Slam Dunk

I recently asked a retail cashier named Paulette if she’d ever dined at the deli a few miles north where Sue and I had just eaten while discussing how the global populace now exceeds eight billion.

“My daughter used to work at the Dunkin’ next door to there and went all the time,” she told us after a brief hesitation before adding, “but I only ever went once.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” she said while scanning three long sleeve shirts and gummi bears. “My daughter still goes even though she’s at the Dunkin’ across the street now.”

“Quite the Dunkin’ fan, huh?”

“She was almost born at a Dunkin’ twenty years ago,” she sheepishly admitted. “My water broke there.”

Sue and I discussed this odd career path during the drive home but failed to spend enough time analyzing the magnetic pull Dunkin’ had on Paulette’s uterus. In what should arrive as a surprise to no one, postulates have twirled in my head for days. Did this woman seize every opportunity to mention her offspring’s curious vocational commitment? And what if she’d been impregnated in a Dunkin’ bathroom to kickstart the medium roast origin story? How would a therapist handle this tale of overcaffeinated ovulation?

I’ve since envisioned us crossing the street to visit the home of the world’s most burnt and unpleasantly hot coffee. Perhaps we’d find an Alexis or Kaitlyn or inevitably Madison, a visor guarding the secrets her mother couldn’t keep, with a fresh pot and fresher dozen at the ready.

“Paulette told us everything,” I chose to tactically reveal from the get-go.

“Everything?!”

“You heard him,” Sue uncharacteristically said to disorient our suspect while chewing on a tiny brown stirring straw.

“Even about,” she said before mouthing, “my father?”

“We dragged it outta her,” I replied in between gummi bear bites.

“But my own”—and here she used air quotes—“‘dad’ doesn’t know about the artificial insemination!”

“Not just that,” Sue said before whispering in her ear.

“You seriously expect me to believe the sperm donor was Fred the Baker?”

“Your mother said the pregnancy test didn’t show a plus sign, it just read ‘Time to make the doughnuts.’”

“What’s your point?”

“We’re both accredited journalists, Madison. That’s not eczema peeking out from under your sleeves, is it? Come a little closer. Are you…part…GLAZED DOUGHNUT?”

Then it hit us. The secret to eliminating overpopulation has been obvious for decades. America must eat its young.