Going to Dunkin Donuts
I love food, I do - tis a regretable addiction, yet one I will appease for the time being and while my metabolism is mildly good to me. Now, where was I, oh yes.
In assuageing my appetite every weekday morning I drive to dunkins, get my needs, and enjoy the saunterly back roads route to work. One assumption I think most of America shares is that the cats who work at Dunkin Donuts are usually lazy, unintelligent, immigrant workers who are stuck in this job for no other reason than merely to survive and get by. Yet you putzs of society who think you have seen burnt grass on the other side of you fence most clearly haven't been to the dunkin donuts in Brockton MA by route 138.
I drive up, ask for my order at the place that (although will occasionally have the every now and then again mishap) not only is a smily place full of wonderful women but also a place that serves the Oh-so-rare and even more so delicious, french roll. I make my way through the drive-through behind others who are also commuting through their daily routine of recieveing an addictive, stimulating beverage to turn the snooze button off on their internal alarm clocks to order my meal. I notice this morning a jeep full of teens in front of me, probably on their way to a beach to enjoy this glorious day lying in the sand, flirting with one another while they contemplate what may even be their last summer as kids before going off to college or beginning jobs for "the man".
Finally it is my turn at the window where for a few seconds out of my day I can recieve a sincere smile from a woman who asks me; "Are you French." Before I realize that I'm lying I blurt out, yes. Not because of a need to be deceptive or rude but because she sounds so sweet with her french accent and her hair up behind her cap that I can't help but want her to think, that I can relate to her. Her on one side of the looking glass and myself on the other. "yes, yes I am."
"Ah, I could tell eh! You look French to me. How are you, are you going to work?"
"I am, I work in Bridgewater, I work at the school. I help fix computers."
I suddenly have this need to sit down with her on my porch in New Hampshire and ask her when she came to America, why did she come here from France, what's better here. But before I can say anything else she turns to get me my drink and bagel while I fumble for my usual dollar tip, I can't find it. Where is it? She smiles like she is anticipating my embarrassment. And says;
"Oh no, not today. Nevermind that. Go to work, enjoy the day eh?! Have a beautiful weekend."
I smile, perhaps geekily so, and begin the treck to work. This woman, unconcerned with how much is in the tip jar, but with making everyone's order right and with conversing with who ever approaches the window. This woman, so sweet, married with who knows how many if any children or grandchildren. What a grand character,
I drove Thinking, I wish I were that happy. How grand life would be. I walk into work, allow it is unnoticible to the co-workers, with a better mood than I have been in quite a long time. It's a good thought to think that one character will ultimately and intimately make your entire day a better one, if only she knew! If only I could tell her that her smile puts to rest any uneasiness I have about my grandfather's state, about my unbalanced and emotinaly shallow lovelife, about my sister and all of her horrid, putrid characteristics. If only.
Abruptly I say,
Stay Gold.
In assuageing my appetite every weekday morning I drive to dunkins, get my needs, and enjoy the saunterly back roads route to work. One assumption I think most of America shares is that the cats who work at Dunkin Donuts are usually lazy, unintelligent, immigrant workers who are stuck in this job for no other reason than merely to survive and get by. Yet you putzs of society who think you have seen burnt grass on the other side of you fence most clearly haven't been to the dunkin donuts in Brockton MA by route 138.
I drive up, ask for my order at the place that (although will occasionally have the every now and then again mishap) not only is a smily place full of wonderful women but also a place that serves the Oh-so-rare and even more so delicious, french roll. I make my way through the drive-through behind others who are also commuting through their daily routine of recieveing an addictive, stimulating beverage to turn the snooze button off on their internal alarm clocks to order my meal. I notice this morning a jeep full of teens in front of me, probably on their way to a beach to enjoy this glorious day lying in the sand, flirting with one another while they contemplate what may even be their last summer as kids before going off to college or beginning jobs for "the man".
Finally it is my turn at the window where for a few seconds out of my day I can recieve a sincere smile from a woman who asks me; "Are you French." Before I realize that I'm lying I blurt out, yes. Not because of a need to be deceptive or rude but because she sounds so sweet with her french accent and her hair up behind her cap that I can't help but want her to think, that I can relate to her. Her on one side of the looking glass and myself on the other. "yes, yes I am."
"Ah, I could tell eh! You look French to me. How are you, are you going to work?"
"I am, I work in Bridgewater, I work at the school. I help fix computers."
I suddenly have this need to sit down with her on my porch in New Hampshire and ask her when she came to America, why did she come here from France, what's better here. But before I can say anything else she turns to get me my drink and bagel while I fumble for my usual dollar tip, I can't find it. Where is it? She smiles like she is anticipating my embarrassment. And says;
"Oh no, not today. Nevermind that. Go to work, enjoy the day eh?! Have a beautiful weekend."
I smile, perhaps geekily so, and begin the treck to work. This woman, unconcerned with how much is in the tip jar, but with making everyone's order right and with conversing with who ever approaches the window. This woman, so sweet, married with who knows how many if any children or grandchildren. What a grand character,
I drove Thinking, I wish I were that happy. How grand life would be. I walk into work, allow it is unnoticible to the co-workers, with a better mood than I have been in quite a long time. It's a good thought to think that one character will ultimately and intimately make your entire day a better one, if only she knew! If only I could tell her that her smile puts to rest any uneasiness I have about my grandfather's state, about my unbalanced and emotinaly shallow lovelife, about my sister and all of her horrid, putrid characteristics. If only.
Abruptly I say,
Stay Gold.