During my daily workout, I cycle through a three and a half mile loop. I try to do at least six loops. Weather, it is still winter here on the East Coast, as much as motivation, determines the length of my workout. Each loop begins by taking me past our local Donut shop.
I have consumed many of this shop's donuts. As I am trying to lose weight, I have not frequented the establishment lately. It is difficult, as the Donut man is an artist.
Today, a Saturday morning, it seemed that the shop was very busy, and, the customers seemed unusually distracted. Several people almost walked directly into my path. Maybe it was my own Donut cravings playing tricks on me. I was "Jonesin" for a jelly donut and I imagined all the coming and going customers as donut addicts. (Jonesin is a word used to describe an intense craving for a drug. Comes from Great Jones Street in New York City, between Broadway and Lafayette Street, a former junkie hangout.)
I have published this before, but I offer it again for your enjoyment. It's my ode to another Donut man, from my distant past. He, too, was also an artist. Unfortunately he reached too far. A true tragedy!
My friend, the "Donut Man" seemed to have it all; wife, family, happy customers. In my fantasies I remember the daily gatherings as an extended family, worthy of a sitcom pilot. I can picture millions tuning in every Tuesday night to follow the antics of this happy cast of characters. Characters whose lives are orchestrated by the man who makes the donuts. My workday began in his shop, with two apple and spice donuts and a large coffee to go. Later, around noon, I would walk to the shop for a bowl of soup. I'm flashing, now as I write, on the thick, cheddar taste of the meatball soup. Help me Momma I need a cheddar fix.
In hindsight I can understand his actions. He had won $ 100,000 in the lottery. Visions of sugar plums danced in his head. One shop successful, income adequate for his family. Two shops could be the ticket to a new car, or better schools for the kids. After all, he was the donut man who could do no wrong.
He was the donut man. It was he who made those tasty apple and spice creations from heaven. He who knew exactly the words to say to "Joe". Joe, who always required a push to get up and go to work. Even the donut man could not be in two places at one time. He knew when Joe needed to leave- just before he became so late he could lose his job. He was the donut man.
I visited the new shop. I saw the future with the first sip of the luke warm, tasteless brew. The bus was coming around the corner. The muffin had already started to crumble; the pickings rejected by the pair of pigeons staring up at me. If birds could speak, I swear that they were asking me, "is that all you got?"
I tossed the coffee onto the sidewalk. The cup, donuts and muffins went into the trash receptacle. I'd endure the bus ride half awake, cold and hungry. Sorry, but I'm a person whose butt deserves Charmin.
Let's mourn the passing of a good donut. Please open your hymnbook, and sing, "bye, bye Miss American Pie...This'll be the die that I die...".
May I recommend for your enjoyment: Excuses are the nails used to build a house of failure.
You may also enjoy reading: I will quietly celebrate, but I know I am about out of pie.
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