Coffee, Donuts, Tea
And Red Roses for Me
The Valentine’s Day Carnation Switcheroo happened during the first half of Valentine’s Day, my senior year of high school, but this story takes place later—after I got home and went to work at my after-school job at Mister Donut, where I worked as a counter girl. I served coffee and donuts on weekdays and weekends, wearing my orange apron in a shop that was practically bathed in the color. The interior was a swirl of orange, tan, and yellow, with orange swivel seats and yellow-and-orange countertops. Did I mention orange was the main theme color?
For years, I’ve wanted to write about my time at Mister Donut during my senior year. It’s not enough for a full memoir, but it might make a good personal essay—maybe even a coming-of-age story. In my memoir-in-progress, I wrote about one of my donut shop experiences (though my developmental editor thought I should cut that scene… darn). So I figured, why not write another? Maybe you’ll get a laugh. Or perhaps you’ll see your teenage self here.
Mister Donut was like a bar—just without the alcohol. And I was the barmaid, except instead of serving beer and shots, I poured coffee into heavy brown ceramic mugs and handed out donuts. Back then, coffee was either regular (cream and two sugars) or black—none of this venti, oat milk, half-caf, mochaccino stuff. A cup of coffee cost about 55 cents, and a donut? Maybe 35 cents.
My weekday shift started at 3:00 p.m. and went until 9:00. After school, I’d rush home, change into jeans, grab my orange apron, and walk the mile to work. I didn’t drive then, and I didn’t have a car.
My dad used to bartend as one of his second jobs when I was little, and he compared the donut shop to a bar—the kind with regulars who hung around for hours, smoking, reading the paper, and discussing the day’s events. He called them “The Donut Shop Dwellers.” Mister Donut certainly had its cast of characters.
By February, I had been working there for several months, and a particular group of men had become my regulars. I liked them, looked forward to seeing them on my shifts, and they seemed genuinely fond of me. Some… maybe more than others, as I was about to discover.
Frank Z. came in every day, sat at the far end, and smoked.
There was Al, 33, slim, single, with a mop of brown bangs that flopped over his forehead. He worked second shift as a printer and always came in for a muffin and coffee before work.
Reb spoke with a Southern drawl, had funny teeth, and wore a Confederate hat—hence the nickname.
Sam the baker was an African American man who came in every evening at 7:00 to start making the next day's donuts. He played the radio, sang, joked with me, and let me eat chocolate donuts straight out of the hot grease. ( When I started at the donut shop, I was a tiny size 3 for my five-foot-one frame and left a size 11.)
When I arrived, my job was to relieve Rose, a beautiful Italian woman with a silver bob, and replenish the empty trays with fresh donuts—or sometimes finish them by coating them in powdered sugar, cinnamon, a buttercrunch and coconut mixture, or fill them with jelly.
And then there was Rocky.
A diminutive guy with a horseshoe of brown hair circling his bald head. He was 47 and single—I think he lived with his mother, like many Irish-American guys who never married. He had a strange, high-pitched voice—not squeaky exactly, but chipmunk-y in a way that was oddly light for a grown man. There was always a little too much enthusiasm behind his words, even for something as simple as asking for a napkin. His voice wasn’t fast but had a bouncy, chirpy rhythm.
On Sundays, he would come in after Mass, dressed to the nines in a tan suit, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and a toupee. He was an usher at our church, and I still hear his voice, ordering tea with milk and a corn muffin.
Rocky worked at a florist wholesaler, though I wasn’t sure what he did there. I just knew he worked with flowers. Once, I mentioned how much I loved them, and the next time I saw him, he handed me a dozen pink carnations. I was thrilled. He was sweet in a quirky sort of way. And I could relate to that.
Every day, when I saw him pull into the parking lot, I would automatically prepare his tea and corn muffin. By the time he walked in at 4:00 p.m. sharp, they’d be waiting for him at his usual seat. I liked doing that for him—I’m just that kind of person—and I could tell it made him feel special. I never thought more about it.
I can still picture them all at the counter now.
Rocky, at the far corner of the L-shaped counter, faces the coffee machines.
Then Reb, Al, and Frank, a puff of cigarette smoke hovering above his head, his copy of The Boston Globe spread open on the counter facing the back room.
Valentine’s Day
After my disaster of a school Valentine’s Day—and my hijacking of Lori’s flowers for the yearbook photo—I was happy to go to work and see my regulars. At least they cared.
It was a typical shift—making powdered creamer, filling donut trays, relieving Rose, brewing coffee, and serving customers. Frank was already there when I arrived. Then Reb. Then Al. They all wished me a Happy Valentine’s Day. But where was Rocky?
He didn’t show up at 4:00 like he always did, but I figured he was just slammed with orders—after all, it was the busiest day of the year for florists.
At 7:00, Sam arrived to start making donuts, and in between customers, I’d hang out with him in the back. He asked about my Valentine’s Day, and I just shrugged. I didn’t bring up the carnation fiasco, but something about his expression—a slight smirk, a knowing look—made me feel like he knew something I didn’t.
And then, at almost 8:30, Rocky finally walked in.
I was standing behind the baker's window, and when I saw him, I lit up.
"Hey, Rocky!" I called. "Happy Valentine’s Day!"
A huge smile spread across his face as he came behind the counter, still in his dark green work uniform, holding a long white florist’s box.
Sam invited him into the back room, and Rocky set the box on the baker's table. On top of it, there was a card.
"Is this for me?" I asked, surprised.
"Yeah," he said. "I know you like flowers."
I peeled back the tissue paper. Inside, nestled together like red rubies, were two dozen long-stemmed red roses.
"Oh my God, Rocky... thank you! Thank you!"
Sam grinned. "Open the card."
It had a big, fluffy white Angora cat on the front. Inside, I don’t remember the exact words, but I do remember how it was signed:
Love, Rocky.
I went to hug him—because, one, I’m a hugger, and two, I’m Sicilian, so we kiss people hello, goodbye, and thank you.
But the second I leaned in, he pulled me close and kissed me.
Not a peck. A full-on, open-mouthed kiss.
I stepped back, startled. Sam stood there, his eyes wide.
"Whoa."
I laughed awkwardly, shut the box, and stuffed the card in the envelope.
The flowers were beautiful. Thoughtful.
But suddenly, they didn’t feel like a gift from a friend.
And I felt... grossed out.
To be continued….
Well, you hit a nerve with Mister D! We lived one block from our local Mister Donut shop, and when I think of all the childhood memories that my kids still talk about today, Mister Donut is a big part of them. We moms all remember sitting on the front porch early in the morning, smoking our menthol cigarettes, and sending one or all of the kids, cash in hand, to fetch us coffee and donuts. Our next-door neighbor worked there for twenty years. We had our favorites, the "old-fashioned" ones for the adults, and those horrible "clowns" for the kids. The shop was open 24 hours, and we all knew the "regulars" as well as some of the middle of the night characters, like the woman who walked in at 2 am one morning to buy donuts with no clothes on! The donut shop is still there, but the old characters are long gone. The memories remain; thanks for bringing them to life for me!
Waiting for part 2….. :0)