Mistaken Identity and Mini Pumpkin Donuts*

My buddy, Connor, stopped by tonight to play with the levels on his tube amp I’m using to record my audiobook. After numerous, “Hello, hello! Check, check!” tests, he confirmed the levels were fine enough for him to edit out any white noise should it get picked up by the microphone. We headed to JCPenney because he wanted to buy a couple discounted suits.

“When we cash out,” I told him, “make sure to go to a teenage kid. A kid won’t ID me.”

While Connor picked out both a gray and blue suit, I debated getting a button up purple shirt and tried on a pair of cargo pants that were too long. Having a twenty-nine inseam has been one of adulthood’s great struggles. I confirmed Connor was ready to go and a middle-aged lady flagged us to her register. She asked for the number associated with my account before I extracted my mother’s associate discount card.

“May I see your ID?”

“I don’t have it on me,” I told her. 

“We have to see your ID to provide the discount.”

“I was here eight days ago and wasn’t required to show ID. You can check your tapes.”

“Hang on, let me call the MOD.”

(Based on body language, I knew this one was going in my favor.)

“Okay, you’re all set. The total is three hundred and two dollars.”

“Does that sound right to you?” I asked Connor.

“No. Both suits were fifty percent off.”

The cashier did the math with her calculator before Connor walked over, quoted the original price, and she applied the discount without double checking or asking a supervisor to intervene. Based on what he wound up paying, he might as well have told her the suits were free.

“The total is one hundred and ninety-two dollars,” she told me.

“Perfect. I don’t have to sign?”

“Nope. You have a nice night, Lesley.”

I don’t know how she said it without a wink.

“Thanks. You too.”

Connor and I took the escalator to the lower level.

“I knew she would cave given how much you were spending,” I told him.

“Dude, they didn’t make a dime off that transaction. They lost a ton of money.”

“Well, I committed identity fraud for you,” I told him. “You’re paying for dinner.”

“Yeah, absolutely. I believe we just robbed JCPenney, Adam.”

“Best to do it before they go outta business giving away suits.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

We drove a town over while discussing our shared contempt for people who eat popcorn and/or potato chips with their mouths open. After consuming a platter of Lebanese food together for the second time in eight days, Connor paid while the owner, Ali, showed us images on his phone and sought our advice.

“I am thinking of opening a food truck,” Ali said. “What do you think of this?”

“Mini Pumpkin Donuts is the name?” Connor asked him.

“Yes, my friend.” 

“That should work. White people love pumpkin-flavored anything,” I said.

“But do you think it’s too much like them?”

“Like who?” Connor asked.

“Like Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Well, yeah, the pink and orange color scheme in that photo is exactly like their logo,” Connor said. “Plus, the coffee cup to the left of the name is exactly like them too!”

“Are you looking to get sued for trademark infringement?” I asked.

“What about this logo?”

“The red and purple definitely works,” I told Ali.

“But it looks like the frosting is blood dripping onto the doughnuts,” Connor said.

“So, you’re just gonna serve mini pumpkin doughnuts?” I asked.

“No, my friend. There will be no mini doughnuts.”

“What?”

“It is so the name sounds like them.”

“You just want to confuse people with Dunkin’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about only selling pumpkin doughnuts?”

“There will be no pumpkin doughnuts. It is just the name.”

At this point, I couldn’t believe Ali had chosen to sell large non-pumpkin doughnuts solely so he could imitate Dunkin’ Donuts in the area of the country where they are most dominant. Connor and I stepped outside after wishing Ali well on his latest venture.

“What? The? Fuck?” Connor asked me, accidentally walking to the passenger side of his own Camry in disbelief.

“Dude, is he trying to sabotage himself?”

“I cannot believe that conversation just took place.”

“If he goes out of business and I never get to eat the baba ganoush here again, I am gonna be SO pissed!”

As we drove home, I changed the subject back to the first round of surrealism.

“Even if I was Lesley and she thought I was in my mid-forties, how could she possibly believe I’m retired?”

“She’s the woman who goes to buy mini pumpkin doughnuts, is told they only have regular-sized jelly doughnuts and buys a dozen without complaint.”

When nothing is real, everything is perfect. Except when it’s not. Don’t ask me, I’m merely a middle-aged female retiree who is patenting Copyright Theft Misnomer Donuts before launching my LLC on wheels.