Knocked Up and Tied Down

by Melinda Minx

  God, how lame does that sound? A safety lecture? Why would this kind of guy be interested in—

  “What time?” Eric asks.

  “11:00 a.m.”

  “Are you sure you’re qualified to teach that class?” His friend asks me. “Seeing as it looks like you just got hit by a car.”

  Eric elbows him, hard, and he shuts up.

  Eric smiles at me, a real smile this time. “I’m sure it wasn’t Ruth’s fault. New York drivers are assholes.”

  Wow. He actually remembered my name.

  I laugh too long and too hard at his little joke, abruptly cutting myself off when I realize how awkward I’m making the conversation. “So, I’ll see you Saturday then.”

  Eric smiles again, causing me to flush. “I’ll be here.”

  I wake up before my alarm even goes off on Saturday. I want to say that it’s no big deal that Eric said he’s coming to my class, but I spend way too much time trying to find an outfit that doesn’t look like it came from a discount rack. Which is impossible because all of my clothes come from the outlet mall in Flushing—the Chinese one where everything is a knock-off and costs like 80 percent less than the name brands.

  I’ve never cared about it before, but something inside me wants to impress Eric.

  I start feeling exasperated with myself as I look through my clothes. I always told myself that clothes are just a way to keep yourself warm and covered, and that they don’t reflect anything about a person.

  But Eric’s clothes made him look good. Really good. And now that I want him to see me as more than the bike shop girl giving a stupid safety course, I have nothing that looks remotely nice enough to…

  I hear my roommate Tracy’s door creak open, and I take a big gulp, nearly coughing on it. It’s not just saliva I swallowed—it’s my pride.

  I’m going to ask Tracy for help.

  “Tracy,” I squeak, opening my door.

  “Yeah?” she asks, looking back at me.

  She’s got gunk in her eyes still, and she’s holding a bag of granola and an empty bowl.

  “I think we’re out of milk,” I say.

  “Shit,” she hisses, eyeing the granola and bowl like it’s an incomplete puzzle.

  “I’ll go get some… If you let me borrow some clothes.”

  Tracy raises an eyebrow at me. I always give her a hard time for caring so much about her appearance—usually when she’s making us late by spending way too much time picking out what to wear.

  “You want…” she says, still holding the empty bowl.

  “Look,” I say. “I want to look like... cool, today.” I explain, my voice turning into an awkward stammer, and my face is burning red.

  “A guy?” she asks.

  “Can you just pick something that looks good on me while I get the milk?” I mumble into the floor.

  I grab my helmet and keys without waiting for her answer.

  I get on my bike, and hurry to the corner market. My class starts in just over an hour, and I still have to get dressed in whatever Tracy picks and bike all the way across the bridge to Manhattan. With luck, she’ll pick out something good for me, and I won’t have to expend any more mental energy on choosing what I wear. I decide I’ll wear whatever she gives me, no matter how out of character it might look on me.

  I get a jug of milk, then realize that I forgot my bag. Dammit. I shove the thing into a plastic grocery bag, dangle it over my handlebars, and race back toward our apartment.

  Just as I’m turning the corner to our street, the bag breaks open, and the milk crashes onto the road. I slam on my brakes, praying that there’s no spilled milk to cry over.

  I sigh with relief when I see the plastic jug is intact. I pick it up and use the torn bag to wipe as much of the dirt off it as I can. The plastic is all scratched up, but it’s not leaking at least. I walk the bike and milk home the rest of the way, not wanting to tempt fate and drop the thing again.

  I walk into the apartment out of breath, holding the torn grocery bag in one hand, and the dirty milk jug in the other.

  Tracy is sitting at the kitchen table and having coffee with Dylan, our other roommate.

  “Tracy?” I say, panting, “Did you forget the…” I trail off looking at Dylan nervously.

  “Chill out. I put the... thing... on your bed for you.” Tracy says, obviously picking up on my distress. I don’t want Dylan to know that I asked Tracy to borrow clothes, and I’m thankful Tracy picked up on that.

  I slam the milk jug down onto the table for her. The condensation on the jug mixes with the dirt and drips down all over the table.

  Tracy and Dylan eye it nervously.

  “I dropped it, but it didn’t break,” I say. “All the dirt is on the outside.”

  Tracy laughs, “I’ll have to try that line at work.”

  Tracy’s a bartender.

  I head to my room, turn back toward Tracy, and mutter my thanks.

  I look down at my bed and see the clothes. My heart sinks a bit in my stomach: it’s something I’d never wear.

  “Idiot,” I whisper to myself. “This is why you asked Tracy. Anything that you would wear is terrible.”

  But this... it’s a skirt and a tank top. I don’t wear skirts. Or tank tops. The skin above my ankles and the skin of my shoulders never see the light of day.

  Tracy is shorter than me too, how high up is this skirt going to go? It looks short even for Tracy.

  I catch myself holding my breath, so I force myself to breathe. It’s just a skirt, Ruth, chill out.

  I’ll just put the thing on and if it looks ridiculous, I can always give up and wear what I normally do.

  I throw my jeans off and onto the floor, and I put on the skirt. It’s a denim skirt with a high waistband. Which is a problem, because it a lot of the fabric is being wasted covering my stomach, and very little is left for my legs. I shake my head as I look at myself in the mirror. My legs look so bare—I feel naked.

  I grab the tank top and pull it on, hoping that with the whole outfit together I might not feel so naked.

  I turn back toward the mirror and sigh. My legs look so long and pale. I bite my lip in consternation.

  Dressing like me hasn’t done me any favors, so maybe dressing like... whatever this is, can work.

  But my legs are seriously too white.

  Digging through my drawer, I find some knee-high socks. I grab them, jump onto the bed, and pull them on. They cover my legs up to my lower thighs. My upper thighs are still way too exposed, but the socks cut off enough of that pasty whiteness that I might just be able to summon the courage to open the door and go out like this.

  I hear a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” I whisper into the door.

  “Let me in,” Tracy’s voice says.

  I open the door just enough for her to squeeze in.

  She looks me up and down. I’m afraid to see her reaction, but I relax when she smiles.

  “I don’t think I can—” I start, but Tracy interrupts me.

  “You look hot,” she says. “Nice touch with the fuck-me socks.”

  “The…” my throat goes dry. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, you know, the schoolgirl look…”

  I feel aghast. I was just trying to cover myself more. I start pulling the socks off, but Tracy grabs my wrists.

  “Don’t take them off,” she says. “You want this guy to like you, right? Keep them on.”

  I feel so stupid, but that’s what I want, isn’t it? I want this guy to like me.

  “You really think he’ll like this outfit?” I ask.

  I’m pretty sure that I look good, but hearing Tracy confirm it would help my confidence a lot.

  Tracy looks me over again, “What kind of guy is he?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I mumble, “I think that’s why I’m interested.”

  “Is he one of those road bike dudes?” Tracy asks.

  I shake my head. “He didn’t even know what disc brakes w
ere. He was wearing a suit.”

  Tracy laughs. “He’ll like the outfit, don’t sweat it. Your usual style is... interesting, but…”

  “Come on, Tracy,” I say. “I know it’s bad.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that…”

  “You weren’t going to say it—”

  “Forget it,” Tracy interrupts. “You should get going.”

  I get on my bike, and suddenly realize that I have to ride with this skirt on. The skirt keeps riding up as I peddle, and I have to keep pulling it back down. I was so concerned about how it would look that I forgot about practicality. It’s cold too, and the chilly late-winter air hits my exposed legs. Luckily the socks help to keep me warm.

  It will be worth the trade-off though, assuming Eric likes it. Hell, I like it, don’t I? That counts for enough even if Eric doesn’t even notice it. I’ve been dressing the way I do for so long because it’s easy. It’s what I wore in high school, and then in college, and for whatever reason I just never bothered changing my style. I had friends in college who followed all the trends, but I just never cared about looking trendy. In fact, I wanted the exact opposite—to draw no attention at all.

  And that’s what I ended up doing: drawing no one’s attention. I didn’t blend into anything, I just became bland. So bland that no one ever notices me.

  I make it across the bridge and into Manhattan ten minutes early, and I’m in the shop well before the class is scheduled to start.

  “Hey, Ruth,” Wilson says, waving at me.

  Wilson is a big guy with a beard, and he’s scheduled to work the front this morning. Wilson is a nice guy, but he can be a little be dense sometimes.

  “How many sign-ups do I have?” I ask, pushing up my glasses.

  Wilson doesn’t answer. I notice that he’s looking me up and down, and my face turns red.

  “You go... clothes shopping?” he asks me.

  I laugh nervously. “Yeah, just a little.”

  He goes tight-lipped and nods.

  I wait for him to say something—anything, but he suddenly gets occupied with the debit card reader.

  Would it kill him to say that my outfit looks good? If he’s going to comment at all, he should at least follow through. What kind of weirdo points out a new outfit or haircut and then makes no mention of how they feel about it?

  I throw my bike helmet onto the counter and cough.

  Wilson looks back up at me nervously. “Uh, oh yeah, here’s your list.”

  He hands me a sign-up sheet.

  That’s not why I was coughing, Wilson.

  I look it over. Only six people signed up, and signing up just means you are “interested.” At least Eric’s name is on there. Eric Prince.

  Six people? Dammit. I bet Eric won’t even show.

  “You sure this is it?” I ask.

  Wilson shrugs. “There’s some more on Facebook, I think.”

  People from Facebook almost never show up. I only had four people show last month, but that was with 30 people signing up on the sheet. If only six signed the sheet, then how many are going to show? Two?

  “How’s the LSAT stuff going?” Wilson asks.

  I shudder. After my philosophy degree got me a job in a bike shop, I decided to go to law school. Unfortunately for me, big scary standardized tests make me super nervous. Even taking a practice test freaks me out.

  “It’s going…” I say, trailing off, hoping Wilson doesn’t press it further.

  “I mean,” he says, voice suddenly high-pitched. “It’s not like passing will even get you a good job. Most of my friends who thought they’d be some bigshot in a law firm are locked away in basements doing document review…”

  “I didn’t say I gave up,” I snap.

  I realize I’m still annoyed at him for not complimenting my outfit.

  “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t mean that, I was just saying…”

  “I’m going to get ready for the class,” I say, not wanting to talk to him anymore.

  I start to set up the chairs. Usually I set up ten or so chairs, but that feels optimistic for today. I set six chairs up. I can always grab more if more people show. Normally, I spend about twenty minutes lecturing, and then we go on a 30-minute ride together.

  I wait with my arms crossed, watching the time tick away. At five till eleven, I start staring nervously at the door. No one comes in.

  When it reaches time, there’s still no one, but most people are usually a little bit late. I’ve never started the class earlier than ten after, but there’s always at least one person by now.

  At five after, I hear WIlson shout over at me.

  “Hey, Ruth,” he says, “If no one is going to show to your thing, can you help me unpack these helmets?”

  “Someone is going to show!” I shout back. Then I say in a lower voice, so that he can’t hear, “At least one guy…”

  Just when I think I jinxed it by saying that, the bell rings as the door swings open.

  I look up and see Eric. He’s not wearing a suit this time. He’s wearing jeans and a form-fitting athletic shirt. Very form-fitting. I hadn’t realized how fit he was under his suit. The jeans fit perfectly, highlighting his muscular thighs and ass as he turns to Wilson. His biceps are massive, and his back and chest are impossibly wide. He towers over Wilson—he’d tower over almost any man.

  He’s got his bike with him, but he doesn’t look like he even broke a sweat riding over.

  “I’m here for the class,” Eric says.

  Wilson points over toward me without saying anything, and I suddenly feel embarrassed that I have all these chairs set up when only one person showed. I’m embarrassed at the ridiculous outfit I’m wearing. Mostly I’m embarrassed to think that I have any chance in hell with a guy like Eric. He’s just weirdly concerned about bike safety after not having been on a bike for a decade, and he’s solely interested in the contents of my class, not in me.

  5

  Eric

  I did something I probably shouldn’t have done.

  I stopped in the shop yesterday right before they closed. I made sure Ruth wasn’t there, and I grabbed the clipboard with the names of everyone signed up for the class. I took a photo of their names, emails, and phone numbers.

  I called them all up, one by one, and offered them $300 each to not show for the class. They all agreed to my deal, and if things go how I plan, Ruth and I will be alone for the entire class.

  I arrive five minutes early.

  Shit, I’m never early. I decide to circle around the block and see if there’s anything cool nearby.

  It feels damn good to be on a bike again. I spend at least an hour every single day working out—usually in my private gym. I jog in Central Park maybe twice a week, but something about being on a bike feels right. Maybe it’s nostalgia, or maybe it’s just the feeling of blowing past all the cars jammed up in bumper-to-bumper New York traffic.

  The Fixed Gear is near the edge of Chinatown. I usually avoid Chinatown—it’s often packed full of tourists, and you can get better Chinese food in Flushing anyway. It seems like Brooklyn has bled into this area more than Chinatown though—there’s a bunch of coffee shops and places offering “artisan” variants of basic foods like donuts or scrambled eggs. I stop in at a coffee place called The Coffee Snob.

  The guy standing behind the counter is wearing a collared white shirt and black slacks, but he’s got tattoos going all up his neck. There’s one single table in the place with two chairs, and I’m on the only customer.

  He just nods at me, and I look up at the menu. There are only three choices: Espresso, Latte, and Cappuccino. No prices are on the menu.

  “I’ll get an espresso,” I say.

  Without verbally acknowledging me, he goes to work. He grinds the beans, tamps them, and pulls the shot fast and efficiently.

  Before I know it, he’s got a shot of espresso on the counter for me.

  “How much?” I ask, reaching for my wallet.

  “You deci
de,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but he just looks down at the cup.

  “Alright,” I say.

  I take a sip, and it’s fucking fantastic. It’s better than any espresso I’ve ever had, and I’ve had good espresso before. The layer of crema is thick, and the pure taste of the coffee hits me like a bullet, leaving no bitter aftertaste.

  “So I pay you what I think this is worth then?” I ask.

  He nods.

  I slap $100 down on the counter, and his eyes actually widen a bit at that.

  “I invest in good businesses,” I say, leaning in toward him. “If you opened a shop like this uptown…”

  “I’m the coffee snob,” he says. “I can’t trust anyone else to do it like this—”

  “That’s a bad business model. You can’t expand if there’s only one guy.”

  He shrugs. “I’m the coffee snob. It’s my gimmick.”

  “You really think you can’t train someone to do this 70% as good as you, 80%?”

  “Look, man,” he says, sliding the $100 off the counter and holding it up to me. “Would you have paid me $100 for something only 80% as good? 80% as good doesn’t cut it. You’d probably have just given me five bucks if it wasn’t as good as it was.”

  I laugh, realizing he has a point.

  Either way, something 80% as good would still make a killing uptown. I take out my business card and put it on the counter. “If you change your mind, call me.”

  “I won’t,” he says, grinning.

  I get back on my bike and head to the Fixed Gear, and I realize I’m late, but only five minutes or so. Being fashionably late usually works out, but not when I’ve paid the rest of the students not to show up. Now I’ll just look like a jackass.

  I open the door, and a big guy with a beard grunts at me.

  “I’m here for the class,” I say.

  He points toward the corner, and I see Ruth standing in front of a handful of empty chairs. She’s still got the thick glasses and the dorky haircut, but she’s wearing a fairly tight tank top and a short skirt. She’s even got knee-high socks on that make her legs look even longer. I catch myself staring a bit, which is absurd considering that I regularly fuck supermodels.