Dr. Stud

Joe

A few months before...

Popping the collar on my trenchcoat, I stuff my hands in my pockets and dash into the crosswalk, hurrying against the rain. It wasn’t supposed to be a full-on downpour. It was supposed to be a light rain, the kind that would curl my hair just a little bit. The kind that meant I got to wear this great vintage trench, with the buckled belt that I tied so sassily around my waist.

“Shit,” I mutter as puddle water sloshes into my peep-toe heel. “Just great.”

My hand automatically twitches toward the strand of hair that’s tickling my eyebrow, but I know if I touch it now I will just make it worse. There is a fine line between damply tousled and pathetically half drowned. I hope I make it there in time.

Everybody on the sidewalk gives me that glance, that drive-by sort of scrutiny that you get in Manhattan. We are all a little suspicious around here. It’s as though you’re always taking a snapshot of everyone you see on the street, just in case you need to pick them out of a lineup later.

But I notice that no one looks particularly alarmed, nor particularly offended. So I haven’t gotten too waterlogged yet, I hope.

I can feel my wet skin scraping against my shoe. I better get off my feet soon or I’m going to have blisters the size of half dollars. Flexing my toes, I try to minimize the squelching sound and lengthen my stride. Not sure that will do me any good, but it can’t hurt at this point.

Yellow taxis hiss by, dangerously close to the gutter and those menacing puddles of water that could splash up on me at any time. I want to get away from the street side, but there are too many pedestrians in the way. Even when it is raining, the sidewalks are crowded with people. This city is insane. And yet, I do love it.

“Smoke, sugar?” a voice asks me, sudden and too close. Automatically I flinch away and feel an immediate hand on my elbow, wrenching me back. For a moment I’m suspended between hurling myself toward the street and being jerked back by this hand, this too-strong grip around my arm. Instinctually, I draw breath to scream.

“Don’t fall now, baby girl,” the voice says, sweet and low and confident. I glance up to see the rain-streaked cheeks of a dark-skinned, broad-shouldered woman. She gives me a half smile, revealing a gap between her teeth on one side.

Something about her makes me relax and instead of trying to hurl myself into traffic, I let her nudge me back onto the sidewalk.

“What did you say?” I stammer, confused.

“You got any smokes, baby?” she drawls, her voice thick and unhurried. She seems just a little bit too relaxed, if I’m honest. She is not trying to get out of the rain. Not shielding herself in any way. It’s as though she doesn’t even realize the rain is happening. As I look up at her, I’m momentarily fascinated by the drops of water that march along the curly strands of hair that frame her face.

“No… I don’t smoke,” I explain, pulling away gently so I can resume my progress down the sidewalk.

She finally releases my arm and raises her hand in a three-fingered wave.

“That’s all right, cupcake,” she purrs. “Don’t even think about it. You go on and have a nice night.”

“Um, okay then,” I smile, already turning around. In moments she’s behind me, and I realize I’ll probably never see her again. I don’t live in this neighborhood. That was just one of the million one-off Manhattan encounters I will have before I’m through. Just drive-bys, like I said. Ships in the night and whatnot.

The bar sign is somehow nautical, but also minimalist. These days, it seems like everybody is going for the unexpected fusion of cultures, hoping to discover the next big thing. The latest trend. I duck into the doorway, shaking my shoulders like a St. Bernard to repel the rain and allowing my fingers to pluck at my hair until I am reassured it is still in the shape I left it.

Inside is a bit of a sensory shock. Instead of tables, there are glowing columns with people around them, leaning attractively on their elbows. Instead of chairs, there are more cubes artfully scattered about. Yet the walls are decorated

with large seascapes, so large I’m practically seasick. I feel my hands go out as though to maintain my balance.

“Hey, there she is!” I hear a voice exclaim. “Joe! Sweetie!”

Smiling, I head toward the voice before I actually see them. There are a bunch of cubes arranged in a semicircle around a huge glass plug that has to be at least four feet in diameter. That thing must weigh a ton.

“Sorry I’m so late,” I shrug as I pass the bar, noting that there is not a mirror that I can quickly check myself in. I’m just going to have to wing it, I guess.

“Oh, you’re not late,” Desi rolls her eyes. “Holly is late! Oh my God I love your coat!”

I wrinkle my nose and smile, watching everybody glance over at my coat. I knew when I found it that I had really scored something. It fit perfectly even though it has to be at least eighty years old or something.

I ignore my best friend, Didi, as she rolls her eyes and instead allow Hannah to pluck at my sleeve.

“What is this?” she marvels. “Is it… I mean, seriously, what is it?”

“Oh, it’s oilskin,” I reply breezily, as though I encounter these sorts of things every day. “Just a vintage find. You like it?”

Hannah nods and purses her lips around the straw of her drink. “It’s so wild! Looks like something my grandmother would wear.”