None of it mattered, red, yellow, green or butter cream, the new Frank lived above rules and conventions. The world would see the change, soon after he usurped his wife’s authority and laid some much needed ground rules.

Jetting the car into the driveway, Frank hopped out with the energy of a bouncing teenager. “Missy!” he cried, even before opening the door. “Missy, get out here!”

Frank distinguished the vibrations from his wife’s dominant march. Soon she emerged, her dark dyed hair rolled in curlers, her floral housecoat swaying in the slight breeze.

“Now what’s all the fussing for? I was watching ‘Top Chef.’ You better not have crashed the car again. I’m telling you, Frank, you’re worse than an eighteen-year-old. The DMV is gonna revoke your license.” Missy walked around to the back of the vehicle, her swift eyes spying for a new dent. “Car looks fine. Hey, what’s all this?” she asked in regards to the bags in the vehicle’s hatch. “Honestly, Frank. I send you out for one thing and you come back with an entire week’s worth of groceries. Are you growing senile or something?”

Crossing his arms and spreading his legs shoulder width, Frank assumed a defiant stance. Now he’d hammer her with his law, Frank’s law. His wife however, spoke before he did.

“Pork chops? Eggs? Fluff E Nuff Cereal?” Missy shook her head gazing at her husband in wonder. “How’d you know Albert and the kids were coming over? Did he call you on your cell phone? He’s supposed to call me first.”

Faltering, Frank blinked. “Albert’s coming over?”

“Yeah, sure. Called me ten minutes ago. His wife’s going to her Mom’s, and Albert thought it would be a good idea to spend time with us. You must’ve known he was coming or you wouldn’t have bought all this food. After all, we don’t eat it.” Poking her small head in one of the bags, she reached inside of it. She pulled her arm out, her fingers closing about a suspicious looking powder blue bottle. “Ah, there’s the butter cream. Wow, you got five bottles of the stuff. Doesn’t hurt to have the others handy, I guess. Now I can finish the cake for the kids.”

The butter cream! In his blind fury, Frank mistook the five bottles of butter cream for the different, tart flavors. So much for triumphant defiance. The elation gone, Frank’s arms uncrossed and stood limp by his side.

Missy looked her husband up and down. “Are you just gonna’ stand there like some damn robot? Get these bags inside, now. We’ve got work to do. I need you take out the trash, clean the bathroom, pull out the cots from the basement, walk the dog….”

With a dejected spirit, Frank muttered a, “Yes, dear,” and followed his wife using smaller, childlike steps, making certain to grab the bag containing the four other bottles of butter cream. The jostling of the small containers in the bag sounded like low laughter.