Rocky III

The Final Countdown

This is the final scene in a true story about boundaries, kindness, and the bittersweet way someone can touch your heart, even when things go sideways.

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In the last episode of “The Donut Shop Diaries,” I turned down another bouquet from Rocky, one of my regular customers at Mister Donut.

You can find those episodes here:

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Dad said I was being “too nice,” which is why Rocky had a crush on me.

Having a crush is okay—it’s innocent. I didn’t mind Rocky’s feelings for me, awkward as they were. His affection flattered me; I appreciated the beautiful flowers, a thoughtful gesture that appealed to my romantic side. None of my previous boyfriends had been so considerate.

May arrived, and my Monday, Thursday, and weekend shifts at Mister Donut went on. My routine persisted: the regulars came in, I “finished” the donuts, served the customers, and cleaned up. The yeasty smell of rising dough signaled Sam’s nightly arrival. Sometimes, his son, Ricky, would take his place as the baker for the night. The only noticeable difference was that I’d gained fifteen pounds after months of eating fresh donuts from the fryer, going from a size three to a nine. My face was rounder, my jeans tighter.

Oh yeah, and like every girl in the 1980s, I got a perm. Gone were my long, wavy locks, which I had pulled into a ponytail, replaced by a halo of brown curls.

Around that time, I started dating a customer named Tommy. He was tall, goofy, into comic books, and had a boat-sized car. We met at the donut shop, and he’d take me to the roller rink at the Wal-Lex on Friday nights.

It wasn’t a serious relationship, but it was something, and Rocky noticed.

The Wal-Lex was Waltham’s beloved entertainment complex. A Friday night hotspot, it drew large crowds for bowling, roller skating, mini golf, and ice cream. Half the town seemed to be in a Wal-Lex bowling league. Opened in 1947, its retro charm, including a pink-and-black ladies’ room, remained untouched, a testament to its lively history.

During all this hustle and bustle, I was busy preparing for my high school graduation. Thrilled, I shared my acceptance to Bentley College and my President’s Merit Scholarship, a significant achievement, with the regulars at the shop. President Adamian invited all the honorees to a lovely reception at his new Presidential Home on Forest Street, the wealthiest part of town, to celebrate our accomplishments. Learning I was going to the reception at President Adamian’s house impressed the Mister Donut owner, Cliff T, who was a fellow Armenian.

People in town knew Cliff for being tough and funny, but not someone you wanted to cross paths with. He drove a beat-up Toyota pickup with a gun rack in the back and ran the place like a tight ship.

From the start, I worked hard to keep the shop spotless, which earned his respect. When he found out I applied to Bentley, he offered to be a reference without me even asking. He made a big deal about the scholarship, saying he was proud of it.

That meant a lot, especially coming from Cliff.

The regulars asked me, "What do you want to study?" When they learned I received a scholarship, they congratulated me. Rocky didn’t bring any flowers for the occasion, and life seemed as normal as it could be.

One warm spring afternoon, Rocky caught me right as I tied on my apron for the evening shift.
“Wanna go for a walk with me?” he said, nodding toward the parking lot.
I blinked. “Right now?”
“Just for a minute. I have a question to ask you.”

I hesitated. He hadn’t brought flowers in a while, but the air between us held some unresolved tension. Still, I followed him outside. It was bright out, the sun bouncing off the windshields, the pavement radiating heat.

We walked in tandem, silent at first. I’m five-foot-one, and Rocky was the same height, which made it feel even stranger, like we were two awkward teenagers rather than a 17-year-old and a man nearly thirty years older.

He mentioned his bowling banquet, which was scheduled to take place in a few weeks. May is when all the leagues hold their bowling banquets, and it’s a significant event. I didn’t belong to a league, so I had never attended one.

Then came the question: “Will you go to my bowling banquet with me?”

I don’t know what came first: the realization that, despite my polite requests for Rocky to stop bringing me flowers, he continued to pursue me, or what I would tell my dad, or my incredulity that Rocky believed I would go as his date to his banquet.

I asked him, “Is this as friends or a date?”

He said, “It’s a date.” I could have coped if he had said it was just as friends, but I doubt my dad would have permitted me to go with him, friend or not.

As soon as he said it, I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. However, I didn’t hesitate to shut him down right away.

“Rocky, I can’t go with you to your bowling banquet!”

“Why?” he said, almost whining. I couldn’t believe this. Was he asking me why I, a 17-year-old girl, could not accompany him, a 47-year-old man, as his date? Jesus, Lord, help me.

“Rocky, I can’t go with you! You’re old enough to be my grandfather!”

“I’m not that old,” he said.

“I can’t come with you. My dad wouldn’t allow it; besides, I’m not even 18!”

Was I straightforward enough?

Rocky hung his head in defeat. “Oh, o.k.”

Being polite, I thanked him for asking.

But I was at the end of my rope. What doesn’t this guy understand? I was dating guys my age; I was getting ready to go off to college; I was 17. I confided in the regulars, Al, Frank, Rebel, and Sam. I told them all that Rocky had asked me to the bowling banquet.

Sam was beside himself in the back room, convulsing with laughter and shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh, man,” he said.

Rocky went to his bowling banquet without, as far as I knew, a date. I’m sure I asked him how it went. And in case you’re wondering, I mentioned his invitation to my parents. Naturally, my dad wanted to know what I’d told him. I believed I made it clear that it wasn’t okay. Dad’s warning of “being too nice” came to mind. Should I have acted like a mean bitch when I refused his offer?

The regulars even teased him good-naturedly, asking if he would take me out when I turned 18 to The Top of the Hub, a fancy restaurant in the Prudential Center, for a date. You know, things like that—razzing him.

I thought that would be the end of it. Graduation came and went. The tension with Rocky seemed to have settled into something calmer, perhaps even a form of acceptance.

Several weeks later, the regulars were buzzing with anticipation about an exciting event. Fresh posters had appeared in the shop window, promoting a major wrestling match at the Boston Garden, featuring stars such as Jimmy Snuka, The Wild Samoans, Tito Santana, and Rocky Johnson, among others. Our Rocky hadn’t arrived yet for his usual order.

I was feeling silly, so I wrote Rocky’s last name, “O’*****” on a piece of paper and taped it over “Johnson” so it looked like our donut shop, Rocky, was on the bill for the match. The regulars found it hilarious, and everyone was giggling. Elaine, the senior counter lady, found it amusing.

He finally arrived for his evening tea and a corn muffin. Stifled chuckles arose as Rocky, unaware that a poster behind him proclaimed him a headliner at Boston Garden, drank his tea. Finally, Frank referred to it.

“Hey Rocky, I didn’t know you were into wrestling!” he chuckled.

“Huh?” he said. He turned around on the swivel stool and saw the sign “Rocky O’*****” written in marker and taped to the display.

He was silent. He just sat there, sipping his tea, as usual. Then I noticed his face tighten, his neck flush; a sharpness gleamed in his eyes. Without warning, he jumped off the stool.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped, storming toward the poster.
Before anyone could respond, he began ripping it down piece by piece, the marker ink smudging under his fingers as spittle flew from his small mouth. “This isn’t funny! When someone turns 18, I’m gonna ask them out on a date; you’ll see. Just wait. Eighteen!”

His voice cracked. He kept repeating it, louder and louder, until the laughter that had bubbled around the counter ceased.

My chest went cold. I felt my body tremble not from embarrassment, but from fear.

Ripping off my orange apron, I yelled, “THAT’S IT! I quit.” I ran into the back storeroom filled with sacks of flour, donut mixes, and sugar, and began screaming, “I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT.”

Elaine was outside, trying to calm Rocky down. Sam likely called Cliff because, suddenly, Sam appeared in the storeroom doorway and handed me the phone. Cliff was on the other end, begging me not to quit. I cried. “I don’t deserve this.”

Cliff tried to console me by saying that I could go home. I don’t remember how I got home; I must have walked.

I didn’t tell my parents what had happened with Rocky at work. I was afraid my dad would say it was my fault.

Later, I phoned Sam at the donut shop to find out what had happened after I left.

He told me Cliff drove to the donut shop and confronted Rocky, telling him to leave. Cliff wanted me back, he relayed.

Eventually, I uncovered the truth.

Sam told me that the regulars had been teasing Rocky on the nights I wasn’t working, whispering that I secretly liked him. That I was playing ‘hard to get.’ They joked that once I turned 18, I’d be fair game. It was all a big joke to them, but not to him.

I felt sick when I heard that. What started as a crush turned into something warped, instigated by people I trusted. No wonder Rocky had snapped. That kind of pressure, week after week, must have felt unbearable. And I didn’t know. I hadn’t seen it.

The night of the incident, Cliff arrived in his truck—the one with the gun rack and told Rocky to get the hell out. “How dare you scare one of my girls?” he said. Cliff banned Rocky for life, and I felt both protected and terrible.

Because Rocky never returned to Mister Donut.

I continued working there, but the place felt different. A chapter closed. Eventually, I quit and got a job at the dry cleaners next door. Maybe I’d finally lose those 15 pounds I had gained from sneaking donuts from the fryer.

Years later, I was in my thirties, dropping off clothes at that same dry cleaner. Mister Donut was no more, replaced by a Dunkin’. The regulars had disappeared. The laughter, the smell of the freshly cooked donuts, and the swirl of white, orange, and brown décor were no more.

That’s when I saw him.

Rocky was working next door at the laundromat. Despite looking older, he had changed only slightly. I caught his eye for a moment. My heart gave a little lurch.

I thought about smiling. About saying, “Hi, Rocky.”

Maybe I could even tell him I didn’t hate him, that the whole situation had become too messy, too quickly. I was sorry about the poster, the joke, and the way it ended. I wanted to acknowledge that we had shared something strange, complicated, and human. Perhaps we would laugh while looking back at how crazy it all was.

He looked straight through me, as though I were invisible, forgetting the girl who once accepted his bouquet of roses from behind the counter.

So, I said nothing.

And I walked away.

But over the years, I thought of him and about how easily people become punchlines when they’re lonely. About how often we laugh until somebody cracks.

I didn't run into Rocky again. But I hope he found someone who saw him, truly saw him.

Even if it wasn’t me.

I never forgot about him.

There was something brave about the way he gave those roses to me, openly, awkwardly, earnestly. He never hid how he felt. And maybe that’s why, despite everything going sideways, I still felt a softness toward him.

But it also felt wrong. He was a grown man. I was a teenager. That line, whatever it was, became crossed. And even though I didn’t invite it, even though I said no, even though I quit my job in the aftermath of fear and frustration, it still felt, somehow, like my fault.

Maybe that’s what it feels like to be seventeen: not knowing where your responsibility ends, and someone else’s begins.

I hope Rocky found peace. I hope he found someone who appreciated his quirkiness and his affection.

And I hope I’ve learned to carry both truths:
What he did wasn’t okay.
And that he was still a person worth feeling something for.