donut pub

Saturday

In the morning, his mother calls. His father wants to buy a leather jacket, and we decide this is an event we cannot miss. We meet them at a sleek, high end leather goods store in midtown. Most of the coats cost more than my rent. Clerk tries on a light brown, suede sports coat, and his mother and I admire him.

The weather is misty, gray, a little cold. I tell Clerk that he is just like his father; both wear dark green, waterproof, hooded windbreakers. "He is his son's father, because I taught him about Gore-Tex," he explains. "Sure, sure," I tease. And it is cute, the men in their green shells, holding umbrellas over the women's heads.

At a second, less expensive store, his father tries on multiple jackets. We advise him that certain styles are more flattering. "I need all the help I can get," he quips. He is happy when he finally finds one that he likes. I take them to a restaurant in the Village near my apartment, a cozy, European spot, with arched cork ceilings, and burnished yellow walls. We sit in the back, in a bright room with a glass ceiling and flower boxes high on the walls. An urban greenhouse.

We have brunch. I sip a cool glass of sauvignon blanc and eat my eggs, baked in a tiny cast iron skillet with red wine and mushrooms. The conversation is easy. We talk about my work, about Maine, about their travels.

After brunch, we walk to my apartment, so that Clerk's father can check his email. He is adorable, peering closely at the small screen, reading emails aloud to his wife, from their neighbors and friends. Clerk, his mother, and I sit on the couch, eating grapes and chatting.

At the next store, Clerk's father tries on trenchcoats, and Clerk spots two suits. One is gray, with brown and light blue pinstripes. Classic, but with trendy colors. Then he asks about another: brownish, with darker threads throughout, an Italian cut. The salesman starts to spin: "Oh, now that's a different ball game. Where are you from?" Clerk answers, and the salesman pitches, "I don't know if you can wear this down there." The salesman warns, "the pants aren't what you're used to. They're much tighter." Clerk steps out of the dressing room, and the salesman says, "Turn around, so they can see the seat," and I have to giggle, as the three of us study his rear.

He studies himself in the mirror, and I watch him, watching himself. He is both handsome and sexy. Tall, broad shoulders, athletic. His mother looks at me, and I say, "That's a great suit," and I wonder if she can tell what I'm really thinking.

We meet the H’s at a modest Indian restaurant way uptown. The room is dark red, with festive electric lights and colored flags crisscrossing across the ceiling. I am surprised at how little the parents know about Indian food and what to order. I ask the proprietor, a smiling, gap-toothed balding Indian man, for a recommendation, and he says they will make something for me not on the menu, and everyone teases me, but I shrug and hope they don't think I am pretentious or picky.

At some point, Clerk's father says, "The three worst words you can hear is 'I've been thinking. And the four worst are, 'We have to talk.'" Everyone laughs, and I lean over and joke, "I'll think of another way to say that," but I am really thinking, We really do have to talk.

The jazz club is crowded. Four small tables have been reserved for us, and Clerk sits on my left. The bandleader is a grizzled, African American man, wearing a round cloth hat and a cotton tunic. He introduces the songs in a surprisingly high, raspy voice. People are nodding and tapping their hands and feet to the music. I put my arm behind Clerk, on the back of his chair, though doing so feels slightly masculine.

Clerk asks me if I have a pen in my bag. I look quizzically at him, but pull one out of my purse. “I have an idea for a book about jazz.” He turns over a flyer and scribbles furiously.

We are shocked when the band finishes an hour later, and plans not to start again until 11, when an entirely different crowd will take the seats that we have reserved. Everyone is slightly disappointed, but I am slightly relieved, because I have promised my friends a glimpse of the mysterious Clerk.

In the subway station, Mrs. H notices that one of the raucous homeless men standing near us is holding a huge knife. She murmurs this to Clerk’s mother, who murmurs it each of us. We casually walk toward the other end of the platform, and the men mock us. Finally, the train comes, and we sigh, relieved. But as the door closes, another loud, aggressive man starts to threaten Dr. H. “Don’t look at me! You want this?” He swings a plastic bag, harmlessly. Dr. H looks down. The subway car is full, and everyone looks away. I think, Clerk could definitely take him, but my grip tightens on the subway pole. I move toward Clerk, who stares blankly at the man. I look at up at him, miserably, anxiously. I flash back to a similar encounter years before, on my birthday, one that had resulted in a major fight between myself and my then boyfriend. He had tried to protect me by waving away a drunk man’s gestures, and I had yelled at him, accusing him of trying to be a vigilante.

Finally, we reach the parents’ stop, and the drunk man gets off as well. I am relieved, but hope he does not follow them. I look at Clerk. “You ok?” he asks gently. I realize that my hand is still gripping the pole, and I relax.

We reach our stop, and walk to the party. Suddenly, embarrassingly, I really have to use the restroom, so I duck into a diner, and plead. The waitress is sympathetic, and lets me use the single toilet. We reach the party, in a nondescript apartment building. It is loud, sweaty, young. We find my friends and chat with them. I introduce Clerk to them. Technically, most of my friends have met him before, at my birthday party, though apparently, I had been so drunk that I introduced him to no one, and instead started kissing him the corner.

After a few beers, I have forgotten the subway incident, and we are enjoying ourselves. He seems comfortable talking with V, also a lawyer, so I leave them and chat with other folks. Hours later, the party has emptied out. P, F, Clerk and I are watching a movie with no sound. We decide it is time.

A block from my house , there is a 24-hour donut shop called “Donut Pub.” Garishly bright, it is a staple for night shift workers and a beacon for yuppie drunks. The donuts are soft, sticky, and sweet. We are sated. We walk home.

Afterwards, in bed, we talk about the party. “I like your friends,” he says, and we talk about my buddies, whom I adore. I hesitate, but then I say, “I have a friend who always says that a good couple goes to a party together, talks to different people, and then goes home together.” And he agrees, “The only problem I’ll ever have with you at a party is when people say to me, ‘________(my name) seems smart, funny, interesting...what is she doing with you?’” And I tease him, “Don’t you tell them how much you pay me to hang out with you?” We talk for a while, and I am getting drowsy. He squeezes me tight. “Well,” he announces, “you’re all right. I guess I like you.” I look up at him and beam. “I like you, too.”