The story
I worked at a local doughnut store in high school. Every Saturday at 10:30, a man (who looked about 60) would come in looking exhausted and order a jelly doughnut. His name was Scott, and he was a marathon runner. According to my co-workers, this guy had been coming in, rain or shine, for as long as they could remember. Wonderfully nice guy, he was patient, always wore a smile, and complimented the other customers. Scott was a regular sight at the store, he even paid for each month of doughnuts in advance. We even gave him free samples just because we liked him so much.
One Saturday, Scott didn't show up at 10:30. Minutes ticked by. I thought he must be running late. I worked the whole shift worried that our friend would miss out on the jelly doughnut we set aside for him. He didn’t make it to the store that day.
The same thing happened the next week. And the next. Scott never told us why he stopped coming. No one knew why. A few months later, he returned without warning. We were all delighted to see him, but something about him seemed different. He ordered a dozen doughnuts and tipped $20. Was this the new normal?
At 10:30am that Saturday, Scott’s wife came into the store. Our friend had succumbed to lung cancer, which he had been battling for over a year. It turns out Scott was seventy-four years old. His wife handed us a picture of her husband standing in front of the store and a note. “He never wanted to make a big deal out of his condition, so he wrote this for you.” Scribbled in black sharpie was this message:
“It’s been my pleasure to run to my favorite doughnut store in the world every Saturday for the past ten years. I’m getting old and can’t make the journey any more, so I’ve asked a few of my friends to fill in for me. It might not be the same, but I hope they’ll bring you as much happiness as you’ve brought me.
Upward and onward,
Scott.”
We framed Scott’s picture and hung it up behind the counter. Over the next few weeks, a different friend of Scott’s came into the store at 10:30 and bought one jelly doughnut. This continued for several months. As time went on, fewer and fewer people visited the store in Scott’s memory, and eventually, they stopped.
It was my last week at the store before I moved to college. The store was deserted except for me at the counter and my co-worker in the kitchen. Mid-morning, a man walked in with his son and asked for an assorted dozen. The kid pointed cutely at which doughnuts he wanted to add to the box. As they were paying, the kid noticed Scott’s picture on the wall. “Look daddy, it’s grandpa!” The father smiled, “It sure is! This was his favorite doughnut place.” I looked at him, and he looked at me, and for an instant, we understood that each of us was wonderfully sad. “Let’s go home,” said the father, tearing up, and the boy carried the doughnuts out of the store. When they had left, I could do nothing else but lean on the counter and hide my face, because my eyes were drowning in memory of Scott.
One Saturday, Scott didn't show up at 10:30. Minutes ticked by. I thought he must be running late. I worked the whole shift worried that our friend would miss out on the jelly doughnut we set aside for him. He didn’t make it to the store that day.
The same thing happened the next week. And the next. Scott never told us why he stopped coming. No one knew why. A few months later, he returned without warning. We were all delighted to see him, but something about him seemed different. He ordered a dozen doughnuts and tipped $20. Was this the new normal?
At 10:30am that Saturday, Scott’s wife came into the store. Our friend had succumbed to lung cancer, which he had been battling for over a year. It turns out Scott was seventy-four years old. His wife handed us a picture of her husband standing in front of the store and a note. “He never wanted to make a big deal out of his condition, so he wrote this for you.” Scribbled in black sharpie was this message:
“It’s been my pleasure to run to my favorite doughnut store in the world every Saturday for the past ten years. I’m getting old and can’t make the journey any more, so I’ve asked a few of my friends to fill in for me. It might not be the same, but I hope they’ll bring you as much happiness as you’ve brought me.
Upward and onward,
Scott.”
We framed Scott’s picture and hung it up behind the counter. Over the next few weeks, a different friend of Scott’s came into the store at 10:30 and bought one jelly doughnut. This continued for several months. As time went on, fewer and fewer people visited the store in Scott’s memory, and eventually, they stopped.
It was my last week at the store before I moved to college. The store was deserted except for me at the counter and my co-worker in the kitchen. Mid-morning, a man walked in with his son and asked for an assorted dozen. The kid pointed cutely at which doughnuts he wanted to add to the box. As they were paying, the kid noticed Scott’s picture on the wall. “Look daddy, it’s grandpa!” The father smiled, “It sure is! This was his favorite doughnut place.” I looked at him, and he looked at me, and for an instant, we understood that each of us was wonderfully sad. “Let’s go home,” said the father, tearing up, and the boy carried the doughnuts out of the store. When they had left, I could do nothing else but lean on the counter and hide my face, because my eyes were drowning in memory of Scott.
About
I wrote this last night and it is completely fictional.
Win by luck, lose by skill.
