Jonathan C. Lewis
The Donut Detour
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
On Interstate 405, I’m giving Alicia, my closest faculty ally, a ride to LAX. Without a word, I take the West Manchester Boulevard exit leading to Randy’s Donuts.
When she glances a question mark at me, I mumble, “We have time.”
Last week in the faculty lounge, she hinted that her return is iffy. I wanted this chance to say goodbye.
Randy’s latte-colored concrete donut-shape sign, towering thirty-two feet, comes into view. Alicia and I study our choices with the same careful attention we apply to deciding year-end grades.
Racks and racks of glazed, sugared, powdered, cream-filled, twists, crullers, buttermilk, fritters, jelly-filled, coconut, red velvet, maple bars are lined up like WWI doughboys in parade formation. Giving a mock salute, I say, “These calorie-busters remind me of WWII ‘Donut Dollies’ serving coffee and donuts to the troops. My treat.” Alicia smiles the smile of friendship.
She orders a chocolate glazed. As if I have the power to delay her flight, I linger making my selection before finally picking a plain cake donut.
Sitting in my car, we nibble our donuts. Crumbs and bits of sugar fall on the car seat between us. Neither of us notices.
As if reading my mind, she pleads for the umpteenth time, “I had to get out of here. You understand, don’t you?”
Pretending my mouth is donut-stuffed, I don’t say anything.
A pickup truck blasting mariachi music pulls into the parking lot. Reflexively, we swivel our heads looking for ICE agents. She’s never talked about it, but—dollars to donuts—she’s scared to stay in America.
And then there’s her love life. As she’s been teasing me for weeks, “Maybe Alicia Gomez is going to find romance in Santiago, Chile.”
If she falls in love, for a wedding gift I’ll ship her a dozen donuts—a reminder not to take the sweet things in life for granted. Friends, like donuts, are missed most when they’re gone. No, I’d better go with a donut serving platter.
Alicia’s skirt—modestly calf-length—is black with big white polka dots. Her blonde hair is close-cropped. No earrings, necklace or makeup. Except for her skirt, she looks like an escaped convict from the county jail—or maybe just a woman running away.
When she notices me checking her out, her eyes crinkle into a knowing look. “I’m dressing down to avoid standing out on the streets of Santiago,” she explains. I nod, but I’m skeptical. That skirt won’t do much to avert admiring eyes.
She looks at her watch. I turn the ignition. Alicia sweeps a few donut bits from the folds of her skirt.
She smells like a cinnamon roll fresh from the oven. I want to say something corny about the Cinnabon aroma at the mall never smelling the same, but don’t.
Curbside, Alicia pulls her suitcase from my trunk. I muster a wincing half-smile and twist to face her. “Who am I going to trust with my faculty locker combination?”
She doesn’t answer.
As she hurries off into the crush of other travelers, I follow her black and white polka dots.
The remnants of my plain cake donut stick to the roof of my mouth. I’m having trouble swallowing.
On the way home, I detour to Randy’s.
Same donuts. Not as sweet.
