“Shoplifting at Dunkin Donuts” #64

Posted on September 21, 2011


“The world runs on Dunkin” is what I’m staring at while my father is arguing with the Indian minimum wage worker behind the counter over the price of munchkins.

“That’s ridiculous,” my father exclaims.

“That’s the price, sir,” says the young Indian who wishes right now that he came from an upper caste and didn’t have to take this bullshit job.

My mother chimes in, “Just pick it up the munchkins, Ivan, so we can go.”

He sarcastically responds, “Pick it up?”

“I mean, pay for it,” she says.

“Tell me something, do you understand English?” he questions her.

I covertly look out the corner of my eye to see if people are watching, the way Vito does after he’s let one rip.  Yup, there are people here.

“Take this, Myra,” he says, while handing me a Gatorade bottle from the fridge when minimum wage worker isn’t watching.

“No,” I retort.

“Why?” he questions me.

“I don’t steal,” I reply.

“You’re stealing from your parents by mooching off us all this time – you’re not even paying rent – now take this, I said.”

I go into a numb state.  Like, I’m trying to come back with a defensive argument, but it’s too early, and I’m also flashing back to 9-years-old when we’re stuffing pens into my knapsack.

Also there are security cameras in every corner.

My father, alive with a sense of adventure that comes with a good heist or getting anything for free, is quick on his feet like a point-guard mid-game and passes the bottle to my mother, who flatly says, “Fine,” and puts it in her bag.

He pays “Dheeraj” the five dollars like it’s his entire savings and we exit.  I get in the backseat, and while my parents continue arguing in the front, I steal a handful of munchkins, not because I’m hungry, but because I want to act out.  I want to rebel. I want to say, “Fuck you.  Stop embarrassing yourselves.  Stop being crazy.  Get a clue.  And, until you do, I will eat EVERYTHING you buy.”

If someone in another car were to look over at me through the window, they would see a girl with an overstuffed mouth and chocolate crumb fallout all over her face who is scheming about earning quick money.

I’m starting to consider the pole-dancing class at the gym, because someplace somewhere there are men who will like a well-rounded woman who likes dancing to Donna Summer.  The drawback is no more donut eating.  I’m running a list of the local strip bars in the area when I get a text message from one of my ex-roommates who works at a publisher.

“Myra, my boss loves your blog.  Have you thought about a book?”

The munchkin pieces fall out of my mouth.

Posted in: 2011, Humor, Life