Confessions From A Coffee Shop (9 page)

“
Au contraire.
” He raised his right hand, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Is that why the others call him Harry Pooper?
I wondered.
Because he pretends he’s a wizard.

“I read in this book that some dykes like to have a guy join them.”

As much as I wanted to send Harold off like a lamb to the slaughter, I just couldn’t do it. Harold had no idea what he was in for.

“I wouldn’t believe everything you read. And I don’t think you should throw the term around so loosely. Some find it offensive.”

“Really?” He scrunched his face up in confusion.

“Yeah, it’s like using the N-word.” I lackadaisically wiped the countertop with a filthy rag. I was just trying to stay busy to keep myself awake, not to actually clean anything.

He furrowed his brow, deep in thought.

I was proud of myself for getting through to him. All Harold needed was for someone to take the time to educate him about social skills. I didn’t have the time for a complete makeover, but a few helpful nudges here and there would make a vast improvement.

“Oh you mean nigger.” He waved his hand. “I use that word all the time with my homeboys.”

He pronounced it “hum-bas.” I don’t think anyone else in the world pronounces it that way‌—‌especially homeboys.

The man was an idiot. A total nincompoop. For a moment, I considered not investing any more time in improving Harold’s people skills. What difference would it make? It was like talking to a brick wall.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Kat strolled into the store. “I missed you.” Her broad smile was directed at Harold, and she winked at him suggestively.

Harold turned cherry-red, matching his apron. “Aw-shucks, I missed you too, Kat.” He looked innocent…‌and desperate for a woman.

Once again, I had an urge to take him under my wing. He desperately needed guidance, and deep down he was a good guy. Just clueless. Very clueless.

But then Harold became all business. “Kat, do you know any good dyke bars?”

She glanced at me, eyebrow quirked.

I shrugged. “He doesn’t get it. I tried.” I poured Kat a cup of house-blend coffee and handed her the mug. She grasped the mug with both hands like she normally did.

“Tried what, Cori?” he asked.

“Telling you not to use that word.”

“You said not to say nigger,” he whined.

“No, I didn’t. I said saying dyke is offensive and it was like using the N-word.”

Harold’s facial expression told me I wasn’t getting through to him. He tilted his head in bewilderment and scratched his nose, lost in thought.

Kat seemed amused by this back and forth. If I were in her shoes I would find it funny watching the blind lead the blind.

“What’s up, Harold? Do you have a gay sister or someone who’s coming to visit?” Kat tried to bury the dyke controversy.

“Go ahead, Harold. Tell her your plan.” I leaned against the back counter and crossed my arms.

Harold took the bait. “I read in this book that dy…‌lesbians like to do it in front of a dude and sometimes they invite him to, you know, join in.”

To her credit, Kat stifled her laughter. Biting her lower lip, she nodded sagely, absorbing the information. “Where did you read that?” She set her mug down on the counter.

“Uh, well, I saw it, actually.”

“Seriously, Harold!” I roared. “You’re getting tips on how to meet women from porn!”

Kat motioned for me to be quiet.

“Tell you what, we’ll go to a gay bar with you‌—‌one that has gay men and lesbians, so you won’t stick out‌—‌and you can try your luck. How does that sound?” She nodded slowly, as if rationalizing with a five-year-old.

The arrangement sounded awful to me; dreadful, in fact. I supposed it might be damn entertaining, and I could use a good laugh. At least Kat would be there, in case any trouble arose; she’s good at smoothing things over without any blows. Seriously, some dykes scare me.

We agreed to take Harold to his first gay club later that night. He didn’t even know what Kat meant when she said it was time to pop his gay cherry! I’m pretty sure he’ll be expecting a cherry as soon as he walks through the door‌—‌maybe in a Shirley Temple. Actually, I hoped he wouldn’t drink any alcohol. He was a character sober; I couldn’t imagine him drunk. I groaned just thinking about it, which amused the hell out of Kat.

* * *

Harold couldn’t contain his glee when we walked into the gay bar. There were a few lesbians, but mostly the place was full of gay men who swarmed around the place like squirrels begging for nuts on Boston Common.

“Where are all the dykes?” asked Harold.

A couple of lesbians turned their heads. Even the clueless Harold didn’t miss their meaning: shut up, asshole.

Harold moved closer to me and whispered, “Where are they?”

Kat linked her arm with his, showing everyone he was with us and that they should back off. “Harold, there’s a few facts of life we want to teach you tonight. First: don’t say the word ‘dyke’ unless you know everyone in the room. Second: lesbians love to hook-up with a woman and then move in on the second date. There’s a term for this: U-Haul Lesbians. Don’t worry, though, since they rush in, they’ll be back on the market sooner rather than later. Third: relax and have fun.” After giving this lecture, Kat turned to me and said, “Can I buy you two a drink?”

I was wowed. Usually, I was the drink fetcher. “Sure! Whatever beer is on tap.”

Harold stroked his chin. “Um, a whiskey.” Neither his tone nor his face proclaimed his confidence in this choice. I wondered whether he had ever had a drink before.

Kat patted his shoulder tenderly and strolled to the bar. One of the chicks in the room took notice, I saw, and sidled up next to my girlfriend at the bar. I’m pretty sure she didn’t think Kat was with me‌—‌no one really does. Some might think Kat and I have an open relationship.

I whisked Harold over to a table off to the side of the dance floor, not in the least concerned about my competition. Kat loathed cheating. Her first girlfriend had cheated on her, and it had broken Kat’s heart.

I wanted to meet the idiot who cheated on Kat. Seriously, the woman must have had the worst case of low self-esteem. Why anyone would cheat on such a goddess was beyond me.

The table Harold and I claimed was chest high but lacked chairs. At least we could set our drinks down. I hated leaning against the walls in these types of joints, cradling my drink. A Lady Gaga song filled the room and the dance floor shook with bumping and grinding. Harold couldn’t stop staring. I noticed that he didn’t look at any of the women. I had thought the plan was for him to find two women for an erotic escapade? Not that I ever thought he would actually succeed in that endeavor, but I had thought he would attempt to implement his plan.

Kat returned with the drinks. A cute little umbrella topped her over-priced, water-downed drink. Taking the umbrella, I twirled it and then placed it behind Kat’s ear. She patted my hand lovingly and smiled as I took a swig of skunky Coors Light. I figured this place never cleaned the taps. It was owned by two gay dudes. Let’s be honest, only lesbians ordered Coors Light in a nightclub, so I’m sure the owners didn’t care much about the quality of the beer. Of course, Kat would never order a beer. In places like this, she always had to try the craziest, most expensive drink.

“What are you drinking?” I gestured to her martini glass.

“Sake martini.” She looked to the dance floor. “Care to take a spin, Cori?”

I set my beer down on the tabletop. “Harold, watch our drinks.” I smiled at the look of confusion on his face.

Many think of me as a jock‌—‌and I was a jock. I played college ball and, when healthy, I hardly ever rode the pine‌—‌which meant I didn’t sit on the bench much. No one thought of me as the dancing type. True, I felt more comfortable in sweats and a T-shirt, so I understand why people couldn’t get the jock image out of their heads. However, ever since my mom put tap shoes on my feet at the age of four, I couldn’t get enough of dancing. By the time I graduated from high school, I had taken ten years of tap lessons and occasionally dabbled in hip-hop, ballet, square dancing, line dancing, and any other type of class Mom could track down in a twenty-mile radius. Perhaps someone might think Mom hoped to waltz the lesbo right out of me. They’d be wrong. Mom preferred it that I wasn’t a stereotype. True, I hated My Little Pony when I was a kid, but I had a vast Barbie Doll collection. Mom laughed her head off when she discovered I had cut the heads off all the Ken dolls. One day, I came home from school to discover she had rigged up my shower curtain using the chopped-off heads instead of shower rings. It was ingenious‌—‌and hilarious. We left it like that until I went to college.

I never had to act out during my coming-out phase to convince my family I was gay rather than just going through a phase. Yes, I usually wore (and still do) my hair in a ponytail. But when I went out on dates or attended family functions, I did my hair and even wore makeup, including lipstick. I guess that made me a lipstick lesbian‌—‌part of the time.

Mom told me once that it would be okay if I wanted to skip dance classes to take up more sports. I refused, and my mom started signing me up for more and more classes. Coming from a successful old Bostonian family that actually had arrived on the
Mayflower
on both sides‌—‌unlike Kat’s, who only did on her mother’s side‌—‌I was expected to achieve from an early age. In addition to dance lessons, I had French tutors, participated in the Model UN, played sports, became class president, belonged on the debate team, joined the chess club, and held a part-time job. The job was to show our neighbors and classmates that I wasn’t a complete snob. My father thought it best to show the world I wasn’t afraid of hard work or of earning my own place in the world.

There wasn’t a time in my life that I could remember not being busy. My schedule was packed from morning to night. And now, I was still that way. Of course, most of my time lately involved working and trying to complete my first novel. I missed all the extra activities. Recently, I’d considered taking guitar lessons. Maybe it would help me relax, and while relaxing, an ending for my novel might flood my mind, all while I was strumming away.

While I was super busy during my childhood, Kat had spent countless hours not joining groups. In fact, I was surprised Kat’s parents didn’t homeschool her. In high school, she didn’t belong to a single group. Not one. When she found out about all of the groups I had been part of, her jaw hit the floor.

My mind returned to my stunning dance partner, and I flashed her a smile. We danced well together. Kat was a little more sexual in her dancing than I was used to, but I adjusted to it. Mrs. Chandler, my former tap instructor, would have been mortified. When we went dancing with my folks, Kat reined it in some. Actually, I think it was because of Uncle Roger. Mom would probably cheer us on, but Roger would like it too much, and neither of us could do that to my aunt. Not to mention that the thought of my uncle lusting after Kat made me ill. We respected their relationship‌—‌even if we didn’t understand it at all.

After a couple of songs, Kat motioned that it was time to quit. The crowd seemed to appreciate our efforts. Even some of the guys applauded us when we walked off the dance floor to rejoin Harold. He leaned on the table, resembling a cat dangling over a pool, about to tumble in.

On our way back to him, I whispered, “What is Harold wearing?”

He had on black pants, a brown mock turtleneck, black shoes, and white socks. And his hair looked extra soft, which would be great if he were a five-year-old boy on school picture day. This wasn’t a look designed to lure in women.

“I think Harold’s trying to show his true side,” replied Kat.

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, and retorted, “If his true self is a fashion-challenged dyke, he nailed it.”

Kat giggled and covered her mouth.

“Wow, Cori! I didn’t know you could dance,” Harold gushed when we approached. “And Kat …” He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

Kat swatted his hand away and broke into a guffaw. “Harold! No way.”

I didn’t hear the question, but I had a good idea what he wanted. Everyone wanted to sleep with my girlfriend. It irked me that some people considered her a tramp. People should stop judging a book by its cover. I studied Kat and chuckled to myself. I had to admit that her shirt wasn’t covering much this evening.

“Why, Cori Tisdale, who knew you could dance!”

I knew, even before turning around, who it was. Blood rushed to my face and nether regions.

Harold spoke first. “Samantha! I didn’t know you were a dyke!”

Kat placed her hand on Harold’s shoulder to calm him down, as if he were a Jack Russell terrier jumping up and down for a piece of bacon.

Samantha burst into laughter.

I shrugged.

Kat apologized. “Sorry, he’s new and hasn’t learned the appropriate language.” Kat put her hand out. “I’m Kat, Cori’s girlfriend.”

Had Kat noticed me blushing?

It was clear Kat was marking her territory. I couldn’t decide if I should be flattered or annoyed. I wasn’t the cheating type either.

“I’m Samantha. Cori and I went to the same high school.” Sam didn’t seem bothered by Harold’s outburst or Kat’s pissing contest. She turned to me, “How come you never went to any of the dances in school?”

“We usually had a basketball game.”

“Liar! I was a cheerleader, and I never missed one of your games.” She looked to Kat. “Have you ever seen her play basketball? The fans went wild watching Cori play.” Again, she turned to me. “When I read that you blew your knee in your sophomore year in college and had to miss a year, I felt like crying. Hancock Prep never had a player as good as you, Cori‌—‌before or since.”

I was speechless. I never knew Samantha noticed me at all in high school. We would say hi when we ran into each other, but that was the extent of it. Sam had her own group of friends, and I had a small group I hung out with. Mostly, I was too busy running from one activity to another to have time for friendships.

Kat came to my rescue. “I’ve seen some footage from her games, and occasionally I can talk her into a wicked game of horse.” Kat put her arm around my waist and kissed my cheek.