Chilanga Sprinkles

The Donuts’ shop is like any other Shipley Do-Nuts. The glass-less display cases sits behind the counter. The donuts are predictably arranged by type of filling, with the cake separated from the yeast, and each of these in turn showcased in single-color rows. The dark-pink cherry donut share a tray with lighter pink strawberry.

Mr. Donut was a slight man, always dressed in a button-up shirt tucked into his dress pants. He did not speak English and communicated through smiles, waves, and nods. Customers would stand at the counter and point to the donuts behind him, indicating which one they wanted. Mr. Donut would wave a gloved hand at the presumed selection and look back to read the customer’s face and confirm before delicately picking up the donut and placing it in a box. He rarely got it wrong. If a customer had kids in tow, he would prepare a small bag of donut holes as an extra treat for them to share. If it was a family of regulars and a parent came in solo, the parent got the kid treat to take home to the kids. He completed each visit by bringing his palms together and bowing his head. 

Mrs. Donut had a broader body and face. She dressed in polyester pants and blouses, which were printed with designs in muted colors. She, being the shyer of the two, rarely interacted with the customers. She could be seen making sure the donut trays remained well stocked. Walking back and forth between the frosting station and the storefront, like a bee making sure every cell in the honeycomb is filled. Many people in the surrounding neighborhoods remember when Mr. and Mrs. Donut opened the shop, they’d been excited about not having to drive 20 minutes to the nearest Shipley. They remember a Mrs. Donut with long black hair pulled in a ponytail, her pregnant abdomen protruding. They remember when the wrinkles appeared on their faces and their hair began to gray. They remember when Mrs. Donut had a stroke and how she shuffled her left leg along behind her,  her left arm limp at her side, carrying trays of donuts with only her right hand.  The Donuts hired help then. The new girl spoke English, often forgot the donut holes for the children, and cleaned with too much bleach. She wasn’t a Donut and it was clear she was only there for the dough. She didn’t last long.

A Donut in her twenties with features of both the elder Donuts came to help her parents. If she had other plans for her life, she kept them well hidden. She spoke English, but did not talk much. Mrs. Donut died, or was presumed dead by her absence, by the sadness in Mr. Donut’s polite smile, and by the way little Donut tenderly helped her father. Father and daughter Donut ran the shop together for years. Little Donut hired employees, and Mr Donut came by a few hours per day, then a few days per week, then not at all.

Little Donut, not so little anymore, greets people wordlessly, with a smile that connotes recognition. Her employees make and stock the donuts, and occasionally help at the counter. But it is she who knows the customer from the generations of neighborhood families. They all get a nod, not a palms-touching-nod like her father’s, but a nod and a blush of the cheeks, like her mother would have had, had she interacted with the public.