Doughnuts and Dime Bags: An iSchool Subculture
Explored
[Names have been changed to protect the posse.]
B y John Glover, MLIS Day
There are many subcultures within the iSchool. You know them – the
knitters, the singers, the Trentists, the pinball-players, the labrats,
and so forth. In my tenure thus far I have encountered many groups with
many fascinating traits, but one has stood out to me above all. No group
is so diverse, subversive, or can be matched for unbridled savagery as
the doughnut eaters.
Do the knitters have an initiation ritual? I don’t know; I don’t
knit. I hadn’t had a doughnut for ages before I started to notice
the doughnut eaters and overhear their conversations. Eventually they
noticed me noticing (isn’t that always the way?) and invited me
to a late night “party” at Mary Gates Hall a couple Fridays
ago. They said it would be fun, easy, and wouldn’t cost me a red
cent. Trusting soul that I am, I did not figure the cost that would
accrue to my soul and body… but neither did I figure on the new
family I would gain.
It was late – around 2:30 AM and I was excited to be finally
meeting these cool people. I’d seen them hanging around in their
leather jackets, sneering their what-the-Hell-do-you-want sneers, and
generally telling people where to get off. As I approached the front
of the building, I encountered a trio of my fellow Informationists lurking
in the shadows by the bike rack. In the glow from the arc-sodium lights
outside the building, the chocolate frosting around their lips looked
like blood. You’d think it would have been a sign, no? But it
wasn’t – not for our hero (or so I like to think of myself).
I walked up to the group and started asking questions of them, addressing
them by their real names. This did not go over well. One of them, a
dangerous-looking woman in black leather in front of whom I once sat
in 520, fixed me with her dead eyes and said, as she wiped the Bavarian
cream from her lips, “no. That’s not the way it works. You
sit there and listen and we tell you. And we have different names
here, see? I’m Madam Doughnut. You can call him Le Cruller,”
she said, pointing to a silent hulk reclining against a pillar. “And
this—“
“I’m Lord Fritter,” said the tall, whip-thin individual
whose back had hitherto been turned to me as he finished his humble
repast. He tossed the box into the bushes and advanced on me. Nervous
but not wanting to be excluded, I held my ground while he advanced.
Two feet away he stopped and looked at me with a speculative glance.
“So you think you know doughnuts, huh? You’ve had an old-fashioned
or two? Think you can hang with us? I’m here to say you don’t
know a doughnut hole from a hole in the ground. You listen and learn
from us and maybe we’ll take you upstairs. Maybe.”
“First, we don’t care how you spell it. A doughnut by any
other name would taste equally delicious,” he said.
“Each of the spelling has its merits,” said Madam D. “
‘Doughnut’ speaks to the process… but I won’t
disparage the ‘donut’ because it speaks to simplicity.”
From out of the shadows came a gravelly voice that I realized must
be that of Le Cruller. “Personally it causes me pain – that
I can’t decide. It’s an important issue, but… we leave
those fights to the youngsters. We’ve moved up the chain and are
actually doing some supply these days. Let the kids fight about what
you call it.”
I asked, somewhat nervously, “who’s ‘we’?”
They exchanged glances, after which Madame D said “we’re
the Central Cartel. We cover most of mid-campus, with occasional clashes
with the SciEng Triad. They’re vicious bastards when it comes
to turf. I mean, we let this fund-raising Krispy Kreme stuff go on,
but when it comes to real sales and distribution? You’ve gotta
be up, showing the flag, always walking the paths. You don’t do
that and one day the Triad’s at the fountain and… you’re
out of business.”
“We’re grateful for them, though,” added Le Cruller.
“South of them is the Med Dogs. We sent someone down there once
to talk about the Triad with them and he never came back. Just walked
into Health Sciences and was never heard from again. They aren’t
flashy; they’re serious. We’ve got our bling, our posse,
all that, but you never see the Dogs out. Don’t know what their
system is, but we don’t mess down there.”
“Anyway,” said Lord F., “we’re about the doughnut.
We introduce certain people we think are worthy to their glory, but
we don’t care about the coffee. Leave that to the boys in blue.”
“Yes, a doughnut is an experience in and of itself, not to be
diluted by coffee,” said Madam D.
Next they launched into a discussion of suppliers, temperatures, drew
glucose/chilling diagrams, and generally tried to explain to me where
to buy doughnuts. Failing to remember all that was said, especially
given my condition the next morning, I only remembered fragments of
their wisdom.
On Top Pot: “In Seattle, I think Top Pot is the best doughnut
I’ve had.”
On Krispy Kreme: there seemed to be a consensus that Krispy Kreme doughnuts
are too sweet, except when they are pulled right off the production
line.
On Westernco: “Westernco donuts are passable, though not spectacular,
but more importantly, Westernco is open 24 hours, so you can get your
doughnut on at 4:27 in the morning or any other time you feel it appropriate.”
On Hostess: “Hostess is the Miller Lite of pastry.”
On Safeway: “Here’s the thing about Safeway doughnuts. If
they have an in-store bakery and you get there at the right time of
day and if you know the baker, you can get a good doughnut. A Safeway
doughnut is good for three hours, four tops. Let’s not even talk
about the places that don’t have in-store bakeries.”
At the end of the discussion of where to go for “supplies,”
Madam D turned to me and began to speak quietly and in the glow from
the security lights I could see the unshed tears waiting to fall, the
passion behind the power. “Seattle’s not much of a doughnut
town. Seattle’s a scone town. They have Starbucks here, the place
where you buy pretentious pastry. You need to know that doughnuts are
time-intensive, yes, but they’re love-intensive too.”
They stood in silence, meditating on the significance of the doughnut,
perhaps. At last Le Cruller could contain himself no longer: “doughnuts
fill a specific cultural niche. And yeast is the only proper leavening
agent for doughnuts!”
The other two turned and looked at him briefly as he smoldered in the
shadows, but eventually they turned back to me and grew still.
“Are you ready?” asked Lord F. “Are we going to do
this thing?”
I hesitated a moment, realizing that I was at a defining moment in
my life, relishing the transition and knowing that whatever came after
tonight would inevitably reflect what went on here. A quick nod and
we were headed inside. Lord F. used a card I couldn’t see well
but with which he swiped us in. They all pulled up their hoods as they
passed through and so I joined them.
Here I must recuse myself from testimony. What went on upstairs was
my initiation into the Central Cartel and I am forbidden to speak of
it. Suffice it to say that, much as some American Indians “ran
the gauntlet,” I experienced the “whole doughnut”
treatment. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen, but it was my rite
of passage. Now I’m a member of the Cartel and have my own name.
The doughnut has opened up a new way of life to me. I don’t know
if it’s better, but at least I know that I have brothers and sisters,
that I belong to something bigger than I am. And if you need anything?
Just come by my corner of Red Square and I’ll hook you up. Yeast
or cake, glazed or raspberry-filled, I do ‘em all.
|
"In the glow from the arc-sodium lights outside
the building, the chocolate frosting around their lips looked like blood.
You’d think it would have been a sign, no? But it wasn’t
– not for our hero (or so I like to think of myself)."
|
