Flash Fiction - Issue 6
The Nut Insurrection
“I love nuts on my ice cream,” Betty Nielsen said. She was 93 years old with long
gray hair that was braided and pinned firmly in place. Now, at the end of lunch in the
main dining room, she confessed, “I really wish I could have nuts.”
“Sorry, dear. We don’t have any nuts,” said Yvonne, the pencil-thin young aide.
She patted Betty on the shoulder in a comforting gesture that struck Hank Willard as
patronizing.
“Excuse me,” he said as Yvonne walked away. Hank said it louder. “Excuse me.”
She kept walking. Frustrated and uncertain, he raised his hand.
This was Hank’s third day at Oakwood Village, a retirement community a few miles
down the road from the condo where he and his late wife Helen had lived for the last two
decades. On his first day in his independent living apartment, Hank had been informed
that if he needed anything during dinner—coffee, more tartar sauce, or ice cream for
dessert—all he had to do was raise his hand.
Hank kept his hand up and soon a different aide appeared, an athletic-looking
Nordic male named Eric. “How can I assist you?”
Hank pointed to Betty. “My new friend needs some nuts for her ice cream.”
Betty looked up from her plate in a panic. She hated to make waves. There were rules.
Erik smiled the same smile as Yvonne. “We’re all out of nuts. Sorry.” He reached
out as if to pat Hank on the shoulder, but thought better of it.
Hank removed his glasses from his plaid Eddie Bauer shirt pocket, turned in his
chair, and pointed to the counter adjacent to the buffet line. “Yesterday there were
assorted toppings for our ice cream, including a container of nuts.”
“Wednesday and Sunday are sundae bar days,” Erik said, as if that were an
answer. “Today is Thursday.” Erik saw another hand go up, but before he could
respond, Hank’s hand shot up again.
“What happened to those nuts?” he asked Eric.
“Any food set out has to be thrown away after lunch because it might be
contaminated.” Hank’s hand shot up.
“But where did those nuts come from? This is a large institution. It must buy in bulk."
“I don’t do food prep.” Again Hank raised his hand.
“Let me get my supervisor,” Erik finally said.
The supervisor turned out to be Connie Cosgrove, a pleasant, though harried
nutritionist and overseer of the dining hall aides.
Hank quickly recapped his conversation with Erik. “So, where did the nuts on the
sundae bar come from?”
“We store them in gallon bags with Ziploc seals. The prep staff takes out only
enough for the sundae bar. They leave the rest in the bag to keep them fresher.”
Connie was in her mid-fifties, younger by several decades than the average
resident of Oakdale. She was polite, but impatient.
“So, you’re not out of nuts. You just didn’t set out the nuts.”
“It’s not Wednesday….”
“Or Sunday,” Hank added. “But Betty isn’t asking for the sundae bar. She just
wants nuts for her ice cream.”
“We can’t do that,” Connie said firmly.
“Of course you can.” Betty and several others at the table looked up, listening
intensely. “When I asked for Tabasco yesterday, someone got it. I can’t imagine the nuts
are kept more than a few feet from the Tabasco sauce.”
“Mr. Willard, you don’t understand. My staff can’t do that. If we got nuts for Betty,
we’d have to get nuts for everyone.”
“And…?”
Connie was taken aback. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Why would that be a problem? Are dozens clamoring for nuts? Do you fear
insurrection if you give in to Betty’s demands?”
“I wasn’t demanding nuts,” Betty said firmly. “But I would like some for my ice
cream.”
Hank stood up with his water glass and clanked on its side with a spoon. “Can I
get your attention please?” He clanked a couple more times as he noticed Connie’s face
turning scarlet. “Your attention please!” When the room turned silent, he spoke up loud
enough to be heard back by the stone fireplace. “Are there any nut lovers in the room?”
People seemed confused by the question.
Connie hissed under her breath, “Mr. Willard, you’re making a scene.”
Hank forged on. “Are there any people here who would like some peanuts for their
ice cream?”
“It’s not Wednesday,” someone call out.
“But if I could secure some, right now, who would be interested?” Hank counted
eight hands. “Let me see what I can do,” he told them.
He turned to Connie. “So, what’s it going to be?”
“Is this really the way you want to play it?” Connie asked him. “Your third day on
campus? I should write you up. There are rules and consequences.”
“It was a simple request. You’re the one who made it an issue. Of course, if
you’d like to evict me from independent living because I led a nut rebellion, I’m sure the
Board would be happy to refund my $200,000 buy-in and first month’s fees.”
Hank turned back to the diners. “Keep your hands up, and I’ll bring your nuts
personally, starting with my friend Betty here. And on the comment cards available by the
salad bar, be sure to thank the staff for relaxing the nut regulations.” There was scattered
applause.
He turned to Connie.
“That’s the way I want to play it.”
gray hair that was braided and pinned firmly in place. Now, at the end of lunch in the
main dining room, she confessed, “I really wish I could have nuts.”
“Sorry, dear. We don’t have any nuts,” said Yvonne, the pencil-thin young aide.
She patted Betty on the shoulder in a comforting gesture that struck Hank Willard as
patronizing.
“Excuse me,” he said as Yvonne walked away. Hank said it louder. “Excuse me.”
She kept walking. Frustrated and uncertain, he raised his hand.
This was Hank’s third day at Oakwood Village, a retirement community a few miles
down the road from the condo where he and his late wife Helen had lived for the last two
decades. On his first day in his independent living apartment, Hank had been informed
that if he needed anything during dinner—coffee, more tartar sauce, or ice cream for
dessert—all he had to do was raise his hand.
Hank kept his hand up and soon a different aide appeared, an athletic-looking
Nordic male named Eric. “How can I assist you?”
Hank pointed to Betty. “My new friend needs some nuts for her ice cream.”
Betty looked up from her plate in a panic. She hated to make waves. There were rules.
Erik smiled the same smile as Yvonne. “We’re all out of nuts. Sorry.” He reached
out as if to pat Hank on the shoulder, but thought better of it.
Hank removed his glasses from his plaid Eddie Bauer shirt pocket, turned in his
chair, and pointed to the counter adjacent to the buffet line. “Yesterday there were
assorted toppings for our ice cream, including a container of nuts.”
“Wednesday and Sunday are sundae bar days,” Erik said, as if that were an
answer. “Today is Thursday.” Erik saw another hand go up, but before he could
respond, Hank’s hand shot up again.
“What happened to those nuts?” he asked Eric.
“Any food set out has to be thrown away after lunch because it might be
contaminated.” Hank’s hand shot up.
“But where did those nuts come from? This is a large institution. It must buy in bulk."
“I don’t do food prep.” Again Hank raised his hand.
“Let me get my supervisor,” Erik finally said.
The supervisor turned out to be Connie Cosgrove, a pleasant, though harried
nutritionist and overseer of the dining hall aides.
Hank quickly recapped his conversation with Erik. “So, where did the nuts on the
sundae bar come from?”
“We store them in gallon bags with Ziploc seals. The prep staff takes out only
enough for the sundae bar. They leave the rest in the bag to keep them fresher.”
Connie was in her mid-fifties, younger by several decades than the average
resident of Oakdale. She was polite, but impatient.
“So, you’re not out of nuts. You just didn’t set out the nuts.”
“It’s not Wednesday….”
“Or Sunday,” Hank added. “But Betty isn’t asking for the sundae bar. She just
wants nuts for her ice cream.”
“We can’t do that,” Connie said firmly.
“Of course you can.” Betty and several others at the table looked up, listening
intensely. “When I asked for Tabasco yesterday, someone got it. I can’t imagine the nuts
are kept more than a few feet from the Tabasco sauce.”
“Mr. Willard, you don’t understand. My staff can’t do that. If we got nuts for Betty,
we’d have to get nuts for everyone.”
“And…?”
Connie was taken aback. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Why would that be a problem? Are dozens clamoring for nuts? Do you fear
insurrection if you give in to Betty’s demands?”
“I wasn’t demanding nuts,” Betty said firmly. “But I would like some for my ice
cream.”
Hank stood up with his water glass and clanked on its side with a spoon. “Can I
get your attention please?” He clanked a couple more times as he noticed Connie’s face
turning scarlet. “Your attention please!” When the room turned silent, he spoke up loud
enough to be heard back by the stone fireplace. “Are there any nut lovers in the room?”
People seemed confused by the question.
Connie hissed under her breath, “Mr. Willard, you’re making a scene.”
Hank forged on. “Are there any people here who would like some peanuts for their
ice cream?”
“It’s not Wednesday,” someone call out.
“But if I could secure some, right now, who would be interested?” Hank counted
eight hands. “Let me see what I can do,” he told them.
He turned to Connie. “So, what’s it going to be?”
“Is this really the way you want to play it?” Connie asked him. “Your third day on
campus? I should write you up. There are rules and consequences.”
“It was a simple request. You’re the one who made it an issue. Of course, if
you’d like to evict me from independent living because I led a nut rebellion, I’m sure the
Board would be happy to refund my $200,000 buy-in and first month’s fees.”
Hank turned back to the diners. “Keep your hands up, and I’ll bring your nuts
personally, starting with my friend Betty here. And on the comment cards available by the
salad bar, be sure to thank the staff for relaxing the nut regulations.” There was scattered
applause.
He turned to Connie.
“That’s the way I want to play it.”