The Toaster
by Anne Earney
Mr. Jacobs was a slight man. From his stooped shoulders and constant frown I gathered
he'd learned life was not to be trifled with, right down to the details — like toast. In short, I
thought he understood me. He leaned in close over the antique toaster I'd come to his shop
to see about purchasing. I put my hat on the counter and leaned in next to him.
“This baby makes wonderful toast," he said. "No doubt about that.” Mr. Jacobs’ withered old
hand brushed imaginary crumbs from the chrome.
I reached out and rubbed the sides of the toaster to see if the metal was rusting or thin. It
wasn’t.
“This toaster," he went on, "does have its peculiar side.” He frowned at the hand he'd
touched it with, as if his skin had been burned.
“Does it affect the way it makes toast?" I asked. "Will it make good toast? Great toast?” I
had a one-track mind. I'd even gone so far as to put an ad in the Sunday paper. "Wanted:
The Perfect Toaster." I am somewhat of a toast connoisseur, you might say.
“Oh, yes," Mr. Jacobs said. "Beautiful toast every time.”
That was all I needed to hear.
I gave Mr. Jacobs the twenty dollars he asked and took my toaster in my arms. Feeling as if
I had purchased the Hope diamond for a quarter, I walked out of the shop, thinking I'd have
no more need of Mr. Jacobs and his strange ideas. I placed the toaster on the floor of my
car, where it couldn’t slide around, and drove it directly home.
Having spent some time looking, I could tell my newest purchase had been made in the
forties. The sides opened out from the chrome body and the bread was placed on small
metal teeth, which held the slices equidistant from the heating coils when the doors were
closed. This created the perfect toasting environment, even for small, thin slices, such as
my favorite raisin bread. At the shop, I'd been concerned that there were no controls on the
toaster--nothing to specify light, dark or anywhere in between. I'd expressed concern about
this to Mr. Jacobs.
“Don’t worry, sir," he said. "I've found it to be a great toaster in that regard. It knows."
I was afraid Mr. Jacobs thought I was being silly, so I didn't pursue the topic. Now I know, he
had had a more serious problem in mind.
The toaster looked perfect in my kitchen. I already had several period appliances. There
was my 1950s “Mixall” shake mixer, like the ones you find in diners, and a “Carnival Red”
1948 Philco refrigerator. I wanted everything in the kitchen to look old, so I hid my
microwave in an icebox, the kind found in homes before the spread of electricity. Of course,
I didn't use it in there —microwaves might bounce around a box lined with metal, and who
knows what could happen from there.
I wanted to try the toaster the minute I got home, but first I put a pot of water on for tea.
Toast is best with a good, strong cup of Earle Gray. The English do it that way with good
reason. While my tea steeped, I put a slice of wheat bread from the little bakery down the
street into the toaster. My heart raced as I waited. I forgot to breathe and I thought I might
faint. This sort of thing happened to me every time I tried a new toaster.
The heating coils clicked off and I opened the side panels. The toast was…perfect! Not too
light, not too dark. The edges were a roasted brown and the expanse of bread was a warm
tan shade, sandy and rough. Not burnt, but crisp enough to hold up to the pressure of a
knife and butter, and still be soft in the middle. I’ve had a lot of toast and this was truly great
toast.
In three weeks I went through twelve loaves of bread. I ate nothing but toast and drank
nothing but tea. I sat at my Formica-topped table, with my toes under one leg to hold it level,
and I toasted and toasted.
I thought about this theory I have and my toaster was perfect proof. I believe there's a
perfect version of everything, made at one point and then forgotten in the rush for the new
design and the next year’s colors. Some older things are sturdier. (I’ve never felt
comfortable with a plastic mixer bouncing around on my counter.) And some newer things
work better. (A microwave with a turntable can work wonders with leftovers, if one can find
somewhere suitable to keep the thing.) I’ve spent much of my time since retirement trying to
find the perfect appliances, but this toaster had been especially important to me.
And once I had the perfect toaster, I was content with my way of life for a while. In fact, I felt
such gratitude to Mr. Jacobs, I dialed him up to say thank him.
“So the toaster hasn’t done anything strange?” he asked.
“Nope," I said. "It has not a single fault.” Then I remembered. “Didn't you have a problem
with the toaster when you owned it?" I asked.
“To tell you the truth," he said, "it worked fine for me, for years. Then one morning I woke
from a very disturbing dream. My alarm clock and the toaster had somehow become one. I
was making toast for my neighbor and telling her, 'The only problem with this toaster is that
it beeps like my alarm clock.' The next day, the dream became a reality. The noise was very
annoying and I had to stop using the toaster. I didn’t know what to do until I saw your ad. I
thought perhaps the toaster wouldn’t do that for someone else. I’m so glad it’s worked out.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his story. When I hung up, I reflected back on my
initial impression of Mr. Jacobs I decided his seriousness must the attitude of the deranged.
Then I decided, since I had acquired the perfect toaster, I needed the perfect teapot. I put
an ad in the paper and began reading the classifieds. I spent the next several weeks
traveling around, looking at one teapot after another and going to yard sales. Everyone
seemed to think they had the perfect teapot, but I didn't find anyone who told the truth. I
looked at dented sides, rusty bottoms, and faulty whistles until I was simply ready to drop
from exhaustion. I'd been setting my alarm for sunup on Saturdays so I could get to the
sales early, while the selection was best. One Friday night, looking forward to the bumper
crop of ads that had mentioned "kitchen paraphernalia," I set my alarm especially early. I
was dreaming when it went off. In my dream, I told my sister, the only problem with my
toaster was that it beeped like my alarm clock the entire time it toasted. I woke from the
dream with a sinking feeling in my stomach. At the time, I had modern alarm clock. The
alarm beeped like a bomb about to detonate. The idea of my toaster making that sound was
horrifying. I sat straight up in bed and turned it off.
That morning, needless to say, I was a little nervous about making toast. But I did it anyhow
and nothing unusual happened. Then I had a wonderful day at the sales. Though I didn’t
find a teapot, I did purchase an old juicer, a Rival Juice-O-Mat.
I had to use the alarm clock again several days later. I didn’t dream at all that night, but as
soon as I put the bread in the toaster for my breakfast, the beeping began. Beep. Beep.
Beep. I gritted my teeth and waited. When the toast was, it was perfect, as always.
But as the days went by, I found myself using the toaster less and less. After a couple of
weeks, I called Mr. Jacobs and confessed. He advised me to wait until I saw an ad in the
paper and to sell it, as he had.
He then confided in me that this wasn’t the first time he’d had an experience like this. He'd
once owned a TV with one audio option. No matter what show he put on, no matter what
the characters said, Bing Crosby sang an endless melody of Christmas tunes. He'd had an
electric cuckoo clock that cuckooed the entire time the dishwasher ran. And once, he said,
there'd been a lamp that turned itself on or off every time the doorbell rang.
I put an ad in the paper the next week and people called, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell
the toaster. The memories of perfect toast were too good for me to give up their source.
Thinking perhaps it would be easier to part with the old toaster if I bought a new one first, I
drove to the store and picked out a shiny white model. I also bought a teapot, one that
makes a whistling sound when the water is ready, and no other noises, whatsoever.
One day, while I was sitting at the table eating passable but not perfect toast and drinking
halfway decent tea, I realized I’d never tried to find the perfect alarm clock. Really, one has
only two options — windup or electric. I got to thinking about the nature of electric
appliances and I speculated the only way my alarm clock could have communicated with my
toaster would have been through the electrical wires of my house. And if this was the case, I
thought, I could probably short-circuit their communication. I jumped up from the table,
leaving my toast half-eaten, and got dressed.
I bought a windup alarm clock, with a round face, little feet and two silver bells on top. I
unplugged the old alarm clock and threw it into my closet, at hard as I could — something I'd
always wanted to do, really. I felt better instantly and the new clock did look so much better
and I was quite pleased with its cheerful ring.
I walked slowly to the kitchen, prepared to put the other half of my theory to the test. I
plugged the toaster in. I put a slice of bread against the teeth. I closed the sides. Silence.
The coils began to heat and I could smell crumbs burning in the bottom of the toaster.
Nothing made a sound. Two minutes later, I opened the sides. No beeps, no bells, no
whistles. The finished toast was perfect as always. I called Mr. Jacobs immediately and
invited him over for toast, tea and conversation. He accepted.
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