Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  After twenty minutes, huffing and puffing, I slow my pace again and ask Dunkin “How long do you want to run?”

  “What?” he shouts at me.

  “How long?” I mouth.

  He hits a few buttons, slows his pace and says, “That should be good for the treadmill. What do you want to do next? The elliptical? Stairmaster? The exercise bike?”

  What? There’s more? Twenty plus minutes of cardio seems like more than enough considering the fact that we’re going to be lifting weights too. Is he crazy? Am I crazy? I’ve fallen in love with an exercise fanatic. Why couldn’t my boyfriend be a couch potato? Then, again, one look at his chiseled chest makes me appreciate what I have. Still, my belly is growling. The smoothie is long-since metabolized and I’m starting to feel hungry.

  “I’ve got it,” Dunkin says before I can say anything. “Let’s jump rope.”

  I trail after him to the jump rope area, pick up my rope, and, wishing I could strangle myself with it, begin swinging and hopping. I’m like a ten-year-old with a jump rope, kind of awkward, all about having fun.

  Well-practiced, Dunkin jumps rope like a boxer. His feet move so fast I can’t even see the rope as it wizzes beneath his feet.

  “This is fun,” he says. “Working out together. We should do it more often.”

  Is he calling me fat? Is he saying I’m out of shape? I’d take offense to that, but the fact that we’re less than thirty minutes into our workout and I feel like I’m going to die of a heart attack just might lend credence to the argument that I’m not quite as fit as I’d like to imagine.

  “I love spending time with you,” Dunkin continues. “You really are the best.”

  Okay. Maybe, I’m being overly sensitive. Maybe, he really just wants to spend quality time with the person he loves—me—doing something he loves—working out. Come to think of it, this gym time was my idea so I have no one to blame for my exhaustion but myself. I pant and wheeze.

  “I love you, Shayla,” he says.

  “I’m dying,” I gasp. “Go on without me.”

  Dunkin laughs, tosses his jump rope off to the side, and gives me a sweaty hug.

  “Okay Jane Fonda, let’s move on to the weights. You do your own thing. Twenty minutes, okay? Then we can do some abs, stretch, and call it a day.”

  “Deal,” I agree knowing that I can half-ass the next twenty minutes with the weights.

  I decide not to worry about what I’m sure will be a punishing ab routine (Have I mentioned my boyfriend’s killer physique? With him at the helm, I’m sure my core will feel the burn) and, instead, focus on pumping iron. Or faking it anyway. I grab a set of five pound dumbbells and commence with a Jane Fonda-esque routine of contracting and extending, lifting and lowering that is reminiscent of the 1980s. Dunkin heads over to the machines. He’s got his ear buds in and is lifting an impressive amount of weight, grooving along to the downloaded tunes.

  I’m not really paying attention until I hear some raised voices and a few shouted insults. When I look over, I am surprised to see an incredibly large black dude with more tattoos than I can count glowering down at my boyfriend. Dunkin looks perplexed.

  “You honkie motherfucker!” The black bodybuilder shouts. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  “What?” Dunkin says. “Man, I’m just trying to work out here. What’s your problem?”

  “You, you racist son of a bitch. I’m a nigger? You gonna call me a nigger? I’ll fuck you up, motherfucker!”

  Before I can get over to him, before Dunkin even has a chance to react, the man’s fist flies hitting my boyfriend squarely in the face. Dunkin staggers back, bends over in pain, and brings his hand to his jaw. By this time, several gym rats have managed to take hold of Dunkin’s assailant and haul him, screaming, over to the front desk.

  “Are you all right?” I ask Dunkin. “What just happened?”

  “I have no idea.” He is rattled and confused. His left eye is already starting to turn a sickening shade of reddish purple and his lower lip is bleeding. “What the fuck just happened?”

  A handsome black dude with dreadlocks comes over to us and asks Dunkin if he’s okay.

  “Yeah. Just surprised. I have no idea why that guy hit me or what I did to offend him.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope. Not a clue.”

  The guy shakes his head, his dreadlocks moving as he does so. A half-smile forms as he says “My man, you must’ve been singing along to the music. You said ‘Cops give a damn about a negro? Pull the trigger, kill a nigga, he’s a hero’ just as that mean-ass-motherfucker was walking by. My guess is he either didn’t realize you were singing along or didn’t have a sense of humor about you using the n-word.”

  “Oh.” Dunkin looks down at his fallen IPod and headphones which he must’ve dropped when he got punched. “Guess next time I’ll download the PG version of each song.”

  “Either that or stop singing along. I mean you seem like a cool dude but Tupac you are not.” With that, the stranger walks away leaving Dunkin rubbing his jaw and me more convinced than ever that no good can come of going to the gym.

  At least, I think, as Dunkin and I head out, we don’t have to do abs.

  .

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Three weeks after Gabe’s father’s funeral, Dunkin and I are spooning in my bed on a Friday night about to drift off to sleep when I hear the strumming of a guitar. Who would be playing the guitar at 10:00 p.m., in my suburban neighborhood? I recognize the song “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel from way back when, a 1980s throwback and timeless classic that I’ve heard more times than I can count. Then, whoever the mysterious guitar player is begins to sing and I get that plummeting feeling in my gut as I recognize the voice as Gabe’s.

  Shit! He’s serenading me outside my window. It is high school all over again. I picture Ms. Peg looking out her window and judging me as a hussy. She probably knows I’ve got one man inside and now another is on my front stoop crooning up at me about the light and the heat in my eyes. This can’t be happening.

  “What is that?” Dunkin asks, referring to the music outside.

  “It’s Gabe, that old boyfriend from high school I told you about who used to sing outside my bedroom window because he saw the movie Say Anything one too many times and thought it was romantic.”

  “And he’s outside now serenading you because?” Dunkin looks confused.

  “Because he thinks he’s still in love with me.” I flop back on the bed melodramatically, the longsuffering beloved, and bury my face in my pillow. Now, who’s seen too many movies?

  Dunkin laughs. “Well, coming from a man who knows just how incredible you are, I don’t blame him. Still… I probably ought to set the record straight.”

  Dunkin walks over to the bedroom window, opens it wide, and sticks his head out. “Hey!” he shouts down. “Watcha doing?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabe shouts, taken aback. “I thought Shayla Ross lived here. We’re in love. I came to see her.”

  Dunkin looks back into the room at me and raises an eyebrow.

  “We’re not in love,” I groan. “We never were. I saw him at his dad’s funeral and now I guess he wants to be with me.”

  Dunkin turns his attention back to Gabe. “Hey, listen, man—”

  “Do you know where she might’ve moved to? I really want to see her.”

  “Um… She’s here.”

  “Oh, great!” Gabe says not understanding that the presence of another man in my bedroom at 10:00 on a Friday night does not bode well for him.

  “Shayla and I are together, dude,” Dunkin says.

  Dude? When did he start using the word dude? What’s that about? And how does Gabe warrant dude-ing? Shouldn’t my boyfriend be jealous of another man encroaching on his
territory? What’s wrong with me? Why would I want to make Dunkin jealous? It’s twisted, but I realize that half of me is hoping the two men will come to blows over me. Sick, right? It took an entire two weeks for Dunkin’s last black eye to heal, and now here I am wishing another violent episode on the man I love. I have this idiotic fantasy of two madly in-love men fighting over me as I look on horrified and futilely beg them to stop. I decide that I’ve seen Bridget Jones’ Diary one too many times.

  “Listen, Gabe is it?” Dunkin is saying, “Shayla and I are incredibly in love and I don’t see that ever changing. You’ve gotta move on, get over her, find someone who loves you back.”

  I imagine Gabe’s dejected expression, his downcast gaze. But, instead of walking away as expected, his response surprises me.

  “I don’t believe you,” he declares. “I need to hear it from Shayla.”

  I come to the window. “Gabe, you’ve heard it from me 100 times. I’m just not interested. You’re a great guy, but I’ve moved on.”

  “But, my dad just died.”

  It strikes me as an insane thing to say. Does he expect me to declare my undying love for him simply because his dad had a heart attack? Am I obligated to run into his open arms because his dad’s no longer with us? I don’t think there’s such a thing as cosmic equilibrium although one of my favorite Seinfeld episodes is the one in which Jerry continually breaks even. Come to think of it, I’m already even. I’m in love with a man who loves me back.

  “Gabe, I’m sorry, but I don’t love you and no amount of trying to wear me down is going to make me love you. I’m happy and I’m in love with someone else.”

  He turns and walks away, looking dejected. I feel badly for him. But, what can I do?

  “I’m sorry about your dad!” I shout after him.

  Gabe turns to look up at me. His face is full of some emotion I cannot identify. He’s finally seeing it. I don’t want him. Now, he’ll let go of being in love with me and we can hit the reset button. I’m hopeful that now we can be friends, and that he’ll let go of this insanity and we can just be old childhood friends. I smile down at him, eager to embrace our burgeoning new—or is it old?—friendship. It would be nice to have another bosom buddy, especially one from childhood. He can be my new Carlo. Carlo and I used to date a long time ago, but the attraction is long-gone and now it’s just nice to have him in my life. I’m about to open my mouth to invite Gabe inside for a late-night cup of coffee, but it looks as if he’s about to say something, maybe extend an olive branch of his own.

  “Fuck you, Shayla!” Gabe screams at me just as I am thinking that there might be hope for a friendship. “You broke my heart.”

  I’m too stunned to say anything back. Dunkin shuts the window, terminating the conversation.

  It takes me a moment to recuperate after Gabe’s hurtful outburst and, I suppose, I misdirect some of my hurt on the hapless Dunkin.

  “You weren’t jealous.” I pout.

  “Did you want me to be?”

  “I’d be jealous if some woman showed up on your doorstep at 10:00 p.m. and started serenading you.”

  Dunkin pulls me close to him, presses his body against mine “I’ll be jealous if and when there’s something to be jealous about. The way I see it, though, he’s not a threat.”

  “Oh no?” I’ve never been good at arousing jealousy or suspicion in men, mainly because I am a serial monogamist, as incapable of infidelity as I would be of polygamy. I’m loyal to a fault.

  “Yeah,” Dunkin smiles. “I’m pretty sure I keep my woman satisfied.”

  “Oh you do, do you?”

  “Yes. In fact, let me show you…”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  After my boob-popping out fiasco during my last failed yoga experiment, I can’t believe I’ve agreed to do Yoga on the Steps with my friend Liza. But I have. It’s for a noble cause and, especially considering my mother’s cancer scare, I feel a special sort of empathy for women with breast cancer and am here to champion their cause!

  Wiping my hot yoga humiliation from my mind, I give myself a little pep talk.

  I am a woman-warrior, a yoga goddess, a saint. I will do yoga and help save lives along with the other thousands of Philadelphians who gather each year on the steps of the Philly Art Museum to “flow” for the cause.

  “Snap out of it, Mother Teresa,” Liza says.

  I hadn’t realized I was mumbling some of my thoughts out loud. Oops!

  “We’re gonna be late. Move your ass,” she barks.

  I speed up my pace as we hurry from the cars toward the registration desk. We drove separately, me following her because, even in Philly, I have a habit of getting lost. We’re parked forever away as it seems like everybody and their mother has come out for this event.

  I am dragging my yoga mat and hurrying along when Liza shouts back, “We’re nearly there.”

  Breathless, I reply with one syllable because it’s all my exhausted lungs are capable of. “Ya.”

  We arrive at the registration desk. Liza checks in effortlessly. She’s already pre-paid on line. When it’s my turn to sign in, I realize that I’ve forgotten my wallet in the car.

  “Shit!” I tell the volunteer who is signing people in. “I forgot my wallet. Can I mail a check?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Did she really just ma’am me? She’s older than I am! “Paid participants only.”

  I walk away without my pink bracelet, embarrassingly devoid of my complimentary Kind Bar. Liza glowers at me.

  “My wallet’s in my car and there’s no way I can make it all the way back there to get it and then get back here and register in time for yoga,” I say.

  “C’mon. We’ll sneak you in and you can just mail them a check when you get home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s Yoga on the Steps. You really think they’re gonna enforce security? These people are the essence of Zen.”

  As it turns out, they are not. Liza sneaks me in behind her pretty effortlessly. No one says a word. And we set up our mats near the stage, ready to move our bodies for the cause. I am minding my own business, pretending to look like I know what I’m doing, stretching and moving my body before the official start of the guided yoga class and attempting to blend in to the crowd when I see the volunteer from registration pointing in my direction. I look away.

  “Quick, pretend you know me,” I say to Liza.

  “I do know you.”

  “Pretend we’re talking.”

  “We are talking.”

  “Pretend I belong here and I didn’t sneak in because I was too lazy and too out of shape to go back to my car for my wallet.”

  She smiles. “Oh, Shayla, stop worrying,” Liza starts to say, but stops herself as a uniformed police officer appears, towering over us and addresses me in a booming baritone.

  “Miss, where is your bracelet?”

  Apparently, I am no longer a ma’am, but a Miss. And why am I thinking about salutations when my mind could be occupied with trying to find a plausible excuse for my naked wrist?

  “Um… I lost it,” I say lamely.

  “Is that true?”

  “No,” I admit stupidly.

  “Let’s go,” he says, escorting me down the Art Museum steps.

  “Want me to come?” Lisa shouts after me.

  “No. Have fun. I’m just gonna go home. Text me later. Bye,” I yell back as legitimate yogis look agape at the intruder in their midst.

  As I am led away, I notice the channel seven news van outside covering the event and think how nice it is that Yoga on the Steps is getting some publicity.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “I can’t believe my own daughter would make a mockery of cancer!”

  “What? Excuse me?”
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  “Tina Madras saw you on the six o’clock news being dragged away from Yoga on the Steps in handcuffs. Who gets arrested at a fundraiser for breast cancer?”

  “Mother,” I sigh exasperatedly. “I was not arrested. I didn’t do anything wrong,” not technically true, but morally accurate. I was going to mail in my check after all. Inwardly, I kick myself for picking up the phone.

  “Turn on channel seven,” she orders. “Tina said they’re running the story again at eight o’clock.”

  I hang up without bothering to say goodbye and turn on my TV as ordered. It is 7:56 p.m. A few minutes later, I watch an embarrassed-looking me being led down the steps as a newscaster I do not recognize says, “Yoga on the Steps, a time-honored Philadelphia event, was infiltrated today by a woman who made a mockery of this charitable event. Can you imagine? This woman, whose identity remains unknown, snuck in to a breast cancer fundraiser. Some people have no shame. Luckily, she was caught and escorted out before the official start of the yoga, but, still… Let’s go to Meredith on the street as she interviews the volunteer who served an integral role in apprehending this yoga intruder.”

  On the screen is an overly made up woman clad in an expensive-looking suit interviewing the bitchy female volunteer who tattled on me and got me kicked out.

  “Well,” the volunteer is saying, “I’ve been doing this for a long time now, and I know a suspicious character when I see one.”

  The camera pans to the footage of me, ostensibly the “suspicious character” being escorted out of the area. When I turn off the TV, I feel slightly sick but I tell myself that no one I know watches the news so it won’t really matter. Will it?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Principal Hane is sitting in my classroom on Monday morning, waiting for me. She looks as exhausted as I feel. I guess she must’ve been up all night thinking about reprimanding me just as I’ve been up all night worrying about being reprimanded.