Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  We head over to the prize area, holding our bundles of tickets like newly-discovered treasure. After dumping the tickets into a bin to be weighed and counted, we are told that we have earned a total of 1,187 tickets.

  “Wow!” Bridget says in awe.

  Like a kid in a candy factory, she wanders around looking at the various items available and marveling at her options.

  “I’ll get this lava lamp and clock radio,” she decides. “This is awesome, guys. Thank you.”

  I do not point out that, for less than what we spent to play all these games, we could have bought two lava lamps and half a dozen clock radios. Why rain on her parade?

  Bridget goes to pay for her selections, and, after all is said and done, still has ten tickets left.

  “Can I have them?” Brice asks.

  “Sure.”

  He is staring intently at the candy section. Brice snags the last Twix bar from the bin and a packet of skittles which together will total exactly ten tickets.

  “Hey!” an approximately eight year old kid shouts at him as Brice heads up to the register with his purchases. “I wanted that Twix bar.”

  The kid is indignant.

  Brice is indifferent.

  “Yeah, well, I got it,” he says. “Better luck next time.”

  The kid starts screaming at him. “You’re a meanie! Give me my candy! You’re too fat to eat candy anyway!”

  Brice appears unperturbed. He gives his tickets in in exchange for his candy, peels open the wrapper of his candy bar, and takes a bite of chocolaty caramel with nougat.

  “Mmm… delicious,” he says as the boy rushes at his legs and begins wildly attacking Brice’s shins.

  Brice shoos him away unsuccessfully. I’m immobilized by my surprise, but Dunkin steps in, picks up the child, and deposits him in the corner along with a stern warning to behave. As we walk away, the child screaming obscenities at us as we go, Brice continues munching on his candy bar.

  “Do you remember the episode of Seinfeld when the mechanic steals George’s Twix bar?” I ask.

  “Who doesn’t?” Louis replies.

  Then we are laughing and talking, on to new topics, smiling about the crazy, misbehaved child, and remarking aloud at the absence of a parental figure during the whole exchange. But, when we make our way to the restaurant section of D&B’s and take our seats and Brice orders only a chicken Caesar salad for dinner I know that that kid’s comments must’ve gotten to him.

  Chapter Forty

  When Brice tells me his date with Malcolm the Art Guy is a flop, I can’t say I’m surprised. My best friend is not at all pretentious and Malcolm seems like the kind of guy who goes antiquing and drinks only imported wine. For their first, and only, date, Malcolm insisted they go to the Opera. I’m not sure what possessed Brice to agree to attend a show in which obese women sing about love in Italian but, seeing as how he reached out to Malcolm just a few days after the Robin-tackling debacle I am guessing he wasn’t at his best. Either that or Brice has little or no self-awareness, hence the need for his own dating diet, but, when I mention that to him, he glowers at me.

  We’re sitting at the diner down the street from my house eating omelets while Brice recounts his unfortunate date.

  “The man knits sweaters,” he tells me.

  “That’s impressive.”

  “For his cats.”

  “Okay, that’s a bit creepy.”

  “And he’s ostentatious. He mentioned at least three times that he thinks it’s ‘cute’ that I’m a social worker. Cute.”

  “What does he do?” I’m incensed. Brice is good at his job and really makes a difference in the world, or tries to, anyway.

  “He’s a buyer for Sotheby’s. He travels internationally and has an expense account.”

  “He sounds like a jerk.”

  “Oh he is! No way I’m going to date him again. The only good thing about it was the goodnight kiss.”

  “You kissed him? I thought you hated him.”

  “Oh honey,” Brice laughs. “I do. But I can’t hate on those lips.”

  I smile. I will never understand gay men—or straight men either for that matter. I don’t even bother to try. Instead, I change the subject.

  “How’s your omelet?” I ask.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It’s not every day that you catch your boyfriend on the phone with a phone sex operator and, while I believe Dunkin that he accidentally dialed 1-800-sex-I-can instead of 1-800-Mexican while trying to order take-out, I can’t help but have my doubts. True, as he pointed out, the fact that he chose to make the call from my landline at a time of day when I was home combined with the fact that it was around lunchtime and, as usual, my fridge was empty of anything more enticing than yogurts and cheese strengthened his case that the call to the sex line was a misdial. Still, just the idea that Dunkin and my sex life might not be satisfying enough starts to eat away at me. It’s silly, I know.

  Dunkin and I regularly “get it on” or take it off as circumstances warrant. Anyway, we have an active sex life. But, when I call Leslie to talk about it—my face beet red with embarrassment—she suggests incorporating toys into our lovemaking.

  “Toys?” I’m no prude but nor am I interested in flogging my boyfriend or having random implements inserted into either one of us. “I got a boyfriend so I didn’t need a vibrator, now you want me to get a vibrator to use with my boyfriend?”

  “Oh, honey,” Leslie says, “There are a world of options out there all of which can be incredibly fun. This weekend, I’m taking you shopping and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  I wonder where does one shop for sex toys? I don’t have to wonder long because on Saturday afternoon I drive over to Leslie’s place then we take her car, a beat up Ford Taurus, out to Allentown. We’re two women looking for a good time—or, rather, for equipment so we can have a good time. I am mortified.

  When Leslie pulls up into the Condom World parking lot, it takes me a minute to muster up enough courage to follow her inside and, when I finally do walk through the swinging glass doors, I want to turn around and walk right out.

  An eclectic collection of dildos, penis pumps, edible undies, women’s lingerie, dominatrix paraphernalia, porn videos, and several items I don’t recognize and can’t even conceive of the usage for (and am not about to ask) are everywhere.

  Leslie takes me by the hand. “Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not scared—exactly.”

  “So what are you?”

  “Overwhelmed? Embarrassed? I don’t want Dunkin to think I’m some sort of sexual deviant.”

  “So we’ll go tasteful. Lingerie, a strap on, a movie or two, some edible undies.”

  I feel like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone as Leslie leads me around the store while quizzing me about my sexual preferences and experiences. I’d always known she was experienced but, by comparison, I feel like the Virgin Mary. Before I met Dunkin, I was no stranger to masturbation. I even owned a vibrator and, on several occasions, I’ve tied up and been tied up by men I was dating. I’ve even used handcuffs. But, Leslie introduces me to things I’ve only heard about. Feeling out of my league, I listen as my friend extolls the virtues of one sex toy after another.

  “What do you think about this?” she asks holding up a bright purple penis.

  I start to giggle. Finally, I tell her that it might be best for me to defer to her judgment.

  “Just pick out a few things that might spice up my sex life,” I instruct her. “And I’m looking for mildly spicy, not fiery hot.”

  She smirks. “So no jalapeno-flavored edible undies?”

  I roll my eyes, but I let her fill my basket with whatever she deems appropriate, minus the anal beads. I draw the line at butt stuff.

&n
bsp; “Oh, you and Dunkin will have so much fun!” Leslie is positively giddy.

  I’m cautiously optimistic myself. While the other day’s Mexican food had been delicious, the phone sex operator had mentioned several things that she was willing to do to my boyfriend that Dunkin and I haven’t ever done and, even though I was shocked and appalled at the time, upon further reflection, and a day spent with my most promiscuous friend, I’ve decided that embracing my inner freak just may be a good thing.

  Leslie drives me back to her place. I put my bags in my trunk, and we drive our respective cars over to the local movie theatre where my typical crew of friends is getting together to see a movie then go get a drink. It’s been great spending more time with my nearest and dearest. I’ve missed my posse. As tends to happen when I’m with Brice, Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, and Carlo, we’re having way too much fun to call it a night.

  One movie turns into a double feature, one drink turns into two and before you know it I am driving home at 2:00 a.m., crawling into my house—not drunk, just exhausted—and falling asleep on the couch. I’m too tired to even make it to my bed.

  Sunday morning, I get up early, shower, shave my legs and head over to Dunkin’s house for our typical day of donuts and cuddling. When I arrive, I discover that he’s left me a note to say that he’s already gone on the donut run and will be back in a flash. He walks through the door ten minutes after I do, carrying two Boston Crèmes and two crullers. Delicious! All I have to do is open my mouth—then, later, my legs—and all is right with my world once again.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I really shouldn’t have agreed to drive myself because, surprise, surprise, I am lost. I have a tendency to get lost. I am directionally challenged, so it is no surprise that, instead of ending up in Center City, as intended, I accidentally got on the Ben Franklin Bridge headed toward New Jersey. Not again! I can’t believe this is happening for the umpteenth time.

  I’m now late. I left my house with more than enough time, but after sitting on Bridge traffic, crossing over, looping back around, and, only now, finding my way to the city I am fifteen minutes behind schedule. Shit.

  I scheduled this appointment weeks ago and I can picture smoke coming out of my mother’s ears as she waits for me to arrive. I curse under my breath only I guess it’s louder than I’d thought and my window is down. The guy sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic looks at me and nods.

  “Fucking traffic is right!” he shouts. “My wife’s gonna kill me. I’m late picking her up again.”

  “My mom’s gonna kill me!” I say. “I’m late to my brother’s rehearsal dinner.”

  “Shit lady, you’re fucked,” he decrees.

  “Tell me about it,” I nod.

  I am twenty-eight minutes late when I walk through the door. I’ve called my mother’s cell three times and even texted once (I know, I know, texting and driving is horrible and I try not to do it, but desperate times call for desperate measures).

  I walk—okay, run—into the restaurant at 7:28 and, to my surprise, the bridal party is nowhere in sight. Then, I spot my dad sitting in the lobby reading a well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he smiles. “Have a seat.” He hands me one of my favorite books, Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding.

  I obey. “What’s going on?”

  “The rehearsal dinner doesn’t start ‘til eight. You’re early.”

  “But, Mom told me to.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’ve been here since seven.”

  “I don’t get it,” I am confused.

  “Your mom always assumes you’ll get lost or be late anywhere you go. So she told you to come an hour early so that, when you got here, you’d actually be on time or early.”

  Damn. The woman is diabolical. And right.

  “I came at seven just in case you were on time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He chuckles. “Your mother threatened me on pain of death.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I didn’t want her banishing me to the couch. Anyway, it’s nice to have some time one-on-one with my best girl.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Okay, one of my two best girls,” he admits, referring to my mother.

  I sit down, open my own book, and begin to read.

  When Mom and the others arrive twenty minutes later, ten minutes early, I nudge Dad and say “follow my lead.”

  “I’ve been here since 7:00 a.m,” I say. “How dare you not trust me to get here on time?”

  Mom smiles, then holds up her cell phone and winks at me. “Tell me I wasn’t right dear. Or would you like me to replay your voicemails to refresh your memory?”

  Damn it. I’d forgotten about the voicemails. When Dunkin rolls in five minutes later, I’m surprised not only to see him, but by the fact that, somehow, he was told the correct time.

  “Your dad invited me,” Dunkin says by way of explanation. “He told me to get here at eight and not to leave your side ‘til the night is over. Under penalty of death, I am not to leave you alone with your mother.”

  I smile gratefully, stuff Bridget Jones’s Diary into my purse and kiss my boyfriend.

  “What’re you thinking?” Dunkin asks me.

  I guess my eyes must’ve glazed over for a moment.

  “I was just thinking that both of my parents sometimes know me even better than I know myself.”

  “Tell me about it.” Dunkin wraps an arm around my shoulder and, together, we go inside to dinner.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Shayla Ross, is that you?”

  I run through my mental rolodex and try to recall the name of the person standing in line ahead of me at the grocery store. Who is she? How do I know her? I know that the woman looks familiar, but I can’t recall where or when we met. I think that we knew each other years ago, back before wrinkles lined her face and her hair turned gray. She looks about my mother’s age—her chronological age, fifty-five, not the age my mother actually looks.

  “How are you dear? It’s been ages.”

  “I’m good,” I say, trying to find a conversational foothold. “How are you? It has been ages, hasn’t it? I can’t even remember the last time we saw each other. It’s been so long.”

  “Yes. Must’ve been twelve years ago now. It was during a pool party, back when you were still in college.”

  I try to bluff. “Yeah, those were the days. So… what have you been up to?”

  The unknown woman chuckles and calls my bluff. “You don’t know who I am, do you dear? It’s okay. No use pretending, although you had me for a minute.”

  I shake my head. “I know I know you, but I can’t place the connection,” I admit. “I’m sorry. What gave me away?”

  “Your eyes, dear. You look like a deer in headlights. And no need to apologize. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.” She smiles.

  I smile back.

  “I’m Shirley, Gabe’s aunt. Tina’s sister. You remember Gabe. He always considered you the one that got away.”

  I shift uncomfortably. Gabe and I dated for about a minute and a half in high school, then rekindled things for a brief interlude in college and, even up to last summer, he was continuing to check in just to let me know that he was available.

  I’d chickened out on telling him the truth—that I’m not interested and never will be—and, instead, led him to believe that I was a lesbian as a way of getting out of his advances. It hadn’t worked. His mother had outed me as gay to my mother who, after discovering that I am simply a heterosexual with a less than stellar dating record, outed me as straight among her social set. Gabe and I haven’t been in touch since then and I’d really like to keep it that way.

  “You must
come over to the house. Come and see Gabe,” Aunt Shirley says.

  “Um…”

  “He’d love to see you. Especially after what just happened to his father. Everyone is coming tomorrow night to pay their respects.”

  I’m in the dark. “Did something happen to Mr. Madras? I hadn’t heard.”

  It’s Shirley’s turn in line and she instructs the cashier to use paper, not plastic, bags.

  “Oh yes dear. He died. Heart attack. You absolutely ought to come by the house though to offer your condolences. I’m so glad I ran into you.”

  I think back to high school, to Gabe’s father with his man belly and bad comb-over, his off-color jokes and the way he’d shake your hand just a little longer than was comfortable. He hadn’t been my favorite person, but Gabe and I had grown up together and I’m not doing anything tomorrow night anyway.

  I’m sure Aunt Shirley will tell Gabe she ran into me and the last thing I want to do is add insult to injury by not paying my respects. I owe it to my old, childhood classmate and long-ago boyfriend to stop by. And his father’s funeral is probably the safest place for me to see him. No way he’ll hit on me there. I decide to go. Besides, I know my parents will want to come. They knew his folks too and, while they were never exactly close, they are part of the same social set.

  As it turns out, Mom had made plans awhile ago to get together with a group of her girlfriends in the city and they have tickets to a show so Dad and I go alone to the Madras’ family house to offer our condolences.

  “Do you remember when that boy used to stand outside your bedroom window serenading you with cheesy love songs at all hours of the night?”

  “Don’t remind me,” I laugh.

  “One time, I almost turned the hose on him, but your mother stopped me.”

  “What for? You totally should’ve. Maybe, then he’d have taken the hint.”