"You no been around for a while", said the Counter Girl at OffHisMeds' favorite donuttery, a charming little shop just down the road from my house. In the several years' prior that I had been gainfully employed at the same location, this shop was a regular morning stop on the way to work, providing the solace that can only be found in a good strong cup of coffee, a Long John, or - when I was ready to splurge - a bacon, egg and cheese croissant. Counter Girl was the other attraction, relentlessly cheerful at 6:30 a.m., and cute as a button to boot.
Something, however, had changed. I noticed that Counter Girl now wore plastic gloves when she worked, lending the joint an air of cleanliness that it had previously lacked. Not that this had been a big concern for me previously. Growing up in Detroit, one can't be squeamish about Servers touching one's food, particularly since it was standard practice at my favorite Hash House for Tillie the waitress to carry your order to your table with her thumb overlapping the edge of the plate, her fingertip planted firmly into your scrambled eggs. And call me crazy, but I took some pleasure from Counter Girl touching my donut or kolache before handing it to me, as if we were all part of one big happy family.
Still, standards are standards, and if the Donut shop thought they needed gloves, who was I to criticize them? Besides, the legions of Soccer Moms who also patronized the place no doubt approved.
Which is why Counter Girl brought a huge smile to my face when she carefully placed my donuts in the bag - her plastic gloves protecting me from any pathogens that might be lurking on her hands - and then took my twenty dollar bill, made change including a ten, a five, three singles, a quarter, dime, nickel and three pennies, handed it to me, and then immediately served her next customer.
Right there, she had me back as a regular, if for no other reason than to observe the look of amazement on the face of the person being served directly after me. Counter Girl is charmingly clueless of the contradiction, and with a puzzled smile, asked me "why you smiling so big?". How to explain to her that it just wasn't that she handled food, paper money and change with the same gloved hands, but that in this particular instance, she had to reach into every conceivable slot in her register, including all of the change bins, corrupted as they were with the residue of the hundred donuts that had preceded mine?
"No particular reason", I replied. "I'm just happy today". That seemed to satisfy her, I was rewarded with another big smile, and she turned back to her next customer. Before I left, I looked into the back room and noticed that the Baker was wearing a surgical mask as he fried up a batch of Donut Holes. I smiled again, and headed to my car.
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