Stoner Dogs Never Walk Alone

 it was long and narrow, but wide enough for a counter, and a decent donut display case. Behind that customer counter, we had to maneuver through a narrow walkway between a hot dog bath with hot dog sauce and hot nacho cheese containers near the side wall. A lone "flurry" machine made the counter area much more treacherous, until it opened up near the sparse seating area. 

There were a handful of tables near the back of the retail area. This is where I found Megan, a girl drunk as could be, sitting with her legs up showing the world her white underwear. I left my place and sat on the opposite bench to talk sense into her.

She was a young blonde freshman, not the most beautiful in the world, and seemed to suspect it. How she was still vertical was a mystery, and I even encouraged her to rest, put your head on the table talk...assuring her that I could walk her home when I got off my shift. 

But somewhere in the night, she disappeared. A quirky young man dropped in to ask about her whereabouts. I walked out into the street with him, feeling like I had lost my little sister. She was invisible beyond the streetlights, and I had to go back in and finish my shift.

Another night she came in, all smiles, and at least slightly inebriated. Most of our customers were, especially after midnight, as many left the bars to come in a for "stoner dog."

When you're drunk, you'll eat anything, including a footlong hotdog, loaded with sauce, onions, and jalapenos. The latter were so potent smelling, it was a wonder they did not get up and walk away. For the compromised, the modus operandi was to order food meant to relieve your inside of all the beer you drank. And many did, and many found relief, often just beyond the business sign out in the street.

It is not the most romantic thing, watching an 18-year girl vomit into the gutter. Nor is it sexy to offer your arm and stability to walk the lass, smelling of beer and jalapeños to her dorm at 4 o'clock in the morning.

The weekends followed, but I rarely saw her inebriated again. Her friend approached me in the street, in the donut shop, and even in the theatre to ask about her. I rarely saw her. I began to wonder if she "flunked out," went home, and forgot about college. 

So many did. So many could not cope with the oncoming lights of the big bad world beyond college. That short time between childhood and paying for everything narrowed with every new month. 

The donut shop was a lamppost in that half-light. A refuge from the storm. A place where even the drunkest of characters could share in some stability...where no one would be alone.