I wake up to the familiar sound of an abrasive alarm. Typically this happens just before the sun rises, but this time, it is after the sun has set. I hear a knock on the door. The Lewis to my Clark has arrived for what will be yet another late night expedition into the concrete lands of a sleeping Tennessee. Sleeping is the only thing that I really care to do, but alas, I have an assignment for this journey. I must defend the actions of late night explorers and prove the worthiness of our quest.
Before we can embark, we must make a quick stop to acquire caffeine and gasoline. It is storming, quite ferociously in fact: the perfect conditions for high-speed travel in the dark. Now that I am cold and slightly damp, I get back into the vehicle that will take us somewhat safely to our destination: Gibson’s Donuts.
I chug my vanilla Dunkin and pass the aux cord to Lewis who sits in the passenger seat, bouncing up and down with childlike excitement. We throw it back to the 80’s first, listening to a man with presumably long locks and less than desirable facial hair belt out “I want you back where you belong,” over guitar solos and an emphatic drummer with even longer locks.
A few moments later after the adrenaline starts to wane, we begin to discuss the political impact within the chorus line we just screamed. Is such a possessive attitude appropriate in today’s culture? We take it further back to the 50’s for a more soulful vibe as a new singer carefully articulates the line “You belong to me.” Now we’ve reached the heart of the issue. A man whose heart longs for another will leave his morals buried deep within in pursuit of what he desires. We come to the conclusion that this possessive nature among men needs to die.
Now that we are proud of ourselves for reaching such moral standing, the conversation naturally bleeds into the past desires of the heart. We tell the grand stories of middle school loves and high school heartbreaks. We are careful not to let the conversation get away from us to avoid falling from our moral high ground.
Our destination now approaches. Memphis is quiet on this particular night, and other travelers are few and far between. The rain has subsided along with our drowsiness, now over an hour into the expedition. The robotic female voice from my GPS starts talking more consistently as she, or it, guides us.
Being originally from the steel pipes and towers of Birmingham, the far corners of Memphis feel like home. Finally, we see it. The enormous neon sign that stands over a quiet strip mall like a scene only seen in movies beckons us weary travelers closer. “Gibson’s Donuts,” it proclaims confidently.
I am honestly a bit nervous as I enter. This is not the first time that my friend and I have made this journey. On our previous venture, the selection of goods had been wiped clean, and we were left with no choice but to purchase cake donuts. Cake donuts are the result of the devil’s influence reaching a baker. My only question to those who choose to make such atrocities is quite simply: Why?
It is because of my great distaste for cake donuts that I was overjoyed at the sight of such a wondrous collection of yeast. My friend and I stepped into the quaint surroundings that was stocked full of hormones in typical prom clothing. They have partied, and we have travelled. A kind of small college town aesthetic can be seen in the pictures, faces and toilets that make up this establishment. This is not a small college town however, but a large one. What we have discovered is a small land isolated from the fray. It calmly waits to invite its young followers in.
We approached the counter wide-eyed as we received our prize. The workers here are tired, but they take pride in their craft. A sense of understanding is reached among everyone within these walls, a connection built on glazed frosting. Upon arriving back to my car, we consume. All the vanilla from what’s left of my coffee is unrecognizable. The drink has been overpowered by a sweeter yet stronger substance.
We then debate whether or not donuts count as bread. I make my case for donuts being bread. Lewis contemplates this for a few minutes. “No,” he says. That is the end of the debate for the time being.
A few moments later, I leaned back in my seat, full and satisfied. Our quest was a success. Of course, there was still a ride home to be had. This is far from a weak link within the entire experience. The travel is quite possibly what I find most redeeming. Even before when our search for good donuts proved fruitless, I still would never consider that time a waste. With our three hour round trip coming to a close, we pass a sleepy security guard before grabbing some sleep of our own.
Spontaneous road trips are not for everyone, but are a necessity for the adventurous college student. Some might call such an excursion a waste of gas. Those people would be false. The worthiness of anything is within the eye of the beholder. Our eyes behold donuts, and more importantly, good times.
College stressors are not to be taken lightly, and some of us need a getaway. On top of my various assignments, I am also in the business of making memories. These types of trips make those memories, and this trip will not be the last.