Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 2)

Before Dunkin' Donuts opened another store, a mere 300 yards from my house, a manager was hired and a sign erected which read: Applications Now Being Received.  Although I had a job, I could not resist the temptation to apply for such a sweet gig and I was one of the first in line to interview with the manager:  a young, twenty-something, corporate type who seemed uncomfortable with a middle-aged man applying for a non-managerial position.

After reviewing my application, and noting that my salary and benefits were sufficient to remove me from the running for the head-baker position, he wanted to know what future I saw in working for Dunkin' Donuts.

"Are you kidding me?" I snapped back.  "There's no one in this town . . . no, in this county . . . who knows donuts the way I do!  I've been running on Dunkin' long before America was!  And listen, I only live 300 yards away.  When there's five feet of snow on the ground and none of your other employees can get to work, I can crawl over here in the dark and unlock the doors."

He smiled a bit but didn't seem taken in by my five-feet of snow analogy.  "Why do you want this job?" he asked.  "What do you see yourself doing here?  Management?"

"Listen," I said, "I manage people all day.  I'm up to my eyeballs in people.  I want to branch out.  I want to work with donuts.  I'll be your quality control expert.  You put me back there on the ovens.  As those suckers come out, if there's a donut that doesn't come up to DD standards, I'll consume it and get rid of it before it reaches the front lines.  Give me a half gallon of milk and some tongs, I'm good to go."

The manager was warming to me; I could tell I was reeling him in like a starving barracuda.  He was a young pup and didn't know he was up against a master persuader.  Fact is, if I could talk my wife into sex, I could surely talk him into a job.  The way I saw it, donuts were much easier than romance.

"Why do you want this job?" he asked again, staring down at my long and illustrious pastoral resume and my enormous tally of published material.  He was scratching his scalp, and he had no dandruff. Something told me he was fresh out of college and this was his first assignment. 

"Okay," I said eventually, "I'm not wanting to take a job away from anyone.  This is a tough economy. But I doubt you're going to find many young punks who will work the early shift. I'm talking three a.m.  Four a.m. start time.  That's when you bake the suckers isn't it?  That's when the donuts have to be taste-tested?  That's what I'm interested in.  Early hours.  Pre-dawn.  Bitter cold.  Let me open the place, get it warm and get things running so America can get running.  And listen, you don't even have to pay me.  I'll just take the milk.  Make it skim.  I'm on a diet."

By now the manager was certain.  I was insane.  He repeated again, "Why do you want this job?"

I handed him my business card and taped my finger on the application clip board.  "You've got my contacts," I said.  "I guarantee you . . . no one will work harder in this job.  You want a real man in here, you'll call me."

And that was that. 

I couldn't wait to get home to tell my wife what I'd done.