Hungry, hushed undertones of bated anticipation. Knowing nods exchanged in the florescent lit hallways. Frantic emails peppered among staff members trumpeting the turning point of our workday and, ultimately, our lives.
The day had finally arrived.
The day that would inevitably change everything was here.
The day when what might have been has become the day that is.
The day when Dunkin' Donuts opened on the corner of Pennsylvania and Washington.
Oh happy day!
And what is more? Free giveaways. One free donut. One free coffee.
Oh glorious day!
Although there were 5,541 franchise locations throughout the U.S., not one of them was close to my home or workplace. Until now. The 5,542nd location is within walking distance of my office.
Word came too late, however. I had planned to be first in line. The first to reintroduce myself to the delicious delights of bear claws and bismarks. Munchkins and eclairs. Fritters, crullers and coffee cakes. Pastries, muffins, danishes, bagels, cookies. And Dunkuccinos. Sweet, sweet Dunkuccinos.
Alas, a handful of people beat me to it. As I rushed down the street around 11:00, I could see the line forming a block away. Curses! The word was out. I broke out into a Carl Lewis-like sprint - hurdling over parking meters and trash cans, knocking over homeless people and innocent passers-by. Panic set it. Would I miss out? Would the doughnuts still be there? Would they run out of coffee? Would I be forced to choose between a Chocolate Frosted Cake donut and a Long John when what I really want is a Bavarian Kreme?
When I finally arrived, the store had not yet opened. Like an exclusive velvet rope club, the line wrapped around the corner of the building and spilled out into the street. And they were fat people. And fat people love doughnuts. These people were going to eat my doughnuts. Was there a list? Am I on the list?
Where's my VIP pass?
WHERE'S MY VIP PASS!
And then, like a heavenly chorus of angels opening up the pearly gates, the doors parted and the sugary aroma of baked, deep-fried dough hit my nostrils. They beckoned me in as if to say, Well done, good and faithful doughnut eater. Enjoy your reward. Even the saintly store manager shook my hand.
But I was a junkie in need of a fix. It had been so long. So very, very long since I've eaten a doughnut. Like three-weeks-long. But it had been even longer since I've had a Dunkin' Donut.
We had D.D. franchises in Detroit when I lived there. It was the only good thing about that forsaken city. You see, in Detroit, every other establishment is a doughnut shop. Not Krispy Kreme or Tim Hortons, necessarily, but Ma and Pop pastry shops.
Detroit loves two things: Hockey and doughnuts. Sometimes at the same time. But most of the doughnuts there aren't really doughnuts at all. They call them Pączkis. What are Pączkis? Not doughtnuts, I'll tell you that much. They're imitation pastries made by phonetically challenged Polish immigrants that are ridiculously difficult to pronouce (poonchkeys) and downright impossible to spell. I typed it into Microsoft Word and the paper clip spell check assistant ran and hid.
So there I was, in front of the counter, when I froze up. Here before me was an embarrassment of donut riches. A veritable smorgasbord of yeasty confection. Torus after torus of heart-clogging, cholesterol-raising, fried batter rings. And I couldn't decide.
So many choices: cinnamon or powdered sugar, marble frosted or custard filled, blueberry or apple n' spice, sprinkles, no sprinkles, gingerbread, Boston Kreme? I couldn't take it.
Finally, the cashier, who must have seen my wild eyed, literal-kid-in-a-candy-shop, glazed over (pun intended) stare, cleared her throat and smiled the smile that only a peddler of such extravagant gratifications can muster and said, "How about jelly-filled?"
BRILLIANT!
I nearly leapt over the counter and hugged her right in the middle of the store. Of course, jelly-filled, I said. How could I kick-start this beautiful breakfast relationship with anything else? I gladly accepted, took the sack, my small coffee with cream and sugar, and happily bounded back to work.
Halfway back, as I reached into the bag to reap the spoils of my morning plunder, a nagging thought entered my ravenous brain. You're on a diet, said my dasterdly conscience. You can't eat that doughnut.
I paused, hung my head, and admitted defeat. I trudged back to my office and reluctantly acquiesced the doughnut to a grateful co-worker. I watched him take a bite and thank me as he wiped the strawberry jam from his chin with a mirthful grin.
As I slouched at my desk and stared at the computer screen, a familiar voice echoed in my head. "It's time to make the doughnuts", I heard Fred the Baker say.
But not for me, I sadly replied. Not for me.
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