Dunkin and Donuts (15 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

I felt a bump as I drove over something, offered up a silent prayer that my car would be okay, and continued driving. After a half mile or so, I began to feel the slightly lopsided tilt of my car and knew what had happened. Something must’ve punctured my tire. I’d gotten a flat.

I hate to admit this, but I’ve admitted a wealth of other embarrassing information so I’ll share this little tidbit too. I don’t know how to change a tire. I never bothered to learn. I should have. My dad even offered to teach me once, but my mother, in her infinite wisdom, pointed out that attractive women could usually find a man to change a flat for them.

“I’ve never changed a tire in my life, and I’ve gotten a lot of flats,” she’d smiled.

I wasn’t sure if I had declined my father’s offer to teach me due to my mother’s assertion that good looks are an escape hatch out of manual labor or purely out of laziness. We had, after all, been watching
Casablanca
for the hundredth time when Dad suggested taking me outside and giving me a lesson. I hadn’t wanted to turn off the movie. Anyway, the fact remains that I don’t know how to change a tire. And here I am with a flat. My solution? Call my dad.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey, Dad. Are you busy?”

“Shayla? What’s wrong?”

I never call my dad at the office so the fact that I am phoning him at 3:30 on the way home from work—the sound of passing traffic as background noise in the distance—must be disconcerting for him. Plus, my dad can always read my tone of voice.

“Are you okay, honey?” From his voice, I can tell that he is worried about me.

“I got a flat tire.”

“Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

I tell him the address, then put on my flashers and sit in the car hoping that I am far enough over on the shoulder that no one will hit me. I just got my car back from the mechanic not too long ago where they fixed the rear bumper from the hit-and-run incident. Another accident will surely be the death sentence for my currently affordable insurance plan. Not to mention the fact that I could be severely injured if someone driving by hits me. I suddenly have a newfound compassion for all of those broken down drivers I went speeding by doing 70 on I-76.

My dad, my hero! He pulls up behind me fifteen minutes later.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little annoyed.”

He surveys the damage to my left front tire. “What happened?”

“I drove over some glass,” I say.

“Okay. Well, pop the trunk. I need to get the spare.”

“Sure,” I say.

My dad goes into the trunk. But, instead of emerging with the spare tire, comes out brandishing a bright pink dildo.

Oh crap! I must’ve forgotten the sex shop paraphernalia in my trunk the other night. I blush the same shade of pink as the artificial penis.

My dad clears his throat. “Is everything okay?” he asks. “Are you and Dunkin still…?”

What does he think that I’ve resorted to prostitution, that I’m involved in deviant sexual behavior, that I’m a sexual surrogate or mixed up in some sort of booty on-demand situation?

“Oh, yeah. Dunkin and I are great,” I say.

He holds up the dildo, waving it around right there on the side of the road.

“I haven’t actually used any of that stuff, Daddy,” I say, making excuses for myself even though I really don’t have to explain.

Suddenly, I am eight years old again, imploring my dad not to be disappointed in me after I’ve done something wrong.

Then, he surprises me by laughing. “Well, Shayla, I guess we’re long past the birds and the bees discussion, aren’t we?”

I laugh too. He puts the dildo back in the trunk and pulls out the spare tire.

“Okay, princess. As you’ve just demonstrated, you’re old enough for… you know. So you’re old enough to learn to change a tire.”

He rolls up his sleeves and we get to work. It’s good that we have something to talk about other than the bag of goodies in the trunk. I pretend to be enthralled by hubcaps and lug nuts.

When we’re done, I give my dad a hug of thanks.

“I love you, Daddy,” I tell him.

“I love you too, honey.”

As he gets back into his car, he rolls down the window. “Hey, Shayla, a word of caution.”

I think he’s going to warn me about the dangers of driving on a flat or caution me about my need to replace the donut sooner than later.

Instead, he says, “If you’re gonna use something that big, you’ll want to invest in some lube. Your mother and I learned that the hard way.”

Before I can open my mouth to reply—not that I am capable of a retort—he drives away leaving me with a mental image I can’t easily shake. And I certainly don’t care to relive it again by describing it here. Suffice it to say, I avoid both my parents for the next week.

Chapter Forty-Five

I’m not exactly a “gym person.” But, lest I seem like the laziest, most out-of-shape woman on the planet, I should inform you that I do occasionally work out. Not often, but enough to keep my butt from spilling out of my jeans and my arms from jiggling too badly in tank tops. For the most part, I prefer walking, the occasional exercise class, a nice bike ride through the park, or a spirited game of Marco Polo with some friends. Dunkin, on the other hand, has a fitness center in his basement and is possessed of an impressive set of abs and a butt that could crack a walnut. Not that I’ve ever tested this walnut-cracking theory, but you get the idea.

Deciding that, perhaps, my boyfriend and I should go to the gym together one Sunday morning instead of our usual donut-eating and couch potato-ing rituals (by which I mean lazing around the house and interrupting our lounging with sex), I say on Saturday night, “Dunkin, wanna go to the gym with me tomorrow?”

“Sure! Sounds fun,” he agrees eagerly.

It is only after he says this that realization dawns. Working out with my boyfriend will most decidedly
not
be fun. The gym is never fun. The gym is a virtual minefield of opportunities for self-deprecation. Last time I was at the gym, I had the misfortune of being sandwiched between two obvious athletes on the elliptical machine. As I steadily trudged my way forward at a slow trot, they ran furiously beside me. And, contrary to what I tell my kindergarteners, it is the hare and not the tortoise that, more often than not, ends up winning the race. Not that there was a race. I’d just felt inadequate. If the three of us had been running on a track, they’d have lapped me several times. I left the workout feeling like a complete failure. The last thing I want to do is have my boyfriend see me exercising and judge me.

Will Dunkin view my athletic performance and conclude that I am lazy? If so, I tell myself, I’m sure he won’t care. Besides, he already knows that I’m lazy. Most times, we lounge around the house napping and eating and making love and he’s absolutely on board with that…

“I think you’ll look incredibly sexy, all sweaty and whatnot.” Dunkin’s words interrupt my runaway thought train.

But, rather than reassuring me, they offer yet another cause for anxiety. Dunkin will, indeed, be seeing me in all my sweat hog glory. Oh crap! I hadn’t thought about that, about the layer of sweat that, rather than offering an aphrodisiac, will plaster my hair to my skull, turn my face a bright shade of red, and give off an offensive odor. Sweat is far from sexy. I should have thought this through before extending my invitation. But, it’s too late to back out now so I may as well make the best of it.

“Let’s make a cool workout playlist,” I suggest. “So we can get pumped up while we pump up.”

Dunkin wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head approvingly.

“You’re adorable,” he tells me. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

I take a deep breath and decide that Dunkin is a keeper. I tell myself that I have nothing to be insecure about. Even though I don’t understand why, Dunkin adores me. So who cares if he sees me sweaty? I need to stop thinking like my mother. Oh, God, have I become my mother? I look down at the empty pizza box on the coffee table and breathe a sigh of relief. No way I’m anything like my mother. I eat carbs.

Anyway, Dunkin and I spend the next thirty minutes finding a variety of hip hop and rap songs guaranteed to put some pep in our respective steps. I drift off to sleep with Sir-Mix-A-Lot on the brain.

“
My
anaconda
don’t
want
none
unless
you’ve got buns, hon.”

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” Dunkin shakes me awake. It’s 8:30 Sunday morning. “Time to work out!”

“You mean we have to wake up early just to exercise?” I wipe the sleep from my eyes and scowl at him disapprovingly.

“I made us breakfast smoothies. I figure we’ll work out, come back here, grab a shower, and then I can take you out for brunch.”

I am barely conscious when he hands me my smoothie. Granted, 8:30 a.m. isn’t exactly early, but I had two glasses of wine with dinner last night and we went to bed around 1:00 a.m. To
bed
, that is. Not to sleep. So, I’m pretty beat. Still, I don my favorite pair of sneakers, yoga pants, and a T-shirt and tie my hair up into a quick ponytail.
Glancing in the mirror, I see that I don’t look half-bad. I could be a real workout fiend. I am no Mindy Lahiri from
The Mindy Project
in bedazzled workout gear. I’m the real deal.

The
Rocky
theme song comes to mind as I sprint down—not up, as in the movie—Dunkin’s steps.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Can you grab me a water bottle?”

“One step ahead of you.” Dunkin holds up two water bottles, two towels, and some gizmo that I guess is either a pedometer or a heart rate monitor.

I don’t ask for specifics because it’s too early in the morning for an explanation of exercise technology. Instead, I grab one of the water bottles out of his hands and take a sip.

“Great. Then I’m ready,” I say, even though I’m thinking that I’d give anything for a donut and another hour of sleep.

Walking out into the cool morning air, the breeze invigorates and motivates me.

“That’ll wake you up!” I exclaim. “And so will this.” I gesture toward my half-finished smoothie which is pretty delicious. Do I detect a hint of pineapple?

My mood lifts considerably. Dunkin puts on some music and, before long, we’re singing and car dancing together. As we drive to the gym, I’m pretty stoked about this together time with my boyfriend, especially about seeing him in his element. I imagine that Dunkin will become so immersed in his workout that, at some point, he’ll cast off his t-shirt, revealing his chiseled chest, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, take me in his arms and –

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I say guiltily.

Dunkin finds a parking spot in front of LA Fitness and we walk inside together. I’ve been paying for a gym membership here for years, although I rarely go. I hand the front desk person a guest pass for Dunkin, flash him my ID and we are in. There’s no turning back now.

“So how do you want to do this?” Dunkin asks. “You wanna workout together-together, as in do the same things or do you wanna each do our own thing?”

“Well, let’s do cardio together then split up for weights. I’m not exactly a big bench presser.”

He laughs. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

Dunkin finds us two treadmills together. I set mine for a brisk walking pace and he sets his on maximum running speed and we’re off, each grooving out to the soundtrack we made last night. Wow! I hadn’t realized how explicit some of these lyrics were. I hear the c-word used three times in short succession followed by a few f-bombs and hope my ear buds are securely in place and that no music is escaping.

Dunkin is running beside me—fast—seemingly unaware of the lascivious lyrics. I up my pace a notch to a slow, meandering jog just so I look like I’m actually working out. I smile at him. He winks at me.

“Great music!” he yells, bobbing his head along to the beat and mouthing a few of the lyrics.

I am slightly winded so conserve my energy by not responding with words. Instead, I give him two-thumbs up and nod my agreement.

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.

.