Dunkin and Donuts (11 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

“What, exactly, are we doing here?”

Brice, Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, Carlo, Dunkin, Marlene, and I are at a modern art exhibit at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Center City. Mandy, Bridget, Louis, Leslie, and Carlo are close friends of Brice and mine. We’ve known each other for years and are an incredibly close-knit group. Since getting into a relationship, I’ve seen less of my friends—not for any real reason except that my newfound love has left me with less available time. My friends are always ragging on me to come out with them. So, I’ve obliged. Reluctantly. I’m not exactly an art-lover. Artistic nuance is lost on me. My guilty conscience, and desire to see the crew, win out however and I’ve allowed myself to be dragged to this exhibit.

For some reason, my friends have suddenly decided that infusing some culture into our lives will be good for us. And, while I agree, I simply don’t get modern art.

“Who is the artist?” I ask again for the umpteenth time while staring at an upended garbage can which has been spray-painted with elaborate, obscene graffiti. Cutout images of male and female private parts adorn the garbage can and a headless Styrofoam figure lays prostrate on the floor in front of said can. The piece is entitled, “White Trash World.”

Carlo laughs. “Shayla, we tell you, you forget. We tell you again, you forget again. Do you really even care?”

“No,” I say honestly. “All this pretentiousness—this art imitating art, imitating life—crap is lost on me.”

“Me too,” Leslie says. “I feel like I should be drunk or high to understand this piece. Like this stuff was made for a bad acid trip.”

“Or made by someone on a bad acid trip,” I agree.

We are joking, of course. My friends are as straight-laced as I am. None of us have even the slightest idea what it’d be like to be on acid.

“I dunno,” Brice says. “I kind of like it. It’s enticing.”

I am perplexed by this sudden demonstration of artistic interest until I notice that Brice is not actually looking at the art but at an attractive, clearly gay, art enthusiast. The man is standing, spellbound in front of a piece entitled “Vaginal Vacuum,” which is an elaborately constructed, oversized replication of the lower extremities of the female anatomy with a vacuum cleaner in the place where the clitoris ought to be. I groan.

“A gay guy who is into vaginas? Really, Brice? I think you’re asking for trouble.”

“I think I’m asking for a date.”

I wasn’t aware that my best friend had once again abandoned his dating diet, but I’m not surprised by his lack of willpower. Despite my jokes, the art patron is pretty delectable. Besides, I’m glad Brice has apparently decided to go back on the market instead of letting himself be dragged back into Robin’s web of lust and lies. Now, there’s a potential art piece! We could call it “Penile Penetration” and it would involve an image of Brice worshipping at the altar of Robin’s manhood. Only, instead of a penis, Robin’s male member would be replaced by a fire hose thereby signifying the fire in Robin’s loins and Brice’s unquenchable sexual thirst, his need for Robin to both ignite and extinguish his fire.

Apparently, I missed my calling as an artist. A man I do not know, clad in black slacks and a pretentious turtleneck, approaches me and gestures expansively around the room.

“Magnificent, don’t you think?”

“In what way?” I ask.

“The commentary. What the work says about Western culture. About the idiocy of American consumerism, about life.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We are kind of idiots. I mean, we call this stuff art and really all it is is one artist’s mental masturbation, his attempts to shock us with this untalented, insignificant pile of stuff. I don’t know why anyone thinks this crap is art.”

The stranger looks flabbergasted, but he says nothing as I walk back over to my friends.

“What was he saying to you?” Brice asks excitedly as he hurries back to us. “I got that guy’s number. Yay! Isn’t he cute?”

We all start to look just as Brice is hissing at us not to look. I chuckle.

“Can we get out of here?” Dunkin asks. “I don’t get this stuff.”

“Me neither,” I say.

“None of us do,” Louis agrees.

“No one does,” Leslie echoes her brother’s sentiments.

“I dunno,” I say. “That guy back there who was talking to me seemed to get whatever it is that the rest of us are missing. He seemed to honestly be impressed by that crap,” I gesture at the man who is now scowling at me and my friends as we walk toward the exit.

Brice’s face turns white, his eyes open-wide, horrified. “Shayla, you didn’t tell that guy the art was crap did you?”

“Of course I did,” I say. “It’s stupid and I said so.”

“Shayla, the man in there is Vladimir Stoyavski, the artist. You just insulted his work.”

Thankfully, we are outside and, even though I am mortified, I’m relieved at not having to face the man whose art I just told to his face I thought was idiotic and overrated. Thank God, he didn’t throw his vaginal vacuum cleaner at me or anything.

Mandy lets out a loud, booming laugh. “Shayla, you are a hoot! I’ve never known anyone who puts their foot in their mouth as often as you. Girl, I love ya!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

It’s the kind of frigid cold that gets into your bones outside and I’d give anything to avoid being out in this weather. Unfortunately, the kids love it and I’ve promised them an extra-long recess so we can do our art outside. Instead of the usual finger-painting or coloring activities, we’re making snowmen. Every little kid deserves to make a snowman even if it means me having to freeze my ass off. It’s worth it. The smiles on their faces are enough to warm my heart. And, as for warming my hands, my gloves aren’t doing diddly-squat. My fingers are freezing. I withdraw my hands from my gloves, blow on them like an insane person, trying to bring warmth to my pink-tipped fingers.

“Okay, kids,” I say. “Time to head inside.”

They groan. I have a feeling that they won’t be complaining for long. I sent Ronnie inside a little while ago to make hot chocolate and set out graham crackers for snack time.

“Do we have to go in now, Ms. Ross?” Angelica tugs at my pant leg, imploring me to let them stay out “just a little bit longer.”

I shake my head and frown. “Sorry, love. It’s time for a snack.” I say. I’m a pushover and have already kept them out five minutes longer than I’d intended.

“Walk carefully,” I say as we all shuffle along in our boots. “It’s icy.”

No sooner have I said this than I forget to look where I’m going. The heel of my boot slips and I do a nosedive into a snowbank as twenty eight wide-eyed kindergarteners look on, open-mouthed as their teacher falls face-first in the snow. Wanting not to appear any more foolish than usual, I play the whole thing off as if it were intentional.

“Look kids, snow angels!” I exclaim as I move my arms and legs around and pretend not to be a klutz. On second thought, the snow angel ruse is probably not such a good idea because, before I can stop them, every single kid lays face-down in the snow and begins flailing around, imitating me. By the time I get myself, and them, back on our collective feet and inside, we are all covered in snow. Red-face and shivering, the kids and I strip off our jackets and shake the snow from our boots.

“Who wants hot chocolate?” I ask.

“We do!” they chorus.

As we head back into the classroom, I notice Principal Hane coming out of my classroom a few seconds before we reach the door.

The kids run inside and begin eagerly devouring their snacks.

“Was Principal Hane just in here?” I ask Ronnie.

“Yeah. She was just wondering where you and the kids were and why I was in here alone. I told her about the snowman and she left.”

“Oh, okay. Phew!”

Is it my imagination or is Ronnie deliberately avoiding eye contact as she hands me my mug of steaming hot chocolate?

Chapter Thirty-Four

I am dressed to the nines. It’s Valentine’s Day and Dunkin’s taking me to New York City for dinner and a show, then we’re staying in an upscale Manhattan hotel.

“You look beautiful.” Dunkin leans against the doorjamb as I come down the stairs, soaking in the sight of me.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” I love the sight of my boyfriend in his suit—sans tie. He’s got on pinstriped black pants and a pinstriped jacket with an emerald green shirt underneath. The shirt brings out the green in his eyes. I am rendered momentarily breathless by the sight of my beautiful boyfriend.

Sometimes, when I’m with Dunkin, I want to pinch myself just so I know I’m real and he’s real.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks me. “You’ve got a funny expression.”

“Oh, I’m just happy,” I say.

“Was that really what you were thinking?”

“Actually, I was wondering what someone like you is doing with someone like me?”

“Oh, you mean an intelligent, beautiful, insightful, fun, and dynamic woman?”

“I mean a hapless klutz.”

“I love that you’re a klutz,” Dunkin tells me, taking me into his warm, strong embrace.

“Want me to trip, just to get you off?” I joke.

“I’d rather you get your fine butt into the car so we can head up to New York for our romantic night.”

“Let me just grab my purse,” I say.

I run back up the stairs, take my handbag off of the bed, and throw a few additional items—a lipstick, a pocket mirror, and a pen—inside.

The drive to New York City is one I’ve made many times before but never with Dunkin. A few years back, Brice, Robin, a few of Brice’s friends, and I had gone to New York for the Pride parade. Now
that
was a fun time.

“When was the last time you came to New York?” I ask Dunkin.

“I guess it must’ve been for a medical conference this past summer. What about you?”

I tell him about Pride—about getting drunk on Chocolate Martinis and making friends with drag queens, about shouting, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!” so loud my throat ached for days afterwards.

“You’re so adventurous, Shayla. I love that about you,” Dunkin says.

Readying myself for a kiss, I slip a hand into my purse, withdraw a mint, and pop it into my mouth. At the next red light, I lean over and kiss Dunkin on the lips, a long languorous dancing of the tongues that feels…delicious.

When I pull away, I notice that his lips are a dark, odd shade of blue. I stare spellbound at his strangely discolored lips.

“What’s wrong with your mouth?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?” he looks in the driver’s side mirror then glances over at me. “Oh crap. You have it too. What’s wrong with your mouth?”

Checking my own mirror, I see that my mouth is ink-stained. Shit! My pen must’ve exploded in my purse. We look ghoulish suddenly. How are we supposed to get through Valentine’s Day looking like a couple of aspiring Goths or a science experiment gone horribly wrong?

But, Dunkin says we’re in New York City where anything goes. Not only does he not mind the ink but he stops outside of the Mac store on Columbus Avenue on our way to dinner, double parks, runs in, and emerges with a hideously blue lipstick that he applies first to his own lips then to mine.

“There!” he declares. “Now, it looks intentional.”

So we go through the rest of the night like that—to the show, to dinner, to everything. And, the next morning, when the ink still won’t come off, we reapply our blue lipstick and go downstairs to breakfast. Because what the hell? It’s New York City and, just like Dunkin said, absolutely anything goes in the Big Apple.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Li Chen!” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around the tiny Asian woman who seems taken aback by my enthusiastic greeting. Li Chen is not, it seems, much of a hugger.

“Miss Shayla how ah you?” she peels me off of her and smiles wanly. I know the woman likes me. She’s just not very affectionate. Once, she brought her son to work and when he fell and skinned his knee, her response to his crying was to pat him on the head once and say “You big boy. No cry. Get over it.” He was three.

Needless to say, I don’t take her lack of warmth toward me personally.

“Are you all better?” I ask. “You were sick.”

“Stupid cold,” she growls at me as if her sickness had been my fault. “I’m all betta. Chinese herbs. Very good. They help me lot. You Westerners very stupid with your doctors.”

I think back to my Xanax mishap and do not disagree with her.

“Why you here? Your eyebrows not look too bad.”

Miraculously, they don’t. They’ve grown back and I’ve been doing a good job tweezing them.

“I need a Brazilian bikini wax,” I whisper to her in hushed tones.

I’m looking to surprise Dunkin. I usually have a landing strip, but have decided to go bald and mix it up just for shits and giggles. I read in
Cosmo
that altering one’s grooming habits south of the equator can infuse more passion in the bedroom.

Not that Dunkin and I have anything to worry about in that department. And I aim to keep it that way, thank you very much.

“You want all off?” Li Chen looks me over appraisingly.

“Yes.”

“Why you want look like little girl?”

“For my boyfriend.”

“In China these men like little girls they very bad men. Pedophiles.”

“I assure you that my boyfriend is not a pedophile,” I laugh. The woman is a waxing extraordinaire but lacks diplomacy.

“Okay, you come with me.” She leads me to the back room, instructs me to remove my pants and underwear and I lay on the table. What follows is perhaps the most excruciating twenty minutes of my life. I scream, she rips. I swear, she shakes her head. We go on this way, her immune to my pain and me unable to behave with the stoic dignity required in such a situation.

After a few minutes, one of the other waxing women sticks her head in the room. “Be quiet. You scare customers,” she hisses at me.

I recognize her as the woman who destroyed my eyebrows. “You!” I shout. But, she disappears quickly, recognizing me at once. I’m covered in hot wax and not about to chase her. Besides, Li Chen rips off another waxing strip and I let out a howl so loud it might raise the dead.

“Don’t be cry baby,” my sympathetic Li Chen tells me.

I hold the pillow over my mouth to keep from making any more noise. When she finishes I am, as requested, completely and totally bald. The entire area is red and sensitive and when I put my panties back on, they chafe.

“Ouch!” I say. I pay for the services then walk out of the nail salon, careful not to walk too quickly lest the fabric rub against my unmentionables any more than absolutely necessary. It is a strange sensation in my nether regions, not altogether unpleasant, but weird.

I hadn’t realized when I booked this appointment that my skin would be so sensitive afterward. But, who cares? Beauty is pain. I learned that from my mother.

I’ve asked Dunkin If I can swing by his office after hours.

“I want to show you something,” I told him, knowing about my waxing plans and wanting an impromptu rendezvous.

“Sure thing,” he’d said. “Stop by at 6:30.”

So I do. At 6:30 sharp, I am at the door to the office, knocking. Can a knock be seductive? I hope so. At least, I try my best to knock alluringly.

Dunkin answers the door with a smile. “Hey, Shayla.” He kisses me hello.

“Are we alone?” I ask, my voice breathy, my tone suggestive.

“Yeah. Why?” He looks puzzled.

I waste no time. Right there in his office waiting room, I strip down to nothing. I stand naked before my boyfriend and he can’t take his eyes off me. His gaze is riveted to my genital area. Thank you, Li Chen!

“Um… Shayla, is everything okay?” Dunkin points. Pointing during sex is never a good sign, especially when followed by laughing. And I can tell from his expression that my boyfriend is trying not to—laugh that is.

I look down. My vag is an angry, red, discolored mass of excoriated flesh. Apparently, I needed to give it time to heal. Instead, I stand here with my genitals looking like a stop sign, a red octagonal area clearly saying “stay away” when what I wanted to say was “come hither.”

“Oh crap!” I say. “I got waxed. I wanted to seduce you.”

“Baby, as your physician, I gotta tell you, that doesn’t look good. I think you need to ice it and rest it for at least a couple of days. Maybe even put aloe vera cream on the area.”

We table the sex and instead opt to go out for pizza. So much for romance.