Dunkin and Donuts (5 page)

Chapter Twelve

Speaking of indecent exposure, I may as well get it over with and tell you about what happened. For the record, I’m not at all prudish. I just have shame about my body. Who doesn’t? It seems as if we women today are taught to internalize a body-based form of shame unless we happen to look like supermodels or successfully eliminate carbs from our diets. This self-criticism is learned, acquired.

Perhaps, my insecurities about my body originate with my mother, her perfectionistic attitude toward her own physical form and constant criticism of mine. But, I don’t need to analyze that. I’m sure I could keep a therapist busy for years discussing the impact of my mother’s judgmentalism on me. But, why consult a therapist? Chocolate is cheaper and much more effective. Never mind that it may or may not lead to more body shame. There is an infinite supply of chocolate and therapy just seems to involve a lot of effort.

Anyway, I was about to tell you about the next breast-baring fiasco.

I was at school. Yes, surrounded by a group of young, impressionable children and their judgmental, hovering parents. Each year, Saint Sebastian puts on half a dozen fundraisers to raise money for various improvement projects or school-wide initiatives. I have volunteered to help with the car wash mainly because I don’t mind getting sudsy and we are allowed to sign up for three hour shifts. Most of the other fundraisers require giving up an entire Saturday. I’m not possessed of enormous breasts. My B cups runneth over and my C cups are only half full. And, because I am body-conscious female, I don’t own many bathing suits. I have a too tight one-piece, a threadbare tankini and an adorable, extremely modest, two-piece that clasps in the front.

So there I am awash in suds and talking to Saint Sebastian’s principal about an upcoming class field trip I’d like to take the kids on.

“You don’t think the Please Touch Museum is a nightmare waiting to happen?”

“Not at all. It’s an opportunity for learning. Besides, Ronnie and I would go and we’d get at least three or four parent volunteers. The adult-student ratio could be as small as one to four.”

“It’s not a bad idea.” Principal Hane scratches her head pensively. “I’ll think about it.”

As I turn away, one of my students is fiddling with a wayward hose.

“It won’t work, Ms. Ross.”

“It should,” I say, taking it out of young Johnny’s hands.

As I work to untangle the hose, someone shouts out from the distance, someone I don’t see and will never forgive. “This hose isn’t turned on!”

The nozzle is pointed straight at my chest when, suddenly, it expels a great stream of water directly at my chest and, surprise, surprise, the delicate front-fastening clasp bursts wide open revealing not one but two of my extremely cold—the water is icy and I am wet—breasts. I turn wildly around. My nipples point at whoever let loose the offending water as if to chastise them. Momentarily stunned, I am immobilized for several seconds before I frantically force my top back together and flee the scene.

I feel like such a disaster. When I return to the carwash ten minutes later, wearing a Save the Whales T-shirt taken from the gym bag in the back of my trunk, no one says a word.

Chapter Thirteen

“Only you.” Brice laughs when I tell him about the flashing incident at the carwash.

When he laughs, I can’t help but chuckle too. It’s a reflex.

“It’s not funny,” I protest.

“Then why are we both laughing?”

“Because we’re deeply disturbed individuals.”

“Well, that goes without saying, girlfriend. But I think we’re cracking up because this is one hysterical situation.”

My best friend has the power to make me smile—always. He’s my emotional BandAid and he never judges me. Besides, since he’s gay, there’s never any sexual tension to worry about. I love Dunkin to death and he has the power to take away my pain, but I sometimes feel like I don’t totally want to expose the worst parts of myself to the man I’m in love with. I mean, it’s hard to be so exposed.

With Brice, I can be my most bumbling, vulnerable self. He’s seen me at my best and at my worst. Speaking of worst…

“Robin called me today,” Brice says, changing the subject to his own juicy topic
du jour
.

“I hope you didn’t answer.”

“I couldn’t. I was working.”

Is he seriously swooning over his ex? Brice’s moony-eyed expression makes me want to throttle him. He’s spent the last six months trying to let go of his asshole ex-boyfriend. There’s no way he’s going back to Robin if I have any say in the matter. But, before I can open my mouth to speak, Brice fills the silence.

“He left me the sweetest message.”

“Which you of course promptly deleted…”

Robin, Brice’s boyfriend of five years, has a history of repeated insensitivities and infidelities. Most of their relationship involved Brice crying and Robin lying. Suffice it to say, I am not a fan.

“Listen to it.” Brice puts his phone on speakerphone and hits play.

“Hey… It’s me. I love you and I miss you. I know I hurt you, but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me and I want you in my life. I’ve changed and I’ll do anything to get you back. Please, Brice, call me.”

I growl at the phone. “You haven’t changed,” I say as if Robin can somehow magically hear me.

“What if he has?” Brice wonders aloud.

“Excuse me? He cheated on you—repeatedly and he treated you like shit.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. So why do I still want him back?”

“Because you’re human and you loved him.”

Two hours and two six-packs later, we are both extremely buzzed.

“I hate him!” Brice says—referring, of course, to his ex.

“Me too,” I slur. “We should tell him he’s a poopyhead.” Apparently, my repertoire of insults has descended to the level of my students. Note to self: Drinking makes me stupid.

“Yes! We should tell him I’m over him.”

“You’re over him. I guess that makes you the top.”

We laugh ridiculously and, in the midst of his hyena cackle, Brice makes the ill-advised decision to drunk-dial Robin.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Robin’s voicemail picks up.

“Hey poopyhead it’s me. I got your message and I’m not buying. I’m too good for that. You had your chance and honey you lost me. Sure, I’m drunk now but, ya know, you fucked a bartender so we’re even Steven. Steven. That’s a nice name. I like that name…”

I gesture wildly at my friend to hang up.

“Okay, um…I gotta go. Thank you. Love you. Wait, no. I don’t. I dunno why I said that. Bye, poopyhead.”

He hits the disconnect button on the phone with a flourish, which is odd considering the fact that hanging up an IPhone is decidedly undramatic. I guess we’re both pretty intoxicated. Then, for some reason, we put Tupperware on our heads and have a pillow fight. It is only later, after we’ve fallen asleep head-to-toe on Brice’s bed when I wake up to a pair of feet kicking me in the face, that realization dawns.

“Holy shit! What did I do last night? Did I really call Robin?” Brice sits bolt upright in bed and looks at me panic-stricken.

Unfortunately, neither of us got drunk enough to forget that.

Chapter Fourteen

Over coffee at Starbucks, Brice laments his own drunken idiocy. And mine.

“Me? What did I do?” I ask incredulously.

“You should’ve stopped me from making an ass out of myself.”

“Impossible,” I declare.

“I’m so depressed. I need a bagel. I need two bagels.”

“What about your resolution to take better care of yourself and to lose weight?”

“I’ll start tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“You’re not being a very supportive friend.”

“I
am
being a supportive friend. Brice, you’re mad at me because, last night, I didn’t keep you from doing something stupid. Binging on bagels would be doing something stupid. So it’s my job to stop you.”

“Point taken,” he admits. “Can I at least binge drink coffee?”

“Is it black?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Then go right ahead.”

Placated by my willingness to let him drink himself into a caffeine stupor, Brice sits back in his chair and says “Who cares about Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“So what if I drunk dialed him?”

“Right,” I agree.

“He’s out of my life. Besides, my message to him was no more embarrassing than his message to me.”

“Absolutely,” I acquiesce, even though I don’t actually agree.

“Should I replay his message to me?”

“Absolutely not.”

And that’s when it happens. Right there in the middle of Starbucks. I don’t even feel it coming. The previous night’s beer decides to announce itself as I let out the loudest, most obscene, cheek-vibrating fart of my life. Every single coffee drinking patron in the place turns to look at me. I can’t even pretend it wasn’t me because my face turns bright red and then blanches a pale, anemic white.

Brice goes apoplectic with laughter. “Now
that’s
embarrassing!” he shrieks.

I’m so mortified that I rush off to the bathroom, partly to regain my composure, partly in case my anus sees fit to emit anything else. Now, I remember why I don’t drink beer. It makes me fart—that and the fact that I’m not especially fond of the taste.

I splash cold water on my face, gather myself, take a moment to make sure my bottom is finished releasing gas, and, as I turn to walk out of the bathroom, decide that I may as well pee first. All that coffee seems to be running right through me. Stupidly, I have put my cell phone in the pocket of my hoodie and, as I go to sit down, it slips out, and lands in the toilet with a kerplunk.

Today is not my day.

Chapter Fifteen

Dunkin and I have a tradition at parties that began before we were even a couple, back when we were merely friends. We adopt fake personas and get a kick out of shocking the other guests. We develop elaborate backstories and enact random scenarios, adopting a variety of outlandish character traits just for the hell of it. We pretend to be people we are not.

Tonight, Dunkin has tickets to a black tie gala and he’s invited me to join him.

“I don’t know anyone there,” he tells me. “But, one of our wealthy research donors sent Scott and me tickets and he can’t go.”

Scott Drew is Dunkin’s business partner and the father of one of my former students. In fact, Dunkin and I met last summer at a party thrown by Scott and Pamela Drew.

“Score,” I say.

I’m not really one for getting all dolled up, but I love going to events with Dunkin. He makes everything fun.

“So what’s our gimmick tonight?” Dunkin asks on the car ride over to the party.

“Let’s be English,” I suggest. “We can adopt snooty accents and pretentious attitudes and pretend to be above all the stupid Americans.”

“I thought we could pretend to be swingers.”

“Why not do both?”

“Bangers and mash. Blimey! Why di’n’t I think o’ that?” He laughs.

I chuckle. When we arrive, Dunkin takes my arm and leads me inside the very opulent lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I feel like a princess in a fairytale. My dress is a shimmery shade of gold interspersed with green hues and I know it makes me look fabulous because, when Brice picked it out with me, he told me, “You look fabulous,” and he’s not one for hyperbole when it comes to a woman’s appearance. Dunkin is mouthwatering in his tuxedo and, with his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, I feel loved. I also feel mischievous.

“Darling,” I say loudly in my bad British accent. “Isn’t all this just ghastly.”

“Oh yes, snookums. So incredibly déclassé to be so obvious about opulence.” He agrees. Dunkin has the English accent nailed.

We stride confidently about the room, conversing in our adopted accents.

“I’m knackered,” I say.

“Don’t be cheeky,” he replies. “You’ll give me the collywobbles.”

I look at him quizzically.

“It means anxiety in your stomach,” Dunkin clarifies, whispering so no one but me can hear him.

Dunkin used to live in England back when he was married to the beautiful Bethany. It’s no surprise that he’s better at pretending to be English than I am. I decide I’ll one-up him in the area of outlandish sexual suggestiveness. I decide to proceed with part two of our relationship persona for the evening.

“Darling,” I say rather loudly. “Do you think we’ll find any other swingers here tonight? I quite fancy a change of pace.”

“Don’t be a daft cow. These people aren’t the right sort for that. Stuffed shirts, the whole lot, I bet you.”

“Pity that,” I gaze ruefully at him, tossing my hair petulantly and pouting as if I am actually put out by this turn of events. “I really could use a good shagging.”

Suddenly, I become quite aware that the couple standing a few feet behind us is steadily inching closer. Are they trying to hear our conversation? I’ll give them something to listen to! Nosiness is our best ally in our quest to shock and dismay. I always love a good eavesdropper.

“I had such high hopes for the evening,” I lament.

“You aren’t the only one in need of some Rumpy Dumpy.”

“Ah well, let’s get some drinks and have us a bit of the old slap and tickle.”

“Excuse me,” the tall, rugged gentleman behind us cuts in. “I couldn’t help but overhear…”

“Oh?” I’m surprised that he’s admitting to have been snooping on our conversation.

“Yes. This is my wife Eve and my name is Frank.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Dunkin shakes hands with the couple although, from the expression on Eve’s face, that’s not all she wants to shake.

“I’m Dunkin and this is Shayla.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” Frank undresses me with his eyes. “If you’re interested in swinging, my wife and I are into that.”

Just my luck. I’m speechless. Dunkin seems at a loss too.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, we are, but…”

“Dunkin!” Frank exclaims excitedly, putting two and two together. I see the wheels turning in his head as he’s connecting dots I am not even aware of. “Not Dunkin Wilks?”

“Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Frank Peony.”

“Ah. Righto, my good man,” Dunkin slaps him heartily on the back.

“Pardon?” I interrupt. “Do you fellows know each other?”

“In a manner… Frank is the benefactor who so graciously gave us the tickets. He funds a great deal of our research and donates medical supplies and the like to my practice. He’s a sort of silent partner…”

Dunkin shakes Frank’s hand again, this time far more heartily. “It is good to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” He’s looking at me when he says it, the creep.

Then again, Dunkin and I did set ourselves up by announcing ourselves as swingers. How the hell are we going to get out of this predicament?

“So what do you say my good man? Shall we combine business and pleasure?” Frank suggests.

Dunkin freezes.

I’m amazed when I say, “Well, as much as we’d love that and as lovely as the two of you are, we have a different type.”

“Oh?” Eve looks offended.

“We’re bisexual,” I say, thinking on my feet.

If I can give them a reason for our refusal that doesn’t feel personal, maybe, we can all share a laugh and there’ll be no hard feelings. No way do I want to offend a major investor in Dunkin’s practice.

“I’m into women and Dunkin likes men. But, you must’ve known that. You’re taking the piss aren’t you?” I decide that the best defense is a good offense.

“How would we have known that?”

“At work. Everybody knows. Dunkin even has a boy-toy.”

“I don’t believe it,” Frank says. “If you’re not interested, just say so.” He looks offended.

“Really. I’ll ring him now,” I say, calling Frank’s bluff. Thank God Brice and I are avid improvisers and perpetual tricksters. As I dial my best friend’s number, I hope he’ll have the good sense to roll with it.

“Hey! I’m surprised you’re calling me tonight. I thought you were going to that party,” Brice says.

“Brice, darling, it’s Shayla. Of Dunkin and Shayla. We’re at this fundraiser, dear and no one seems to believe me that dear Dunkin is a bit of a faggot.”

“Bisexual,” Dunkin clarifies to no one in particular, as if any of this matters.

“We’ve met some very lovely swingers, but we seem to have hurt their feelings what with me wanting a lady and Dunkin a man. They don’t believe us,” I explain into the receiver, hoping fervently that Brice will have the good sense to improvise.

“Am I on speakerphone?”

“No, darling, but can I put you on the Telly?” I realize that I’ve used the English word for television rather than what I intended, which was to use the word for phone. I hope no one else noticed.

“Sure. Just one thing. Am I English too?”

“No, dear.”

I hand the phone to Frank. And, although I can’t hear both sides of the conversation, I can extrapolate from what I hear Frank say and from what Brice relates later, that this is what is said:

Brice: So how do you know my boyfriend?

Frank: I don’t. We just met tonight.

Brice: Well, he and Shayla and I have a good thing going, so don’t you mess it up. Him screwing a woman is one thing, but every time he does his swinging thing with some strange man, it makes me feel like shit. And if I feel like shit, you and I will have a problem. Am I making myself clear?

Frank: Crystal. So Dunkin is… gay?

Brice: He thinks he’s bi, but I tend to think he prefers the old beef baton to the sausage pocket if you know what I mean.

Frank: (Stammers). Yes, yes. I think I do.

Brice: He’d be embarrassed to admit it, but he’s a bottom.

Frank: (Chuckles).

Brice: What? You think it’s funny to be gay? Do I amuse you? Don’t tell me I have to come down there and kick some over-privileged, lily-white ass.

Frank: No, no. This has all been a colossal misunderstanding.

Brice: Well, don’t misunderstand this…If you don’t leave my boyfriend alone, you’ll be dead meat. You hear?

Frank: (Nods wordlessly).

They hang up the phone and Frank hands it back to me.

“See. We think you’re smashing,” I say. “Quite lovely and jolly good fun. But…”

“No need to explain,” Frank says, taking his wife’s arm. “And no worries about any of this. Our business dealings will remain unchanged. Personally, however, let’s let this be our one and only meeting.”

“Done,” Dunkin says. “That’s very gracious of you.”

Frank can’t get away from us fast enough. The rest of the night is remarkably tame in comparison. Needless to say, Dunkin and I give up the charade and resume our regular, unassuming American personas for the rest of the night.

We’re not taking any chances.