if all else fails, there's always Dunkin

Patrick's 21st birthday marked his entry into the legal world of substance abuse, as well as the end of ogling at the free wine served at Law School events. Always in want (in need) of an excuse to party, we decided to celebrate with extravagance, style, and glamor, especially since his birthday also happened to fall on the First Weekend of the Spring Semester, the Last First Weekend of our college career, and the one year anniversary of Obama's presidency. We were going to go to the Boom Boom Room, an exclusive lounge that proudly boasted the high cost of its drinks, which supposedly made people "forget that recession even exists." Since we were all well aware of recession's presence in our lives (the extra $0.25 on the Subway fare forced us to curtail Pinkberry consumption), we decided to refrain from buying anything at Boom Boom Room. We were going to go there and sit on a comfy couch, where we could watch people spend money, and simply feel elite.

Though I had called in advance to confirm with an arbitrary British man that reservations were not required, Patrick and I found ourselves waiting in the harsh cold, watching tall Swedish women and men with jewelry walk in. The British man on the phone had been right--reservations were not required; Boom Boom Room operated by invitation only. We then invited ourselves to the bar across the block, so we could pee.

By that point we had met up with some of our other friends, who had only ventured into the meatpacking district because we had promised them a Red Carpet night. Everyone was cold, hungry, and underage. People dispersed--some went to a generic Irish pub, others went back to Fordham, and Patrick, Bianca, and I went to a lounge called "Honey." There were about 5 people inside. We sat down, looked at the menu, were once again cognizant of the financial crisis, and walked out.

We were on the verge of surrendering, completely disheartened and embittered by the gloating wind and the high end, celebrity life that seemed so out of reach. We walked to the end of the block, tired, cold, and ready to hail a cab back to Fordham. We passed by a Dunkin Donuts, and we all intuitively slowed down. I was staring at the empty room, glowing pink and orange, eliciting the fragrance of artificial sweetness and happiness and home. "I mean, they will probably give us free munchkins because it is so late. They are going to throw out stuff before they close, anyways." This Dunkin was 24/7.

The man behind the counter was brown, from some place on the Indian subcontinent. Partly due to evolution, to a biological development, and partly due to observing my aunt in Indian markets, I was immediately consumed by a desire to fight for cheaper hash browns. I glanced over at Bianca, who seemed to have acquired the same aggressive instinct. She told him she was from Delhi; I told him I had only $1 (I had just withdrawn $60). As expected, he immediately fought back, showing us the computer in which he had to punch in the prices, telling us he was limited by Corporate, and simply refusing to listen to reason. It came out to $2.81 for 2 orders, but he "threw in" a few extra fritters, so that the three of us would be satisfied.

Some random white guy walked in and decided to carry out a prolonged conversation with us, though we were to hungry to respond. While Bianca and Patrick humored him, I started talking to the Dunkin Donuts man. As with all Dunkin Donuts men, he was in a state of shock upon discovering I was Indian. He argued with me, telling me I was only half. When I managed to convince him I was Indian, that I was Gujarati, that I was barely conversational in Hindi, the instinct to fight faded from his face. He went to the back and brought out three muffins for us, each warm and toasted.

He asked me if we would sit and eat. I immediately obliged, and we all sat down to feast upon Dunkin. He came over to us and began speaking in Hindi; I understood everything he would say, but Bianca was the only one able to respond. Patrick continued eating his muffins.

The man was from Bangladesh; his entire family was still in Bangladesh. He was so proud of us for going to college; his job didn't pay enough. It was cold in America, and he was alone. He was surprised that we didn't live with our parents. He didn't understand why I couldn't respond fluently in Hindi. He laughed at us. We responded, between mouthfuls, with unsure smiles. He spoke as if he hadn't spoken in months. Soon the table was scattered with muffin wrappers and hash brown containers, and drunk people started coming in to satisfy their munchies. "Wait, wait, please wait. I will be back." He ran off to take people's orders, and then came back to us with three hot chocolates.

He stared at Patrick, who quickly got over his disbelief and shock to start drinking the hot drink. He asked us, in Hindi, from where we picked up "this one." We laughed and explained that it was his 21st birthday, that he is a close friend of ours, that he isn't a random boy from the street. I had the fleeting inclination to assert that his being white doesn't, and shouldn't, necessarily mean that he is nothing more than a stranger; but when I looked over at Patrick, at the way in which he seemed to be nothing more than a hungry deaf-mute, I knew that I was connected to the Dunkin Donuts man in a way I could never be connected to Patrick.

As we considered leaving for home, he told us to wait once again. He came back with hot sticky buns. "I work Friday, Saturday, Sunday. You visit me Sunday nights." We agreed. We finally got our invitation. It wasn't the Boom Boom Room, but it was something much sweeter. We bid him farewell, and held onto each other as we stepped out into the black night. The streets had emptied, the winds had softened, and there was a noisy silence that followed us to McMahon Hall.

Our room was littered with clothes and shoes, as we had been unsure how to dress to impress the celebrities at the lounge, and started off the night by violently ravaging our closets in search for something we knew we didn't own. Exhausted and crashing from a sugar high, we collapsed onto our beds, amid short dresses and sparkly vests and cheap make up, and immediately fell asleep, as the celebration officially came to a close.