From the outside, The Donut Man looks like a Bank Of America branch that closed in the ‘80s. Inside, it looks like a business that bought a bunch of old fixtures from a Dunkin Donuts. The styrofoam cups are also very Dunkin-y, and the logo includes an illustration of a pink frosted donut with sprinkles, which appears to be lifted directly from The Simpsons Movie. According to their business card, there are four The Donut Man locations: three in western Massachusetts, and one in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I guess we know where the owners like to spend their winters.

I’m sitting in one of those seats—not a booth… y’know, those things where it’s two small tables welded together with four spinny chairs attached to a steel frame? One of those. I’m sitting at one of those. “At that”? I can’t even tell if this goddamned leg-constricting cage is singular or plural. Anyway, I’m in one of thems, next to the fireplace (yes, there’s a fireplace), facing the side of a refrigerator case full of soda. My view is dominated by a human-sized Pepsi bottle graphic that appears to be so adamantly cool and bold and refreshing, it’s downright aggressive.

The donuts (or “doughnuts” if you have an overabundance of time, and choose to type out every useless letter ever invented) at The Donut Man are really good. At least I assume they’re really good. See, I’m always on the lookout for a great granulated sugar jelly donut (NOT POWDERED, YOU FOOL), and The Donut Man has a great granulated sugar jelly donut. One of the best I’ve had in the Pioneer Valley. It’s so great that I haven’t bothered with any of their other donuts. So based off of my knowledge of *this* donut (the one in my mouth, right now, as I type), I will assume that all the other donuts here are at least pretty good, too.

The woman working the register leans over the side of the counter and speaks to a man who has walked in and sat at a booth without ordering. She has a great accent, possibly Jamaican.

Her: “Do you need anything else?”

Him: “What? Me?”

Her: “Do you need anything else?”

Him (appearing confused and guilty): “I’m just using the wifi.”

Her: “Ten dollars.”

Him: (flustered silence)

Her: “Ha ah ha I’m kidding! You looked so serious!”

Every time the door opens, a shrill digital chime bleats behind the counter. There’s also something else beeping back there, maybe a loud coffee maker or a quiet smoke detector? None of the workers seem too motivated to shut it off. Security system? Drive thru notification? It sounds like a convoy of tractor trailers are about to back up through the wall. Gaahhhh! I’m about to stick cinnamon buns over my ears like Princess Anne-Droid when the alarmolypse finally stops.

Across the room, an older guy chews on a danish. Based on his hat, scarf, and coat, I’m guessing that he’s either a fancy hobo or a Victorian-era chimney sweep (I mean, in my defense, he’s covered in soot and has a bindle, so it really is hard to say for sure.) The TV is tuned to FOX or CNN or something else that’s annoying. A mom and a dad try their damnedest to ignore their crying toddler. We are all being watched by security cameras—a surprising number of security cameras—mounted on the drop ceiling.

A partially deaf Latino woman walks in and asks me where the court is. This is the perfect storm of my insecurities: being asked for directions by someone who isn’t speaking clearly and also can’t hear me. But I figure out the question after only asking her to repeat it once, and shockingly, I know that she means the courthouse, AND I know the courthouse is right down the street. I answer her question correctly! This is a big success for me. I sit back in my torso-cage, covered in sugar, savoring this social victory. Come celebrate with me. Let us eat jelly donuts together. NOT POWDERED.