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Buying Donuts in the Apocalypse
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I went to buy a donut a few days ago. I asked the cashier how they were doing, you know, with the apocalypse and everything. It was a nothing question, small talk. Like asking an Uber driver what it’s like driving for Uber. In Seattle, talking about COVID-19 is the equivalent of asking about the weather. That is to say, you know the answer.
The cashier smiled, grabbing a white paper bag for my donut. She wore thick black rimmed glasses, her hair in a pony tail, a black long sleeve shirt under a distressed t-shirt for a band I didn’t recognize. She looked like the kind of white person ubiquitous in Seattle. The kind that listens to KEXP and owns a Onewheel. I imagined her go-to drink was matcha.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’ve got plenty of guns and ammunition,” she said.
I blanched as much from the intimacy as the revelation. This isn’t the kind of experience people usually seek in a chain donut shop.
“Think about it. Look at all these hoarders. They’re all going crazy buying up toilet paper and canned food. Like that’ll save them. They’re not going to survive this. It’ll be the people who can take their stuff that’ll survive. The takers. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life.”
Her whole life. I wondered what that meant. I imagined obstacle courses and Krav Maga.