Every day, tens of thousands of Boston Cream donuts are churned out in the bakeries owned by the Dunkin’ Donuts Corporation. They are conceived in giant mixing bowls. Developed in ovens. Born in what a few funny fellows call “the creaming process.” Raised and educated on the trucks, heading to their assigned convenient, easily-accessible location.
And I am one of them.
We’ve been sitting in our racks on the truck for hours, receiving very clear, specific instructions. America is going to run on us; we are going to be pleased. If not for us, where would America get its fuel?
The doors at the back finally open. We are removed from the trucks in great big, wheeling racks and brought into the shop. The tray I share with my brothers is removed from the rack and placed into the breakfast display. We are flooded by fluorescent lighting — we’ve got to be visible to be edible!
The preliminary rituals completed, the store is quick to open. One by one my brothers are selected and taken away to be devoured. But I can only sit, baking in jealousy.
After what feels like eons — at least twice as long as we spent in the oven — it appears my time has come. This twenty-something comes into the store, thinking he’s somebody in his suit and tie (though I don’t understand why that’s necessary; khakis, a bright polo, and a company visor work just fine for us), and orders a medium iced coffee and a chocolate-frosted donut. Well, our counter associate must’ve heard him wrong because I get thrown into the bag instead. But how could anyone be upset with that? I’ve got a tasty center. I’m a delightful surprise!
I don’t like this paper bag very much. It’s not as comfortable as they led us to believe — so much for a chariot to our final destination. But the pink and orange lights glimmering through the letters are quite nice. Still, that napkin’s starting to chafe.
A different bright light appears at the end of the bag. A hand reaches in and I am out of there!
What’s this? Where am I? It’s great to be out of that papery imprisonment, but I don’t know what’s going on. They did not cover this in training.
Hold on — I know what this is. He’s looking me over. He must have realized I’m not what he ordered. But he doesn’t seem happy. Why isn’t he happy?
He hates my guts. Literally. I’m every bit a chocolate-frosted, save my center. So why doesn’t he like cream?
He must have changed his mind, though, because his breath is on my skin. It’s cascading over that thin line where chocolate meets dough. And his teeth! They’re sinking into me! It’s — it’s exhilarating! Just like they said it’d be in the movies!
He’s biting. He’s biting! Oh my goodness he’s biting! I think it’s going to get old, but it’s magic every time!
I’m actually doing what I’m meant to do. I’m feeding the hungry. The glory!
Wait. Why’d he stop? He ate around my pudding center and now he’s done with me? That’s so odd.
Oh. Back in the bag. He must be saving me for later. That’s a comforting thought; I don’t mind waiting for those last few bites of pleasure.
I feel like I’m falling. And there’s the thud. Why would he throw the bag? I’m still in it! Does he know I’m still in it? He must. But why — the trash? It must be. They warned us about that in training; they said it would only happen if we didn’t do our jobs correctly. But I haven’t done anything wrong! The bastard just threw me out! It’s not my fault!
Doug Paul Case is from Connecticut.