info@donuttime.com
Bargaining for the Life of Thom Turkey
Thom Turkey had his feathers all in a bunch when farmer Bob entered his pen. “What was it he wanted now?” Thom thought as the cool November breeze blew up his turkey feathers in a chilly way.
“Thom, make sure you eat all your slop today. Thanksgiving is coming, and we want to make sure you are all nice and plump.”
While his feed was almost all gone, Bob, an older farmer who raised turkeys for the market, made sure to top him off each night before retiring. While Thom Turkey normally couldn’t understand his owner’s garbled speech, for some reason, he was able to make out the meaning of his words, and
His gobbling sounds that emerged from his chatting beak were now words that bounced unheard off the barn walls.
For today was different now, and Thom thought, “Why do they let me eat as much as I want?” He and his friend Lawrence also seemed to have a multitude of available dinners unrelated to their clucks for
Lawrence, a handsome gobbler with a red beard and bouncing head, spoke up to Thom, “Hey, Thom, what say you about all this grub? I do believe I’m getting fat, can’t see my feet.”
“Lawrence, this does seem a might confusing. I also can seem to understand what Farmer Bob and the other farm hands say. ”Hmm, I’ve heard stories about this sort of stuff happening, Thom,” Lawrence commented. “Are you sure about this? Maybe they put something funny in your feed. For real,” Thom said, swallowing the last of the pellets down, “I thought I overheard something about a dinner, which is like the human version of our slop time.
Hmmm,” Lawrence clucked with a Turkish grin, “I think we had better go see Edna.” Thom’s head banked up further than usual, “well isn’t she the turkey oracle? I heard she can foresee the future.”
“Well, that’s a few pens down the farm, but I heard she’s quite the bird,” Lawrence added as the other turkeys trotted out to the yard for some limited exercise. “I won’t be able to rest until I know what is really going on here at Farmer Bob’s Turkey Emporium,” Thom said. Lawrence nodded, looking around perhaps a bit paranoid. “Okay bud, we’ll head out tonight as soon as it gets dark. She only meets in the dark due to the hen curfew. Well, so it was. The sun fell like a rock, and sure enough, the farm hands had gone away to do their dinner and sleep things in their log houses. It was the perfect opportunity for curious turkeys to run down the farm to the red turkey hen houses. As quiet as could be, Lawrence uttered the code word underneath the chicken-wired window where Edna, the oracle, resided.
“Gobble Gobble,” he whispered.
Sure enough, a shutter of flying feathers came from behind them. “It’s not like I didn’t know you were coming,” Edna, the turkey oracle, exclaimed to her visitors. “State your business, my feathered friends.”
“Lawrence and Thom here,” Lawrence said. “We are pleased to meet with you, but Thom here says he’s able to understand the boss and the other humans, and I heard stories about this happening way back from the other toms.”
“Yeah,” Thom added, “all of a sudden I could make out something about a big dinner and the 25th of something. Should we be nervous?” Edna’s beak twitched as she began to speak. “Oh, this could be the culling spirit time, otherwise known as the time before a feast called Thanksgiving to the tall ones. There is some magic that we become aware of our fate, and Thom, I predict you might be invited to this dinner.”“But what are mashed potatoes? I don’t know nothing about this feast; I stick to pellets and corn myself.”
Edna looked right at both of the tom turkeys and said in a low voice, “I hear a lot of us get invited to the dinner, but you won’t be sitting around the table, you’ll be on it.”
“On it? What do you mean? You don’t mean…” Lawrence gulped, “I think we are the dinner, Thom. I hope I’m not on the guest list too.”
The oracle continued, “I have heard this happened many a time come after the harvest, where even the field hands leave the farm to be with their families for this. According to the moon and stars, you don’t have much time, Thom, to evoke the ritual of the Savior Spell.”
Thom gasped in his own way, contemplating his own pending mortality, “What do I do? I can’t just sit around and wait for the axe!”
“Yes, I know, which is why you must muster all the cleverness and instinct you can to convince three humans to forego eating our turkey flesh on Thanksgiving and eat from a Cornucopia of donuts instead. If you can, then three turkeys get spared to live on past the holiday.”
Even Lawrence felt a stress attack coming on. “How are we going to do that, and what are donuts? I can’t even understand them!”
“But I can now!” Thom injected. “And I am going to save you too, Lawrence, for helping me do it.”
“Oh,” Edna, the turkey oracle, cleared her long throat, “and you can add me to the list. My fortune-telling has a fee, young Thom.”
“So be it, Oracle, but can you tell me if I’m going to succeed or end up on the plate as white and dark meat?”
“I’m not sure I have a preference on that, but your fate is not yet clear to me. But the fact that you can communicate with the humans at all gives you the only chance of survival that I can foresee.”
With the grim news sinking in, the two tom turkeys retreated back to their pens to worry and plan their strategy.
The sun interrupted their sleep, but this morning had special importance. Survival of the fattest was utmost on both Lawrence and Thom’s minds as they thought of using their useless wings for something more practical than scratching.
“Well, Thommy, if we can’t take to the air, we better haul it to human town. It’s quite a stretch down the hardened road.”
“Let’s go,” Thom said. “We are not going to convert any of the farm people to eat donuts. Oh, what are donuts anyway?”
“I’m not quite sure, but they better be good, or we are the main course here, bud.”
Grace’s coffee shop stood on a corner of the rural small town center. Grace, the owner who made coffee and fresh donuts every morning, was always up early. “Time to make the donuts,” she remembered the slogan in her mind but didn’t expect to still be making them into her early seventies.
Her hair was white and a little straggly as she ground the coffee beans in between frosting the donuts to perfection. She was just in the middle of the process of brewing when her first visitors arrived in the crisp November air.
“Hey,” she heard a voice but did not see anyone speaking.
“Down here, lady,” Thom said from the wood board floor beneath the counter.
“Oh my land!” she exclaimed as she heard the male turkey speak English to her. “How can you talk without teeth or a mouth?”
“I’m new at this, but there has got to be somebody upstairs pulling some strings for me. Not only can I talk, but I can read today, and I really need your help. What is coffee, and what are donuts? My life depends on it.”
“But…you’re a tom turkey!”
No kidding, I’m a turkey and my name is Thom, but they are going to chop my head off at the neck if I don’t figure out how to make three humans substitute donuts for turkey and giblets next Thursday.”
“Just let me get my bearings here, young bird,” Grace said in a low tone. “I’m a God-fearing woman and I feel you are here for a reason. I’d be happy to help you if you are in jeopardy.”
“Well,” Thom shook his beard as he belted out the words, “Since you make and like donuts, would you consider skipping the turkey on the table this year? That will leave us with only two more to convince to eat donuts instead.”
“First of all, young cluck, I’m not much of a meat eater anyway, and I even know a few vegetarians in town who won’t admit it. I’d be willing to do that as long as you get the other two. And as far as coffee goes, it’s an acquired taste, but it goes great with all sorts of donuts. Here is a sample of my donuts,” Grace said as she threw a few jelly donuts on the floor.
Both Thom and Lawrence sampled the treat and were impressed by its texture and flavor. Not having teeth, they let their juices and bills enjoy the savory texture and flavor.
“Sure beats the slop feed,” Lawrence clucked without being understood by Grace.
“One thing,” Thom asked, “Can you come up with some donuts that would be less sweet and more like Thanksgiving? I think if we had samples, we’d have a better chance of changing their minds.”
“Seeing how time is of the essence, I’ll get to work on a specialty cornucopia of donuts, but I hope your affairs are in order if you screw this up.”
It was then that several early risers entered the coffee shop to pick up boxes of their favorite donuts and accompanying java drinks. Thom got ready to see if he could get people to overcome the shock of hearing him talk and ask the pending question on the tip of his beak.
Farmer Bob and Farmhand Hank had just completed most of their morning chores. Farmer Bob was a balding man with a large gut who enjoyed all the farm had to offer, including its eighty or so turkeys and all the acres of potatoes they tended. He wore a red plaid shirt and denim overalls as usual and had a focused sense about him, overseeing all the activities on the farm that had been in the family for generations.
His new employee, Farmhand Hank, was a younger fellow with long, messy hair. He had never gone to college and wanted to learn all he could about living off the land and making a profit from it. They were finishing up sharpening the carving knives and axes outside in the cool morning air.
“Well, look at this axe, would ya?” Farmer Bob said to Hank. “I don’t think it could be any sharper or shinier for that matter.”
“So fine,” Hank replied, “Yeah, it’s almost time for the big day. They best be sharp for all the necks we’ll be chopping. Oh, and do you think the Mrs. will be making any pies soon? The smell of her pumpkin pies just about makes me drool.”
“All in good time,” Bob laughed. “We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. She’s a hell of a cook, check out my belly. Oh, how did the turkey count go this morning? I’ve got to let Sam the butcher know how many to expect. I have a feeling he’ll want most of them.”
“Um,” Hank said, “I got distracted gathering all the supplies this morning, but I reckon I’ll get that done right now.”
“Well, Hank, you know this is a tightly run farm, and I like to know what I’m dealing with every day, just like we agreed when you came on.”
“Sure, boss, just give me a minute. I’ll start on it. I know there were 81 turkeys yesterday… I got that written down on my pad. And we should have eight dozen eggs by yesterday’s count.”
“Well, hop to it. This is just about my favorite time of year, with the harvest and all. And Thanksgiving is about near my favorite holiday with all the giblets and whatnot.”
“Mine too,” Hank added as he began taking the count that should have already been done of all the turkeys gobbling and trotting about.
The door of the café opened again to reveal a policeman—a large man with a gun and handcuffs, who was a regular and practiced his ritual every morning. “Well, this ought to be an easy one,” Thom thought as he still hid behind the counter next to Lawrence. “Don’t all cops love donuts?”
“What’ll it be, Bomba? The custard or the jelly?” Grace said, greeting the middle-aged officer.
“Well, both of them today. It’s such a crisp morning and my belly is a rumbling. Oh, and the usual,” he replied.
The usual meant a thermos of Grace’s dark roast. Thomasville was rarely a high-crime place to patrol, so Officer Bomba could handle his caffeine.
“Hey, Officer of the Law, sir,” Thom belted out.
Jim Bomba looked down, amazed as the turkey spoke. “Hey, how ’bout some donuts this Thanksgiving instead of turkey? Could you help a brother out?”
Unsure whether to draw his gun or his handcuffs, he stammered, “Well, I never heard a turkey talk before. But you’re good eating. I don’t think I can do that.”
Lawrence squirmed at the uneasiness in the air as the policeman continued, “Well, you’re a bit fat to be a wild turkey. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere or belong to someone?”
“Ah, well, I’m on a mission to save three turkeys, including myself. Gotta find three human folk who would eat donuts instead of turkey this year… just for Thanksgiving. I’d be thankful.”
Grace walked up with his donut and placed it on the counter. “Take a load off,” she said, pulling back a chair for him. “I’m planning a special donut array for Thanksgiving this year. I’m calling it Donut Cornucopia.”
Officer Bomba seemed intrigued as he took a bite of the custard donut, which promptly spilled yellow custard onto his uniform. Grabbing a napkin to wipe off the mess, he said, “Hmmm, what kind of donuts? They’d have to be awfully good to blow off the tasty bird.”
Thom interjected, “Well, a few donuts will taste like me! Gobbler gravy-coated donuts, mashed potato fry cakes that taste like mashed potatoes from heaven. And don’t forget the pumpkin-glazed or the cranberry cruller.”
“Not the cranberry cruller!” he said.
“It would mean the world to me,” Grace added, looking him in the eye. “You know I make the finest donuts in three counties, Jim,” she said, placing his thermos of hot coffee on the counter. “And for how many years and mornings?”
“Well, damn it,” Officer Bomba said. “Why not? Count me in on that! Besides, I don’t think I’m going anywhere this year anyway. Might as well eat what I like.”
Thom almost jumped with glee. Now he only needed one more person to convince, and he could look forward to days beyond the 25th of November. But the next visitor wouldn’t be such an easy catch. As a matter of fact, you never know who is going to walk in the door at any moment.
“79!”
“Seventy-nine?” Farmer Bob questioned. “How many times did you count them?” he said to Hank regarding the turkey count results.
“Well, I know there should be 81, but I did go around twice to be sure. Not my first rodeo, but I’ve got a good routine. Including the hens and everything. Can’t figure out where they are missing from.”
Bob’s face turned bright red. “Hank, I haven’t lost a turkey in years! Did you check the fences?”
“Yes, I keep them tight.”
McHenry poked his long neck and face out the barn door. He knew his friends were in trouble now. “Cluck, cluck,” he murmured, fluttering around to create some chaos for distraction.
Hank, you had better find those two missing birds or they’ll be coming out of your pay! Now!” Farmer Bob shouted.
“Well, not sure where they could have gone to,” Hank muttered. Just then, his wife, Helen, yelled out the back door of the farmhouse in the distance, “Bob… phone.” Storming back into the house, Farmer Bob picked up the landline phone in the kitchen. “Hello?” he responded to the caller, then after a brief pause, “What? They are where?” The red color returned to his face as he bolted out the back door, grabbed an axe, and headed to his pickup. “Come on, Hank! We got some runaways.”
Just across the wide street from Grace’s Coffee and Donuts was the infamous butcher shop run by Sam Carver. A fixture of the quaint small-town center, it had been in business as long as anyone could remember. Thom and Lawrence had peeked their heads up near the bottom of the window and couldn’t help but notice the large delivery truck parked right in front of the meat vendor.
“What is that truck?” Thom questioned aloud, only to receive Grace’s grim answer. After a quick peek herself, she said, “Oh my, looks like cheap Sam finally broke down and bought a new freezer.”
Thom commented, “I wonder if that’s good or bad?” as they watched the delivery men haul in the huge new appliance.
Grace, trying not to frighten the turkeys, said honestly, “It’s not a good thing for you guys. See, they freeze turkeys ahead of time.”
“You mean they freeze us to death? What a way to go?” Thom’s voice quivered.
“Not exactly,” Grace added, but saw a couple approaching to enter her establishment through the partially frosted window.
Sure enough, the door opened to reveal a handsome gentleman and his attractive wife on the hunt for some coffee. “Hey Gracie,” the lady spoke, “sure smells good in here.” It was then that the couple noticed the two turkeys now quite silent under the far table. “Wow, look at those tom turkeys! Are you expanding your menu?”
Thom didn’t feel the love but let the conversation roll on.
The man was Steve Carver, the butcher’s son, with his wife Millie. Steve interjected, “I do believe those aren’t strays. Maybe I’ll just take them across the street to the shop for you.”
Grace, as she poured their regular roasts, said, “Oh, that’s not necessary, Steve. I let them in. You know how time is valuable for turkeys like them before the holiday.”
The couple laughed and pointed at the maple twists they fancied from the case. “Wow, that one has a big chest and belly. Looks like one of Farmer Bob’s turkeys if you ask me.”
Without thinking, the turkey spoke, “Oh no, who’s Farmer Bob?” trying to throw them off his trail.
Millie dropped her coffee cup, letting gravity pull it to the floor. “Oh my, a talking turkey! Is this a trick?”
Grace removed her palm from her mouth and said, “This is no trick. I’m just going to let him speak his business; he has nothing to lose.”
Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Thom continued, “Well, I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but I have to convince one more person to eat a great selection of donuts and forego turkey flesh on Thanksgiving day. I don’t want to die, at least not yet.
Oh no,” Steve said. “We can’t be starting a dangerous precedent here or we’ll have a bird rebellion all over the county!”
Millie felt almost sympathetic as Grace replaced her dropped coffee mug. “Well, honey,” she said, looking up at her husband. “Can’t you and your father at least offer to let him go by donating just a wing or a leg or two? After all, you know how I feel about what’s on my plate.”
Steve crossed his arms. “We’ve got a freezer to fill up, and we cannot make exceptions.”
Thom uttered with his last bit of courage, “Well, how would you feel at the bottom of the food chain here? Surely, you could eat donuts for one day. And I don’t plan on donating any of my parts, no matter how hungry people get this year, especially if I’m still alive!”
Lawrence was ready to run for the door when it opened by itself, revealing a grim sight: Farmer Bob and Hank standing there with an axe. “There you are!” Bob exclaimed.
A ruckus ensued as the newcomers dove to grab their missing property.
“Wait!” Thom shouted. “Farmer Bob! I beg for mercy for me and two of my fellow turkeys.”
Farmer Bob’s face turned from red to white, completely astonished at the turkey’s voice.
Grace hoped this might stop the impending bloodshed in her clean shop and couldn’t think of anything to say until Bob responded. “Well, by gosh, I heard of this happening before to my daddy’s dad way back.”
Hank asked, “Want me to bag ’em, boss?”
“Hold on a second,” Bob said as he bent down to inspect Thom, who was pleading for his life. “What is it like to be one of my turkeys?”
Tongue-tied if he had one, Thom raised his voice. “Well, I don’t have anything to compare it to, but it would seem we are just food to you when we are actually animals who just want to live out our days. I was fine until I realized there is a deadline on my very being. I need one more person to agree to eat donuts on Thanksgiving.” Then he paused.
The door swung open again as Sam the butcher entered. “What in the world is going on in here?”
An eerie silence followed as Thom pleaded one more time to the crowd. “Oh, please, won’t one of you let me live and eat from a donut menu this Thanksgiving?” He tried to make the cutest face he could muster in the situation.
Almost speechless, another round of silence was interrupted by Millie, the blonde daughter-in-law of Sam the butcher. “Well, I’m sure I’m going to get hell for this. Sorry, but I’ll do it.”
Both Sam and Steve’s eyes widened with astonishment.
“Yes,” Millie said. “All these years, Mr. Carver, I did my best to hide it, but I’m a vegan.”
“But dear,” Steve stammered, “it’s the family business.”
“No matter,” Thom said triumphantly. “That makes three. You can take me home now, Farmer Bob. I only hope I get to see the sunrise on Thanksgiving Day.”
Farmer Bob, quite embarrassed, motioned for Hank to grab the turkeys and put them in the truck.
Sam, looking at Millie with disgust, then turned to Farmer Bob. “I’ll expect my turkeys on Monday. How many are you dropping off?”
Farmer Bob glanced at Grace and then back at the butcher. “I’m really not sure, but I’ll get back to you.”
It wasn’t long before the following Thursday rolled around. Just before dawn, Thom opened his eyes and saw Lawrence snoozing on the hay-covered floor. The sun filled the barn from the window, announcing another day on Earth.
“Well, we made it, Lawrence. Here it is, Thanksgiving Day.”
To his surprise, he saw a van pull up and Grace getting out with a huge box. He peeked his head outside and saw the woven cornucopia basket filled with an array of donuts like he had never seen. Farmer Bob and Helen greeted Grace and welcomed her inside.
“Whew,” Thom said. “That was a close one.”
“It looks like we get to live another day,” Lawrence said as he noticed many other turkeys still cuddled in their feathers on the big feast day.
“Until next year, my friend,” Thom said in his usual gobble. “Until next year.
