at making idle small talk, because I’m not going to lie about my history, and I don’t want to talk about my family.
And my job really isn’t that fascinating.
I make bread. Mostly. I mean, I make other things, too, but at work I’ve sort of become the go-to bread guy. It’s something I did a lot of, growing up.
I’m not very coordinated. I had a bad habit of getting hurt or having accidents when I tried to work outside. Between falling, and getting sick, and getting injured—like getting kicked by a horse, three times—finally, my father told my mom to keep me close to home. I was tasked with the herb garden, chickens, and kitchen work.
Fortunately for me, my kitchen skills, and being raised to rise long before dawn for chores, helped me land my current job at the bakery.
When we pull up to the club there’s already a line halfway down the block. That’s when I realize I’m not dressed a fraction as well as the others already queued. “Is that the line to get in?” I ask my driver as I feel… helpless.
He laughs. “Yeah. I take it it’s your first time?”
“Yeah.” I thank him and climb out and make my way to the end of the line. Meanwhile, I leave my driver a tip and a good review via the app.
The two women standing directly in front of me in line barely give me a glance before they resume their conversation. I don’t know how to interrupt them to ask if I’m in the right place, so I quietly stand there, even as more people arrive and queue behind me. While I wait, I respond to comments on a couple of the baking websites where I frequently participate. I might not have a very active social life in person, but I’ve developed quite a few friends online already, even if it is just talking about baking.
The line advances slowly but everyone acts excited to be here. I’m starting to get the idea that this is an expected part of the experience.
I also notice that, on occasion, some people arrive and are whisked right through the front doors without hesitation. Other arrivals, who are also obviously VIPs, sometimes pluck people out of line and escort those lucky souls inside with them. I don’t know what criteria gets some people picked and others overlooked—other than clothes—but it also seems to be an expected part of the process, based on the reactions of some of those in line.
The mostly men who do this are all good-looking guys, too. They possess a strong, almost unearthly air about them, moving smoothly and confidently and wearing clothes that look very expensive. The people they pick out of line, men and women, are usually young, maybe my age, and certainly dressed better than I am.
I don’t know if some of the pairs of men who arrive are couples or not. Part of me desperately wants to believe they are. I see a few gay couples in the line, and it’s hard to believe I’m finally going to be in a place where I won’t stand out for being gay.
I mean, I might stand out for my boring clothes, but I can’t help that. I’m saving every penny I can. Even coming here tonight is going to mean spending money I feel guilty for not putting in my bank account. The only reason I’m off this weekend is because I covered for two of my coworkers last week, and they offered to take my weekend shifts this weekend in return.
As I stand there and slowly make my way closer to the entrance, I begin to wonder if I’m even going to get inside tonight. It’s possible that I won’t.
When I scanned the line earlier, I didn’t see anyone in it who is David.
And, yes, maybe I’m standing here scrolling through his pictures, to make sure I don’t overlook someone who might be him.
So far, no one looks even close.
Meaning he’s either not here, or he’s inside already.
I’m not certain I like those odds, either way. If he is here, it does me no good if I can’t get inside.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe I should go home before I spend more money, or worse, embarrass myself.
Maybe the last thing I should be doing is trying to meet up with someone who doesn’t appear very interested in getting to know me.
I’ve just about talked myself into stepping out of line