Circle of life: Doughnut purchase reminds her of old days — and this special character
Two recent Sundays, my husband just happened to drop some dough at a top-notch doughnut shop. Crazy how that happens.
We can go for years without ever buying these treats, then we get on a kick. The second indulgence happened when our youngest son was home. Perfect excuse to circle back.
The only downside about doughnuts in my household, aside from knowing they are not fresh carrots shaped into rings, is they always spark one of my “Dunkin’ stories. At this point my family finds every fun recollection stale. But this one I think has a few life lessons.
Many decades ago, when I was a college student on summer break, I worked the midnight shift at a suburban New York Dunkin’ Donuts. It was the only temporary job I could find, and I was happy to have it.
This craziness lasted the entire summer. I actually chose the overnights because I thought I’d be able to drive to the beach every morning after work. That dream scenario happened a total of one time, because when I clocked out after every shift, I was exhausted. It wasn’t just the odd hours; the morning rush was nuts. My shop was located on a busy intersection between two commuter highways to the north and south. It was also equidistant from two Long Island Railroad stations to the east and west.
Customer-wise, I noticed many regulars. One stood out: a hyper, middle-aged man who would show up super early every Friday. He would lift the hinged, false countertop that separated me from the public. Then he’d dash behind the counter, unfold a pink box from my supply stack and load up his dozen as if he worked there.
The first time this happened, it threw me off balance. I think Mr. Hyper explained, or lied, that my never-there boss allowed it. Who was I to argue? His rapid doughnut gathering was actually helpful as I dealt with other customers.
The whole process was like a ballet. I would see him pull up in the parking lot. I’d run to fix his coffee as he jumped behind the counter, briefly pretending to be me. (Minus the bun, white shoes and pink polyester dress.) He would bob and weave around me, gathering jellies and powdered and whatnots.
It was the dance of sugar-crumb fairies. I never learned the customer’s name, but I think he appreciated that I let him speed up the transaction so I could ring him up asap. He had a highway to conquer, and his antics always entertained, or maybe baffled, other customers.
They probably wondered, as I did, “Who is that tornado in a shirt and tie throwing donuts into a box?”
I let him break the rules. He always used the proper waxed paper tissues and never touched a pastry he didn’t buy. These were the days before heightened germ awareness.
Mr. Hyper was not a conversationalist. That whole summer, I always wondered where he worked, how far he commuted, and if his colleagues appreciated his predictable TGIF sugar runs.
Here’s the icing on the doughnut: The day I flew back to Mizzou for a new year of college, I discovered the exact endpoint of my mysterious customer’s commute. I was droopy, because with college being so far away, it was always emotional to say goodbye to my family every August.
I trudged to my boarding area at LaGuardia Airport. So, what a welcome distraction to look around and see…Mr. Hyper! Despite the size of LaGuardia and the many airlines it served, he was the very gate agent for the very flight I was on. We probably recognized each other at the same time.
He immediately waved me over. I was all, “Holy Cow, what are the odds?” But he remained level-headed and task oriented. Efficient as always, he asked for my paper ticket (remember, this was decades ago.) He bumped me up to first class. Best tip I ever got.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com
