Donuts and Desperation

This story was started a couple of years ago. I was doing Superior Donuts at Pit and Balcony Theater and we had only just reopened after Covid shut down the world, hence the reference to a mask.

*Content warning: mentions of sexual assault and suicide. Please be gentle with yourself when reading, ok?

I was at rehearsal last night for a play. We’re doing Superior Donuts. We are still in the early stages, blocking, talking about character relationships and development.

It surprised me that I got emotional during the scene where Arthur tells everyone he’s sold the donut shop. There were tears spilling from my eyes and soaking the top of my mask and I kept thinking, “Get a grip, Katie- what the hell is wrong with you?”

I watched the woman playing Lady, a homeless woman who depends on her daily connections at the donut shop to provide some predictability in her otherwise chaotic existence.

Those people- the donut shop owner, the young man with huge dreams, the police officers who stop in daily, the shopkeeper from next door- had become Lady’s family over the years. Now she was faced with losing those connections.

I had to grip the counter when it hit me and I realized what was going on. The body, you see, remembers.

My body and my subconscious were remembering a night in the 1980s when I was Lady. I had been living in my car in Los Angeles, until one afternoon when my car was stolen, and I began life on the streets. There’s a lot to the story of how I came not to have a home and the things that happened as a result of my homelessness, but those are stories for another day. Today is about the donut shop.

I had been assaulted twice in 24 hours, by two different people, and was wandering the streets of the San Fernando Valley in the middle of the night. I was lost. I was exhausted. I was in pain. And I was done. I was going to try one last thing and if that thing didn’t work, I was going to stop living.

It was around 2 in the morning when I saw the bright yellow sign of a Winchell’s Donuts on Sherman Way. I knew they were open 24 hours, so I headed there, thinking that I’d ask to use their phone book and call the church with the biggest ad that wasn’t a long-distance phone call.

I hadn’t really thought about how I must have looked as I dragged myself through their door- but judging by the reactions of the two folks standing at the counter, I must have been quite a sight. I stepped toward them and all I could manage was, “I’m in trouble and I need help. Can I use your phone book?”

The kindness I experienced in that donut shop that night has never left me. The young man and woman who were working filled my coffee and cocoa all night, brought me donuts, and let me settle in at a table until the church office opened. When their coworkers arrived for shift change, they quietly explained my situation and made sure I was alright and had a plan before they left.

I ate donuts and drank coffee and hot chocolate and laid my head on the table and dozed until 9:00 when someone answered the phone at the church office. My voice broke as I tried to explain my situation, and the woman on the phone interrupted me: “Oh, Love. Tell me where you are.”

Within twenty minutes a sweet woman arrived to pick me up. Our first stop was the hospital, where I was x-rayed, wrapped, stitched, and bandaged. We then stopped by the church where I met with a counselor who listened well and asked compassionate, intuitive questions. They found me a place to live that day and a good job that week. It hadn’t been the first time I was homeless, but it was the last.

I recall walking the streets of the Valley that night, despondent, crushed, hopeless, and thinking that I was going to give life one more chance. I would reach out one last time, and if that didn’t work, I was done. I didn’t want to live with the pain and fear and despair any longer. I saw that bright yellow sign all lit up in the middle of the night and as I walked toward it, I didn’t have a lot of faith that my circumstances could get better, but I promised myself one last shot.

I’m grateful for middle-of-the-night donut bakers who saw past my haggard appearance to the human that needed their compassion.

I’m grateful for the early-morning-phone-answerer at the church, who left her office and drove immediately to a donut shop to pick up the stranger on the other end of her telephone line.

I’m grateful for the church family who took me into their home and loved me back to health without proselytizing.

I’m grateful for the office job that allowed me a nine-to-five stability and a decent paycheck that helped restore my dignity and confidence.

I’m grateful for that bright yellow sign in the middle of the night, and for making the decision to walk toward it rather than giving up.

I’m grateful for theater…for the ability to tell stories of humanity and decency and overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and highlighting Hope.

I’m grateful for unexpected tears and a body that reminds me that although at some points in my life, I have truly been in danger, I have survived every single bit of that trauma.

I’m grateful.