You Got Krullers In There?

I’m not a morning person, so my routine is to get up, get clean, get clothed and get to work without much hassle. I work at Metro Center in downtown DC, so even when I am rolling off the train at 7:30 a.m., things are getting going in the big city. The Metro Center train stop is a huge hangout for musicians to play each day. Most of the time they are on a regular schedule (shitty panflutters on Monday, crazy religious guitarist on Tuesday, you get the picture). There are a couple jazz players who are actually pretty good, so those feel like bonus days. 

Last Friday I came up the escalator to what sounded like some decently played Coltrane. A bassist and sax player were doing their thing, and about 15 feet away a guy was selling doughnuts as part of some fundraising effort. Could have been for his sister’s new kidney, might have been for a self-help book to teach his bird to sleep in the garage. Anything is possible. I walked into the Caribou Coffee next door (Starbucks can bite me) for a scone, because I was groggy and forgot my breakfast. 

Upon exiting said establishment, things got interesting. It seemed while jamming out to Coltrane, the bassist was having a problem with the doughnut guy (DG), whose “Buy some doughnuts! Fresh doughnuts right here!” was clearly ruining this duo’s chance for a Carnegie Hall audition. DG clearly was not buying a CD from these guys, and he was trying to move product, so he just kept getting louder. I would have just continued on my way if not for crazy bassist (CB) losing his mind and thus screaming back that the DG’s doughnuts were poisoned and he was using the money for drugs. Work could wait while I let this play out.

Sadly, cool sax dude (CS) decided to go into a free-form solo, which was great. DG and CB began their own duo, which was less like Coltrane and more like Jerseyites on a bender listening to Billy Joel or something. Just like Streisand and Diamond, these two had a duet of Grammy-winning proportions. 

“Your fucking music sucks, buy my doughnuts.”

“Don’t buy his doughnuts, he’s a pedophile.”

“A Mexican whore plays better music with her toes! Fresh Doughnuts!”

“You’re buying boxed shit from a fucking pedophile homo.”

I was in heaven. And I was not alone. A nice crowd had formed, one you’re more likely to see give money to street dancers but instead were getting a first-rate lesson in small-business market dynamics. I don’t know how it finished off, but as I turned the corner and made my way to work, I thought how much I enjoyed “Fucking Doughnut Shithead (The Blue Note Sessions)”  and hoped a CD would be for sale there next week.