The Back Room
written by: W. Glewicz
We’re August lazy, slouched on a park bench under a blazing late afternoon sun when my girl, Diane, says she has a taste for something sweet. I say let’s head over to Dave’s. She smiles, leans into me, gives me quick kiss, then scrunches her nose, still not used to the mustache I’ve been trying to get just right before senior year starts next week. I like the way it annoys her.
As we cut through the park and cross Main, I take her hand. A lot of the storefronts are closed. Not much foot traffic anymore in this done for town, but Dave’s Donuts has somehow managed to hold on. Dave passed years ago, but his wife kept the business, the name. Improved it even, exposing the brick, bringing in bright, shiny display cabinets. It’s nice, but a lot of people like it better the way Dave had it.
So anyway, we go into the store, sugar smell smacks you in the face. Diane lets go of my hand and squints up at the menu. She hates wearing her glasses and, like most everything, she’s taking her time figuring out what she wants. She already knows what I want, same every time, when in walk Lauren and Lawrence, or “the Lars” as everyone, everyone calls them since they are always, always together. We’re all good friends. We get along.
Diane and the Lars, simultaneously, shout “Great minds!” and they all embrace each other. Everyone seems to be in the mood for hugs, so I give first Lauren, then Lawrence, a quick one. Lauren asks what we’re getting. Diane grabs hold of her arm and leads her over to the counter. For some reason, me left alone with Lawrence feels weird and after a second he heads over to join them.
Dave’s has kind of a strange layout. The shop and sales counter are in front, but in back, down a hallway, and around a corner, sits a small room with a few tables and chairs for the customers. Not enough time or money to update the back room, so down the hall it’s all kind of dark and dated like in the old days.
Diane and the Lars are still, still discussing donut options (What fillings do you like? Do you see all these freaking toppings?) and it’s awkward, just standing there by myself, so I wander down the hallway. I guess I assumed the back room was empty since I hadn’t seen or heard anyone but as I turn the corner, I see it isn’t. Two guys I kind of know from school are in there. Sophomores, I think. I don’t know their names, so I’ll call them Black Hair and Yellow Shirt.
The thing is, right then, as I stand at the doorway about to enter, just before that, I see them. Black Hair is seated at a table, working on something on his laptop. Yellow Shirt is standing right behind him, looking down at the screen. And the thing is, Yellow Shirt’s hand is resting on Black Hair’s shoulder. It was for just a second, but I know somehow that touch was more than that of a friend. It was something else. Something intimate.
Yellow Shirt must have heard me at the doorway because he looks up, a startled expression across his face. In a single move, he takes his hand from Black Hair’s shoulder (Erik, I remember now, Black Hair’s name is Erik) and slides into a seat on the other side of the table. Yellow Shirt stares for a moment at Erik. Something seems to pass unspoken between them, then Yellow Shirt gathers up some papers from his side of the table and shoves them into a satchel.
Before I know it, Yellow Shirt is walking past me, out of the back room and down the hall. Black Hair, Erik, stays seated, staring at his laptop, fingers stretched out but frozen over the keyboard.
I hear Diane call out so I head back down the hall and over to her and the Lars. Diane smiles wide and hands me my donut, says it’s her treat, and as I say, “Thanks, babe,” I feel someone, Erik, brush past me as he rushes out of the store. Part of me wants to stop him, and maybe if I was alone I would have. Told him to hold on a sec. Or I would have followed him out into the street. To tell him everything was cool. It was fine. I didn’t see anything, and even if I did, it was fine. Really. Totally. But I wasn’t alone.
Lauren says let’s go in back and sit at one of the tables. But I say let’s maybe grab a picnic table in the park across the street.
As we leave the store, I see Yellow Shirt. He’s about a block away down Main, turning off onto a side street. Erik is moving in the other direction, just ahead of us, cutting through the park.
We find a picnic table in the shade and eat our donuts. Sugar highs take hold and Diane and the Lars are joking and laughing about everything, about nothing. In my head, though, I’m still in the store, standing at the doorway to that back room. Wishing I had reacted faster, had said something like it’s cool. Nothing to be afraid of, from me, anyway. It’s a small town and I get it, but I’m cool. If I see Erik or even Yellow Shirt sometime at school this fall, maybe I’ll try to do something to show it’s all good. A nod. Or a friendly pat on the back. Something. But I need to be careful, too. It’s a small town and word gets around.
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