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So I walk into the brand-new 3 year old Duncan’s Donut on River
Street in Haverhill, MA this morning. The last time I was here, about
six months ago, it was held up. Well, at least the 16 year-old cashier
was. The robber - the “perp” - he had a gun. A relatively
quiet exchange, none of the other customers (myself included) had
even noticed anything until the guy had run out across the parking
lot, jumped the guardrail, and disappeared into the woods. Then the
counter girl started bawling.
I was with Reusch, sitting at a table off to the
side. There was a girl a table or two away from us that really sort
of pretended to freak out. She exclaimed breathlessly, “Oh, my
Gaad I coulda got shot!” She repeated this again and again, her
panic increasing each time, looking to her boyfriend and us for a
cinformation that, yes indeed, she coulda got shot. I could clearly
see her inner dialogue floating above her head in simple, bold block
letters. It read: “OH, MY GAAD. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING AROUND
ME THAT SEEMS LIKE SOMETHING ON TV. I HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT
IN SCHOOL TOMMORROW. OH MY GAAD.” She was trying as hard as she
could to get the Defining Life Experience engine to turn over, but
was clearly pumping the gas pedal too much. She eventually worked
her way over to the counter to interview the still-crying cashier:
What was it like? Were you scared? Did you see the gun? Oh, my Gaad.
Each answer was faithfully recorded and stored away for tommorrow’s
five minute passing period between Algebra and Biology.
Okay, so get this: Now this girl (who was eating a doughnut at the
time of the incident) was so traumatized, she had to go outside to
the payphone to call her mother to tell her how distraught she was
over this dangerous gun-toting robber who had just run across the
parking lot, jumped the guardrail, and disappeared into the woods.
The problem I have with this clever course of action is - okay, yeah
- but the payphone is outside, across the parking lot, over by
the guardrail, right next to the woods.
Meanwhile of course, all of these events are being
punctuated by irate walkie-talkie-sounding voices coming over the
unmanned drive-thru intercom. Me and Reusch split before the cops
show. No trouble, no trouble.
Anyway, so I walk into the brand-new 3-year-old
Duncan’s Donut on River Street in Haverhill, MA this morning.
It was remodeled 3 years ago, leaving behind my cherished brown, orange,
and beige color palette in favor of the quite unlikeable gray and
pink combination. It's twice as echoey and half as friendly. And gray
and pink just doesn't scream "doughnut" to me. The donut
shop is not brand-new. It is still brand-new to me. Over by the side
counter, I see a thick-legged Haverhill girl standing with her skinny,
zit-faced, very slightly moustached boyfriend gingerly clamped to
her side. She is wearing tight bicycle-type pants under an oversized
t-shirt. He is wearing some overly-sports team logoed windbreaker
with matching pants and hat. She is announcing to her counter girl
friend over there that the duo plans to marry within the year. Combined,
they couple is perhaps thirty years old. Perhaps.
So I get my coffee (“hi-medium-cream-and-sugar-thanks”),
grab myself a seat by the window, and start writing the first draft
of what is to become this sordid tale that you’re reading. Seeking
to achieve the highest possible level of satire, I mentally wrestle
over whether I should use the coffee chain’s actual name, "Duncan’s
Donut", "Dunking Doughnuts", "Donkey DonkDonks",
or "Dokken Donuts". Obviously, a Dokken reference anywhere
can be a valuable little bauble to be caressed and cherished, but
I decide to surreptitiously throw them all in by writing the preceeding
sentence. I hear the woman to my left talking about bathroom remodeling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I weirdly note that she is sitting alone.
I then look at the table across from me and see an old lady eating
her bagel and nodding. “Isn’t that nice?” I think to
myself. “Someone made friends at the donut shop.” Then I
look over to the talking woman and realize that she’s actually
speaking into a cellular phone, and the old lady, it turns out, just
has a problem with her central nervous system.
I look out the window and see a seagull pecking
at a piece of styrofoam cup. I know that later, it will die.
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excerpt from FAILURE,
INCOMPETENCE - Buy it HERE
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