I walk briskly to the East River in the pelting rain. It’s Thursday afternoon. The clock is ticking as I have only one more day to cast my sins into the water before the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur. I hold my flimsy Duane Reade umbrella up to the gray sky in defiance. A box of Twinkies is tucked under my arm. I am determined to say the Tashlich prayer for a second time as I run through the urban monsoon. I did this ritual yesterday, but it didn’t work out to well. It was bright and sunny, a perfect day for repentance and divine forgiveness. I brought my optimistic loaf of Wonder Bread downtown to the Hudson River Park, closed my eyes, and threw it in for baptism. I prayed, “Please let this white bread symbolize my sins over the past years. Let them sink to the depths of the river, or at least let the fish have a good meal. God, please let the decree for me this year be a little better than last this last one. I am committed to being a better person. While I haven’t apologized to the people I offended, I thought about it.” To my horror, “my baggage’ the Wonder Bread, floated back to me. It was not even water logged.
So, I have this brilliant idea. Cast the Twinkie. That girl’s been around. As the queen of golden cake and cream, she fell from grace into oblivion. Bankrupt. She got in bed with private equity guys for a bail out. This nibble was accused of driving people to manslaughter due to sugar insanity. The defense was known as the “Twinkie Plea.” Competitors said that she had a shelf life of over 100 years due to the chemicals in her ingredients. Ridiculous. With all those toxins, the Twinkie had to at some point become a food with no wrinkles.
I arrive at the river drenched, with no umbrella, but with the Twinkie box in hand. I march to the railing and look out onto Long Island City. I cast the Twinkies out into the horizon. “You lost your way” I call with genuine compassion.
The Twinkies sink.