Living By Dunkin' Donuts (Part 3)

After my interview with the Dunkin' Donuts manager I came home and told my wife about my experience.  She thought I was joking at first, but then realized the only thing I ever joke about is sex . . . and that, usually, while I'm in the middle of it.  "You did what?" 

"I've just come from the arms of the manager," I said.  "I think he'll hire me.  I was impressive."

"And when do you think you're going to work these hours?" she wanted to know. 

"I told him I was interested in the wee morning shift," I said.  "Before anyone with a life has risen from bed.  I can get the store opened up and running every morning."

"You'll burn out," she told me.  "And what about your blog?  Your books?  Your thousand essays?"

"I'll write in the evenings," I said.  "After midnight."

"They won't hire you," she said.  "They'll want full-time people.  Young ones."

"You're wrong," I said.  "They'll call.  Oh, they'll call!  I told them I could be the quality control expert.  You know, sample the donuts to make sure they are up to snuff, that no broken or chipped ones reach the front shelves."

"You're crazy," she said.

"Well, you know that," I told her.  "But this kid was so young, I doubt he knows crazy from crayola. You should have seen me in there.  I was brilliant.  Inspiring.  Very macho.  I'm telling you, they will call me.  Who wouldn't hire a guy who would work for free?"

"For free! They won't do that," she said.  "There are laws.  Corporate rules.  What did you tell them you would work for?"

"Milk," I said.  "Specifically, skim.  A half gallon a day."

Becky walked away.  And as memory serves . . . she came to bed late that evening with a headache.

And she calls me crazy . . . .