We'll call it cabin fever. Minutes after arriving back in Five Points Saturday night following the Carolina Hurricanes' surprising 4-2 win over the league-best Chicago Blackhawks, my roommate and I decided to take a stroll in the snow before retreating into our cocoon for the night. It was warmer than we'd expected, and it was anybody's guess as to when we'd have the chance again.
Heading south on the slushy sidewalks of Glenwood Avenue, we recapped the highlights of the game (that Cam Ward sure can stand on his head) and the surrounding events (that $20 bill I spotted amid the snow-covered RBC Center parking lot surely belonged to some good-for-nothing Hawks fan). In no time, it seemed, we were already several blocks away, and my half-serious suggestion to trek all the way to the Peace Street Krispy Kreme—about two miles, I surmised—didn't sound so bad. With the red glow of the doughnut shop's "Hot Now" sign flickering in our minds, we continued past the smell of wood-burning fireplaces in Glenwood's Brooklyn neighborhood. Like the late nights in college when I made this journey by car, boredom fueled tonight's trip. Once it started, though, the craving became insatiable. The cold began setting in as we neared the Peace Street intersection—at least the halfway point, I hoped—but my belly warmed at the thought of the deep-fried treats.
As we closed in on the brightly lit but empty parking lot, another feeling—this time, sinking—snuck into my stomach. Maybe we were just the only fools desperate enough to make the trek. But as we rounded the corner and looked through the front windows, there could be no doubt—this place was closed.
I scrolled through the names in my phone to send a friend a mournful text about our misfortune when I noticed an entry for Krispy Kreme just three spots above. Of course I had the number. Years before, when my hopes had been dashed by a similar late-night run after store management cut back on the oasis' always-open hours, I saved their number in my phone, determined never to reach this low again. So much for that plan, too.
We turned and limped home. I vented by hurling a few chunks of snow against defenseless street signs, but it was useless—even our newly formulated backup plan of finding a convenience store that stocked Krispy Kreme wasn't going to satisfy. In that moment of weakness, I cursed America's most delicious doughnut chain.
Cabin fever crept back Sunday afternoon. My roommate and I headed to Harris Teeter. I gave a half-hearted glance at the empty Krispy Kreme case while picking up a few essentials, maintaining that I was over that hankering anyway. I even had myself convinced—well, until an hour ago. Writing about Krispy Kreme tends to make one think about them and, well, then the cravings start. I called the store, gathered the roommate and, this time, got in the car. The clerks behind the counter threw an extra hot glazed in our order for free. I apologized to the store for the things I'd said, and dug in.