Fiction / Stephen Short
:: The Toaster ::
Pegatha Burroughs didn’t trust her toaster anymore. She only had it for three days and it displayed only dubious intent. She brought it home from the Southway Secondhand Store for four dollars. Her previous Toastmaster had finally bit the bullet after twelve years of devoted service. Every morning, two slices of plain white bread dropped to the glowing grills, and every morning, two slices of crisp toast jumped over the threshold and waited for her butter knife. But earlier in the week the Toastmaster made a barking sound and never baked the bread.
Peg hung her head low through the entrance to the Secondhand Store. She was ashamed that she had to come here. She tried not to look anyone in the eye, lest they recognize her from out in the world. It smelled like old paint and plastic. Peg tried not to touch anything if she could help it and hoped to beeline directly to the kitchen appliances. After a brief dalliance around the televisions she found them; waffle irons, cracked blenders, and the only toaster on the shelf; A tiny black number, two slots on top, and the depressor cocked at a slight angle. Four dollars showed the handwritten tag draped off the button. She slid it off the shelf and clutched it under her arm like a football. She pulled her hood lower. As she shuffled to the front counter, she heard crumbs spilling from the bottom of the toaster and they bounced off her coat. She set the toaster down to the scratched counter and saw a bottle of hand sanitizer near the register. She pumped a glob into her palm and slathered it over her ringed fingers, spattering. The cashier told her an amount that was slightly more than four dollars and Peg gave her a five to break, then pocketed the change and dashed out the glass doors.
On her counter she examined it fully. A black plastic covering with buff marks all over. Well used. It didn’t have a name. The depressor rested at its angle but would wobble to the exact opposite angle if tweaked. It made a scraping sound when pressed down. There was a spinning dial that was numbered from one to five, most likely indicating desired darkness of product, and currently set to four. Peg took a risk and set the dial to three. The crumb tray would not open. She flipped the toaster upside down over her trash can and jostled it the way unpaid musicians rattle maracas. Crumbs spilled everywhere but her trash can. She set it down on the counter where the old Toastmaster had gone and plugged the crinkled black cord into the wall. It sat there, unsuspecting, the rest of the evening.
In the morning Peg stumbled from her bed in her flowing nightshirt and wobbled out to the kitchen. She was a garbled mess of nerves. She smushed her glasses up her nose, unspun the loaf of plain white bread, and dropped them into the little black toaster. She pushed down on the depressor and the bread slipped inside with a screech. A slow orange glow sung out from the slits and Peg wrung her dry hands. The toaster gave a subtle buzz, letting her know it would be okay. “Yes,” she said only to herself. “I think so.” With confidence, she cracked the lid on her coffee pot and poured grounds into a filter, added water, and flipped the switch. She pulled a silver mug from the cupboard. She opened her sugar jar and uncapped a half gallon of milk. She clanked down a small orange ceramic plate and laid it next to the new toaster. It was empty. Completely breadless.
Peg stared down at the toaster. The depressor was up. There was no glow. There was no heat. She poked it. It shuffled a centimeter on her rough counter. The coffee pot was burbling and hot. Peg licked her chapped lips and picked at her knuckles. She unspun the loaf of plain white bread and dropped two slices into the new toaster. She turned the dial down to two. She plunged the depressor down with a squeal. The slow orange glow lit up her white bread and the mellow buzzing calmed her just so. She stood her ground and crossed her arms, her nightshirt crumpling wild and her shoulders tickling her ears. Peg locked her eyes on her bread and watched every pore brown over until it popped out of the toaster, a little less done than she’d prefer. She turned the knob back to three. She pulled the warm toast from the slots and buttered them near her coffee station. Sugar and milk in the coffee, toast in the mouth, Peg was happy.
She got a message from her daughter, Sheila. She needed more money transferred over. Sheila was a sophomore at the University of Alabama. She was studying Latin. She scraped Peg for every dollar she could spare and hurried off the phone before Peg could initiate any real conversation. But children needed to be cared for. Peg opened her phone to her banking app and transferred one hundred dollars to Sheila. Peg had twenty seven dollars left for the next week and a half.
Peg got to work exactly at 8am and left just after 5pm, making sure the day’s tasks were all completed. Her coworkers had left promptly at 5pm, if not earlier. She scheduled her doctor’s appointment at 5:45pm, knowing she would leave late. She had hip and back pain for several weeks now, and it took several weeks to get in with Dr. Kramer. She urinated far too much in her cup (“Just to the line,” the nurse had said) but she wanted to be sure. Given her age, Dr. Kramer suggested it was likely pain from sitting at skewed angles or strain from stress, and recommended a series of exercises and stretches for Peg to do at home. She suggested a yoga class or that she could do them at home with online instruction targeting her hips and low back, and to move to full body indefinitely. Alternatively, a chiropractor may prove effective but may not be covered by insurance. Peg had a dinner of peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread and a glass of milk and sat in front of the television to watch game shows. She thought about calling Sheila but talked herself out of it. During the next commercial break she talked herself back into it and poked her name on the phone screen. It rang once and went to voicemail. Peg turned the volume up on the television and finished her milk.
The next morning Peg crawled out of bed and slipped on her skinny robe and hobbled to the kitchen. She unspun the loaf of white bread and placed two slices in the slots of the new black toaster. She pushed the depressor down and it screamed in metal. A slow orange glow hugged her bread and the buzzing noise bounced off the kitchen walls and made Peg grin. She dumped yesterday’s coffee filter in the trash and added a new one, with coffee grounds and dumped water in the tank. She pulled a white mug from the cupboard, uncapped the sugar jar, and prepared the milk. She clanked a ceramic plate down to set near the new toaster and she gasped seeing that it was empty once more. Depressor up. No heat. Absolutely breadless. She lifted the new toaster and scrunched her face to peer inside the slits, shifting it so the kitchen light bled in. Peg jostled it about and crumbs sifted through the cracks but the drawer would still not open. She set it down and turned the darkness dial to four, then slipped in two pieces of bread to the slots and plunged the depressor down as it scraped. A slow orange glow rose about and a pleasant heat crept over her arms. Peg stared, unblinking, at the toaster, crisping her bread darker and darker. The coffee pot seared. The toast burst out of the slits and Peg shuffled a step forward and plucked her blackened slices to the plate. She turned the dial back to three. She buttered them and let it melt as she pulled her phone out. Sheila posted on social media that she was bored in her dorm. Peg dialed her number and it rang once before going to voicemail.
Peg got to work at exactly 8am and stayed just past 5pm once again, just like she always did. She made sure all the tasks were done despite her coworkers’ timely exits. On her way out of the glass doors her phone buzzed. Peg juggled it out of her coat pocket hoping to hear from Sheila, but it was just a text message from her bank informing her of her sad balance.
Peg drove straight home and set her bag and keys over the back of her chair at the kitchen table. She unspun the bread bag and slathered peanut butter on one slice and grape jelly on another. She filled a coffee mug halfway with milk and dropped into her old chair in the living room and put on game shows. Her phone buzzed and she snatched it from her thigh. It was a text from the phone company reminding her of her pending withdrawal for more than she had in her account.
Her hip stung and boiled pain to her leg and spine. Reluctantly, she turned off the game shows and dialed up beginner yoga videos just like Dr. Kramer had recommended. Peg followed the directions and heaved into positions she had never voluntarily entered. Arms splayed, legs askew. Her wrinkled face was contorted and strained. The voice on the television told her to breathe. She gasped and winced.
Peg woke the next morning and shuffled to the kitchen in her nightshirt. She unspun the bread bag and dropped two slices into the slits of the new toaster and pressed the plunger with a screech. She stared at the toaster while its careful buzz echoed. A slow orange glow calmed her and she adjusted her hip, remembering to breathe. Peg stepped back from the toaster towards the coffee pot on the opposite counter but didn’t look away. The dial was on three. The glow was still orange. Satisfied, she dumped yesterday’s grounds to the trash, filled a new filter with dry, and added water to the bin. Peg flipped the switch and it slurped to life. She pulled a white mug from the cabinet, unlidded the sugar jar, and placed the half-gallon of milk on the counter. She slipped a ceramic plate from the cupboard and walked to the new toaster to find it fully empty. Absolutely breadless. Peg felt a burning fury spilling from her forehead and she smacked the new toaster. It slid a few centimeters and some crumbs dribbled to the countertop. She hated to admit it but her hand was stinging from the hit. The coffee pot burbled. Peg unspun the bread loaf, which was disappearing faster than usual, and dropped one slice into a slot. She did not change the dial. She rounded her shoulders and clenched her teeth and stabbed the plunger down to a wail. A slow orange glow breathed from the wiring and Peg melted. She snapped back, remembering to be angry at the toaster, and stood clenched and huddled over the top of it, listening to the buzz. Her hip ached and she decided that part could unclench, but the shoulders, no way. Peg remembered the voice on the television telling her to relax and to breathe. She shut her eyes and heaved a strained breath past her lips. She noticed the heat left and the buzzing stopped. Peg burst her eyelids open to see the breadless toaster in front of her. She unplugged it. She plugged it back in, and dropped half a piece of bread into the other slot and dropped the plunger to a wiry wail. The glow didn’t calm her. She saw the bread crisping up then took a step backwards and stepped in a circle, turning away. The new toaster was empty when she spun back around. The other half of the bread went in a slot and the plunger went down to a screech. She closed her eyes before the slow glow could win and when she opened them back up the bread was gone.
Peg hobbled over to the kitchen table, spilling over with torn envelopes and receipts. She grabbed a bill and folded it down and stuffed it in a toaster slot. She pressed it down screeching. The slow orange glow pleased her as she saw smoke rising from the grills. She closed her eyes. The new toaster was empty. Absolutely billess. Peg poured out her coffee and added extra sugar and slurped it, staring at the toaster.
Pegatha Burroughs didn’t trust her toaster anymore. She unplugged it and scooped it in both hands and moved it to the other counter. She picked it back up and set it on the kitchen table. She stepped back.
She did not arrive at work at 8am. She drove to the Southway Secondhand Store with the black toaster buckled into the passenger seat. Peg held it out like a bomb and waddled to the front glass doors and rattled them; closed until 11.
Peg re-buckled the toaster and waited on the side of the street. Her phone buzzed and she fumbled the screen on. Sheila texted asking for more money. Peg called her. The phone rang once and went to voicemail. Peg opened her banking app and transferred fifteen dollars to Sheila. She got a notification from the bank about the sad balance she had remaining. Sheila messaged again complaining about the meager transfer. Peg called her. The phone rang once and went to voicemail. She set her phone down next to the toaster. It buzzed. The power company was informing her of the pending withdrawal which was much more than she had in her account.
Southway Secondhand Store would not open for several hours. She drove to work and clocked in late. On her lunch break she went back to the store and hauled the toaster in underneath one arm, sliding her hood forward over her hair.
“I need to return this.” She set the toaster down. Crumbs fell to the blue plastic counter.
“We don’t take returns.” Peg didn’t look her in the eye.
“It was four dollars.”
“We don’t take returns,” the teen repeated.
Peg couldn’t look her in the eyes but lifted her head and focused on the ceiling fan. “Please,” she said.
“I can’t give you your money back, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Peg dropped her head back down and crossed her arms. She tried not to lean on her hip. “Just take it back then. I’ll donate it.” She spun around and burst out the door.
Peg stayed later at work to make up for the time missed in the morning. At home she made herself a dinner of a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, folded over on one piece of bread. She called Sheila. The phone rang once and went to voicemail. A message from the water company notified her of a pending withdrawal which was much more than she had in her account. She threw her phone across the room to the couch and it bounced off to the floor. Her jaw clenched, her hip burned, her back stilted.
Peg crawled to her flattened carpet and pulled up the next yoga video in line. She tugged off her socks and spread her bent toes at hip distance. The voice on the television told her to breathe. She heaved. The voice told her to breathe in light and breathe out darkness, weight, unneeded things. A rattle of air wheezed out of her throat while she folded her body upside over. Close your eyes, the voice said. Breathe.
Peg bumbled out of bed in her skinny robe and stalked to the counter that didn’t have a toaster on it. She closed her eyes and breathed. She heeled to the coffee pot and dumped yesterday’s grounds, then filled a new filter and the tank at the back. It growled water up. She pulled a black mug from the cupboard, uncapped her sugar jar, and prepped the half-gallon of milk. She dug a small ceramic plate out. Peg unspun the loaf of plain white bread and stared at the crumby section where no toaster waited. She buttered a limp piece while her coffee pot hissed. Peg didn’t know how to eat plainly buttered bread. She resorted to tearing hunks off and popping them in her mouth. She even dunked some into her coffee, just to try it.
She limped into work five minutes early, as usual, and cleaned up what the others left behind to leave at 5:15pm. Her keys and bag slung over the kitchen chair, she unspun the emptying bag of bread and made a folded peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with a cold glass of milk. Her phone buzzed and she scrambled across the counter to her bag. It was Sheila, sending a text in all caps. Peg dialed her number and the phone rang once and went to voicemail. She asked her phone to remind her to respond in an hour. Her phone buzzed again with a notification from the phone company that her payment was unsuccessful. To her surprise, another notification came from the power company that her payment was, too, unsuccessful. Peg coolly observed her phone receiving the messages and her lights still on. She stretched to the left and to the right, with each opposite hip jutting out, burning a strip down her leg.
The voice on the television told her to breathe. Inhale light. Exhale darkness, weight, unneeded things. The voice told her to thank herself for committing to her practice. Peg was pressing her pelvis into the carpet and her shoulders and back screamed. She unpretzeled and flipped over to game shows. The reminder on her phone told her to respond to Sheila. Her banking app issued her a warning when she logged in. She transferred five dollars to Sheila and grimaced at her single-digit balance. Peg shut off the television and went to bed earlier than usual.
Peg slipped out of bed in her gray nightshirt and sneered at the toasterless countertop. She dumped grounds, added more in a filter, filled the back with water, and flipped the pot on. She unspun the plain loaf of white bread and dug two pieces out and slathered together a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich for breakfast. It didn’t pair well with her coffee. Her hip and back burned.
She made it to work five minutes early and left alone late. She drove to the opposite end of town to the department store and shuffled through throngs of tired shoppers to housewares. Peg eyed a new Toastmaster but noted its price. She checked for any other toaster but none were in the single-digit range. There in the aisle, she bent at the waist and her back creaked as she dragged her fingertips on the tongues of her shoes. Breathe, she heard the voice on the television say.
Peg arrived at the Southway Secondhand Store before they closed and didn’t bother putting her hood up. She found the toaster. It was the only one on the shelves. Black plastic with two slits on top and a radial dial that went from one to five. It was pointed to three. The plunger was tilted at a slight angle. The price tag dangling from the plunger read three dollars. She heard the voice on the television telling her to exhale unneeded things. She closed her eyes and exhaled.
She paid three dollars and tax at the counter, buckled the toaster into her passenger seat, and plunked it down on the crumby countertop at home. She plugged it into the wall. Peg walked to the living room and put on the next video in the yoga series. Her bony ankles kissed and the voice on the television told her to inhale light, more than she would normally breathe comfortably. Exhale darkness, the voice told her, and all unneeded things. Her phone rang and buzzed around the table. Peg saw it was Sheila calling. She closed her eyes. Inhale, the voice said, exhale deeply, the voice said. Peg creaked her body over itself, exhaling, inhaling. The phone buzzed again and Peg blew air through rounded lips. She felt light and faint as smoke. The voice on the television told her to thank herself for her commitment today. Without any air of pretense, Peg thanked herself fully.
Peg rolled to her feet. She felt a long twang down her hip, different than before, as if blood found new corners to paint in her vessels. She toed to the kitchen and stared at the new toaster. Plastic black, scuffed, tilted plunger, dial pointed to three.
She unspun the loaf of plain white bread and dunked things into the slits.
She pressed the plunger and metal screeched. A slow orange glow lit up the grills and crisped the bread and warmed her fingertips. Inhale light, she heard the voice on the television say. Exhale darkness, and all unneeded things. Peg’s attention turned to her pocket which was missing her phone. She stared at the toaster with rabid intent. Inhale, the voice said, exhale. Peg opened her lungs to fill her chest, and dragged in deeper when she thought it was at maximum. She saw the bread becoming toast surrounded by the glow. Peg anticipated the voice ringing in her brain, to exhale, and she closed her eyes and felt the glow on her face and let the air drift out of her lungs. Her body was warm, her face was warm. She couldn’t hear her phone buzz, and she didn’t care it wasn’t in her pocket. When she was out of air, she clenched and heaved just a little bit more out, still warm. Peg opened her eyes and the plunger of the toaster screamed back up. Her toast came out to a small ceramic plate and she buttered it with the room temperature stick on the counter. It didn’t pair well with her milk, but better than her peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich did with her coffee.
Peg woke the next morning and had coffee and toast, like she always did. She arrived at work a few minutes after 8am to little fanfare and left precisely on time.
From the writer
:: Account ::
The Toaster is a short fiction piece that puts a spin on the “try/fail” cycle. Initially conceived to be a pseudo-horror piece, it ended up pulling me in a different direction to address ideas of anxiety, self-worth, and the L‑word. I often write of characters struggling to go about their day-to-day or at least get back to it despite outside influences. While writing this piece I was thinking of Jeff VanderMeer, who is loose and eccentric with his descriptions and word choice. A remarkable opposite to that is my always-influence, Raymond Carver, who communicates so much with so little. I don’t think I’ll ever forget, “I did the drinks,” in Cathedral. This piece isn’t quite so minimal but doesn’t strive to be overly complex or include unnecessary information. I trust the reader to form the image I’m trying to convey as my ideas are less about the reader seeing a clear picture and more about the reader feeling a nebulous weight. I think saying too much more may spoil the experience of the story, so I thank you for your time and I hope you enjoy it.
Stephen Short is a native of the wintry Pacific Northwest and a non-traditional student at Washington State University. He writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. His work is influenced by the pared down selections of Raymond Carver and the verbose eccentricity of Jeff VanderMeer. Stephen sincerely wishes you a fantastic day and life.