Distraction

March 30th, 2005

I know I embarrass Abe. I’ll say anything to anyone, anytime. Not rude things – I just get so caught up in my own thoughts that I forget that those thoughts don’t need to be shared with everyone. Common victims can be anyone from my close friends to waitresses to my boss. The latter isn’t exactly preferable.

Today, it was Dunkin’ Donuts. If you are the mother of a teenage clerk at the Dunkin’ Donuts at the Swampscott Stop N’ Shop, your son is coming home tonight remembering the insane girl who freaked out.

I am that girl.

It began innocently enough. During our weekly grocery trip, I volunteered to get Abe some donuts – six donuts, in different varieties, at the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk inside the store. I sidled up to the counter, announced that I wanted “Six *mumblesomething* mixed donuts,” and waited for him to fold up the box. The ‘mumblesomething’ is up for debate. While he was preparing the box, I scratched an itch on my side and noticed that I had inside pockets in my jean jacket.

Ooh! Pockets!

I became enamored with the pockets – had they been there all the time? Were they the result of a rip, or were they intentional? WERE THEY FUNCTIONAL? The possibilities of what I could do with those inside pockets laid before me like the Yellow Brick Road. I was a WOMAN WITH POCKETS. I examined the pockets closely – how were they sewn? What would they hold safely? Was it strong denim? If I used them, would I remember that the items were in the newly-discovered inside pockets, or was I better off not even bothering, despite their ample newness and functionality?

WHERE WOULD THESE POCKETS TAKE ME?

I was deep in Pocket Love, head buried in the sides of my jean jacket, my nose suspiciously glued to the area of each of my armpits, as my hands fished around the area like I was adjusting my bra strap. I noticed that it had fallen silent, and looked up to SIX DOZEN DONUTS and a teenage clerk staring at me, mystified.

“Um, what are these?”

“Donuts you ordered. Six Fast Dozen.”

“What?”

“Six Fast Dozen. That’s what you ordered.”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

“Huh?”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I was too busy focusing on my pockets. They’re new, you know – I mean not new, the jacket is old, but these pockets are NEW TO ME. I’d never seen them before. And I don’t know how to use them properly – I mean, would YOU use inside pockets or would you lose stuff in there – you know, like if you lost a pen and it leaked or you washed it or something. Or worse -ooh ooh, worse – a LIPSTICK. I mean, I could totally lose a lipstick in there and then wash it and hose an entire load of laundry. But I guess you wouldn’t lose a lipstick, unless you moonlight as a drag queen, which is totally possible and okay with me – you know, just in case. I mean, you never know. Not that I, um, think you ARE a drag queen or anything. You look totally normal to me – not that being a drag queen isn’t normal. I mean, what IS normal, anyway?”

I laughed a hollow, staccato laugh. For chrissake, I sounded like Beavis and Butthead. I COULD NOT BE STOPPED.

“So, um, you don’t want six dozen? You just want what, six?”

He looked terrified. Like he was dealing with a madman.

“Uh. Yeah. I’m really sorry. Six donuts. Is there such a thing as a Fast Half Dozen? You know, to make it fast?”

I snickered at my own horrible joke that was so not even a joke to this poor soul who packed up SIX DOZEN DONUTS. Beavis strikes again. Shut UP, Jonniker.

He glared at me like I’d just asked him to pop a zit on my back. “Sure.”

I turned, hard-won donuts in hand, finally, to find Abe, his head buried in a row of cheesecakes, his face an incongruous confused mix of horror and amusement, unsure of whether he should hug me, or run screaming for the hills in search of a new wife – one who JUST ORDERS DONUTS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON.

Who can blame him?

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