The Bagel Story
This story occurred two years ago. I originally published it as a Facebook post, and only recently rediscovered it because of Facebook’s “Your Memories …” feature. I felt it needed to be shared beyond my friend community because it was such an epic morning in the life of me, and I’ve edited to be more readable. I hope you enjoy!
It was one of those mornings. Upon awaking I knew my belly was going to require a bagel to get the day rolling. And it was a good day to have such a craving because, as it turns out, my vehicle was running on fumes. So I pulled myself from the sheets and made sure to leave early.
The plan was clear and simple. Fill up the gas tank at Marathon. Stop by Bruegger’s. And then head downtown to work.
After arriving at the gas station, I went through the routine of filling up my vehicle. To be clear, my routine is not to push a button, get out of the car, and fuel. No. I push down this lever on the driver’s side floor, then stick my car remote in a little opening created by the button being depressed. With the lever held in its depressed position, I roll down the window (a safety net to my relentless fear of being locked out of my vehicle) and get out of the car. I walk around the back side of the car and pry open the tank cover. Then I return to the driver’s seat, remove the remote from the lever, allowing the level to fall into its closed position. Only after that point do I feel like a normal person and begin fueling the car.
All of this is because I live and work in the best neighborhoods—places where residents use any object they can find to attempt to pry open gas tank covers, leading to the ultimate reward of siphoning gasoline. Of course, my strong Nissan Sentra never gave into the thieves’ wishes. Instead, like a South American Three Banded Armadillo, my gas tank door decided it would disable its spring mechanism forever, as an act of defense. And now it defends itself against me, its humble driver.
Nevertheless, I was used to this process, and within no time I was fueling the car. As I’m doing so, I peer to the car in front of me. It was a large (large) woman in an old, beat up sports car, which wore the license plate BATMANG. At that time, I had no idea what that meant, and I proceeded to the bagel store.
Much to my disappointment, the Bruegger’s parking lot was completely full, and street parking was nowhere to be found.
Fortunately, I have another bagel joint in the neighborhood—Panera—whose bagel quality is only slightly below Bruegger’s. Unfortunately, I arrived late enough at Panera that the parking meters had begun operating for the day. But that was fine. I was so much closer to acquiring a bagel.
As I walked to the front door of the restaurant, a woman meandered in front of me (presumably also ready for her morning bagel). She entered through the door just before me, wearing scrubs and a fleece jacket, and let the door close on me.
I shook it off. She probably didn’t see me, I reasoned.
This store has two sets of doors, so after the first door closed on me and I pushed it open, the woman and I were both in the tiny entry way, ready to approach the second door. She looked back. I could tell from her eyes she saw I was there.
She let that door shut on me, too.
That was the point at which the morning started bugging me. I couldn’t shake the idea that this woman, upon her expiration, would be escorted to that special room in hell reserved for people who don’t hold doors open for other people. But still, I was so close to that bagel and coffee. That would make everything alright again.
A few minutes later, I heard a “Next” directed at me. This was it! It was my time to shine! What bagel will I get? Oh I knew. I knew.
As I approached the counter, I was cut off by a very tall man, wearing a duster jacket and—WTF?—a Jason mask.
I backed off and let him have the counter.
He leaned in to the barista/bagel-maker and whispered, “Hello.” Not requiring a response, he escorted himself to the coffee station and stood silently. Of course, I was too laser-focused on getting my bagel, I didn’t care at all if I was about to become a hostage in some elaborate Panera robbery.
By the time it was (finally) my turn, I gave my typical bagel order: everything bagel sliced and toasted with cream cheese (I told you I knew). The woman working the register responded with a look of disappointment unmatched at bagel shops. I knew what was about to happen as looked over her shoulder and nodded.
“We have no bagels,” she said.
That’s right. The bagel store was out of bagels.
I felt it all drain out. All hope, all motivation I had for the day, everything I built up inside me.
Weighing my decision based on sunk costs, and likely due to my emotional investment by that point, I ordered a coffee. I needed something tangible to validate the parking meter fee (not that it would actually be validated).
Of course, filling up the coffee cup meant maneuvering around the Jason impersonator, which was terrifying at best, as my bagel-euphoria wore off and I had started to realize I might be in some serious danger. But I wanted the coffee so I reached around him and filled up the cup, despite any festering fears I had.
Back in my car, I felt dejected. But I was just too far invested at this point to not get a bagel. My first thought was seriously considering returning to Bruegger’s to see if there a spot would have opened up. But that was in the wrong direction and would have made me super late for work. I was still doing OK on time at that point.
I poked around on the phone to find that there was a place called Einstein Bros. just up the street. I didn’t know anything about it, but I could leave the car where it was and walk there, so I gave it a shot.
That ordering routine came once more (this time without have two doors slammed in my face). I said, “I’ll have an everything bagel sliced an—”
The friendly man behind the counter cut me off. “We don’t have any everything bagels,” he said. “It’ll be about 20 minutes. They just went in.”
I couldn’t believe it. Did literally everybody in this city wake up wanting an everything bagel this morning?
I did not tell this man that his store was my third choice, but I was clearly agitated. I said something like, “Are you serious? OK. Pick out literally any bagel and put cream cheese on it and I will buy it.”
The man didn’t even blink at my attitude. I suppose he’s well-equipped to deal with folks in their pre-coffee dispositions.
While making my bagel, the man informed me that the store was starting late night hours that night. “It’ll be safe before 1:30,” he says, “that’s when I expect the drunks to roll in.”
I offered an uncomfortable laugh, not yet prepared for a conversation.
“Around midnight, I’ll start childproofing this place.” And then, with his best drunk man impression, he said, “I’m drunk and I want these bananas and I’m not going to pay for them,” while flailing his arms around and pretending to stumble.
More nervous laughter from my end, and when the bagel was ready, I snatched it and bolted out the door.
The bagel was not good. It comes down to Einstein being an inferior bagel maker. And that particular bagel tasted like disappointment and rejection. Still, I scarfed it down in a similar way to how sad women eat ice cream on TV.
Eventually I made it to work. I was a little late and highly disappointed, but I was there and the day was going to proceed no matter how I felt.
The first thing I saw when I walk in the door is my friend and coworker, Emily, standing in the middle of the room. “What are you doing?” I asked her.
“I’m about to go on a bagel run,” she said.
That’s when I dumped this entire tale on my work team.
They said, almost in unison, “It’s Friday the 13th.”
When Emily returned, I ate a second bagel, because it was that kind of day. And I never did find out what that license plate meant.
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