A. Homes: This Book Will Save Your Life

"Heaven," he said, opening his eyes. "I didn't have dinner last night."

"Would you like me to make you some eggs?"

"I don't see eggs on your menu."

"That doesn't mean I can't make eggs. Why didn't you have dinner?"

Without intending to, he spilled the story of last night: "I was in incredible pain, I went to the hospital, they thought I was having a heart attack." He spoke too loudly, the way you do when talking to someone whose first language is not English. He tapped his chest as if Anhil might not know where the heart was.

"I thought I was going to die," he said. "I called my ex-wife, she lives in New York."

Anhil laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Everything. You lived, and now you're eating a donut. That's not Mr. Healthy."

"I never eat donuts — that's why I wanted one. I am Mr. Healthy. I eat cereal that the nutritionist makes for me; it tastes like wood chips. I drink Lactaid milk. I never break the rules."

"Let me make you some breakfast," Anhil said, going into the kitchen. He continued to talk to him through a hole in the wall. "This used to be a kosher bakery, used to be this area was Jewish, now it's immigrants like me and old men with curls. This is the land of money — every man can have his own store, look how many stores there are." He cracked the eggs. "When I first got here, I worked in a garage, fixing cars. In my country I was a car salesman. What do you drive?"

"I have a Mercedes, but I don't drive a lot." Richard smelled the eggs cooking.

"Of course you drive a lot, you live in Los Angeles. Just to go to work in the morning you drive a lot." Anhil poured him a glass of orange juice. Richard couldn't bring himself to tell Anhil that he didn't go to work, that he hadn't gone to work in years, that he had no idea of what work was anymore.

"What kind of cars did you sell?"

"Other people's cars. All kinds, Ford, Chevrolet, strong cars from the 1970s. 'Pre-owned,' they call them here. I like making donuts better. And here my wife can work for me, my brother can work. I employ everybody. So what did they say, what is wrong with your heart?"

"They don't know."

"For smart people, Americans are very stupid."

Richard nodded.

"In America everybody is somebody. They have so much and they all want more. In my country we are all nobodies; it's easier. Here they are always trying to be somebody else. They go to the doctor and get a new nose, they get bigger chests— why aren't they happy to have a nose that works and weather that is always good?" He spoke as though all of this were so obvious, so funny.

"It's always about the weather, isn't it?" Richard said, making small talk. "We stay for the weather."

"Where are you from?" Anhil asked.

"New York City."

"Me too," Anhil said, excitedly. "I was born at Lenox Hill Hospital. My mother was visiting. I arrived early. In my own country I might have died. I stayed one month in hospital and then went home. I am forty-one years old. I came back to America four years ago to make myself into something." Anhil leaned forward. "Explain, why does everyone in America pretend to be blind? They practice not seeing. They get into the car and they call someone on the cell phone. They are afraid to be alone but they don't see the people around them. See your plate?"

Richard looked down; his eggs were on a nice old plate.

"You didn't see it until I said to look." Anhil laughed. "I buy them at the flea market in Pasadena. I like it when people sit down, when they stay. Everybody wants everything to go. Go, go, go. If someone sits down, I give them a nice plate and a good cup. If they stay, I give them free refills. If they go, they like the paper cups that say Always a Pleasure to Serve You.' When I first opened, I had Kevin Costner paper cups, I got them on sale. People started coming in and asking for a cup of Costner to go. But now, if a woman came in, if a woman ordered tea, I'd have the right cup for her. Women don't eat donuts," he said, disappointed. "But that's better for me — I like women. My wife would be very angry if my shop was filled with women." Something about the way he said it prompted Richard to imagine a group of women, like the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, filling up the place.

Anhil spread his assortment of dishes across the counter. "People should pay more attention. Everyone wants attention, but no one wants to give attention." He finished arranging the dishes. "What do you think?"

"Nice," Richard said, picturing the immigrant donut-maker walking up and down the aisles at the flea market, bargaining for dishes.

"Try this," Anhil said, putting a coconut-topped chocolate donut on a small plate in front of Richard. He looked at Richard and the donut with great intensity, as if this were the donut that would fix Richard, as if there were certain donuts that were better for certain ailments, as if a donut could have curative powers.

Richard bit into the donut, sweet rich cream squirted out the side, he licked his fingers. "Delicious. What is it?"

"Almond-flavored cream on the inside, chocolate icing and coconut on the outside — my own invention. I call it a Cream-Filled Mons — from the candy bars Almond Joy and Mounds."

"Mons. You might have to change that."

Anhil looked at him, confused.

Richard pointed to his crotch. "On a woman, this is a mons."

"And the coconut gets stuck in your teeth like private hair," Anhil said, laughing. "They're very popular, especially with the policemen." Anhil laughed even harder, and at that point even Richard had to laugh. "That's my audience — police, landscapes taxi. I came to California to make somebody. The first week after I opened the shop, I got robbed by someone from television. I looked at him — I said, I know you; you're from TV. Go away, come another day — buy donuts."

"Did he leave?"

"He hit me with his gun and took the dollar bill off my wall."

"He took your first dollar?"

Anhil nodded.

"That's bad." He finished the breakfast. "You're a good cook — you should have a restaurant, not just a donut shop."

"I am a good donut-maker," Anhil said. "Mr. Dunkin doesn't even think of me, but I know my donut is better. Mine is the real donut, the human donut. I am not going to get rich making donuts — donuts are not gold records, donuts are not box office — but every morning I make a donut and I am happy." He laughed again. "I count my donuts. I feel very lucky."

"You work very hard."

"Sometimes I don't go home. I call my wife and tell her good night and I sleep here. When you came, I wasn't open. But I saw you and couldn't turn you away."

"Aren't you afraid at night?"

"I sleep with the light on."

They were silent for a few minutes. Outside, the sky was getting lighter; traffic was picking up. Someone came in and got a cup of coffee and some donuts to go.

"I should call a taxi," Richard said.

"No need to call; they'll come soon. When the shift changes, they meet in the parking lot."

And, sure enough, about ten minutes later, the shop was filled with taxi drivers tanking up.

Before Richard left, Anhil filled a big box with donuts. Richard pulled out his wallet, but Anhil wouldn't take any money.

"You're a lousy businessman if you don't let me pay you."

"It's not about money."

"I know that now; please, take some. I can't go home unless you take my money; that's the rule in America, you must take my money."

"You are hurting my feelings," Anhil said. "I thought we were friends."

"Yours is the human donut," Richard said, putting money on the counter.

"You may think you're rich because you have a lot of money, but there's always someone with more. I'm rich because I have my heart in the donut shop." He pushes the money away.

Richard could see that he was hurting Anhil's feelings; he took the money back. "Fine, then, let me do something for you.