1970, Mr. Donut, Route 5, Massachusetts. I'm 16 and this is my first job. I'm a "waitress" for the truckers who pass by here and get a donut and coffee for 25 cents. One Saturday afternoon the pay phone in the back rings and I go to answer it. Heavy breathing. I repeat: "Hello, You've reached Mr. Donut, can I help you?" The breathy male voice replies Yeah, and procedes to explain what I can to to help him. Meanwhile, my friend is out front at the counter and sees a man in the phone booth across the street with his hand inside his pants. She comes to get me, sees me on the phone; I let her listen. She points to the phone booth. We giggle like silly teenagers and hang up. The guy in the phone booth remains there, making more phone calls. We go on to live normal lives.
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