Chapter 21
21
“Do you, um, want a coffee?”
I look up at the man—golem, creature, figment of my imagination that somehow my neighbor can also hear, whatever he is—and gesture toward the walk-up window at a trendy little coffee dive called The Other Chicago Bean. He looks at me curiously, uncomprehending. I wish he weren’t so attractive, but the truth is, he’s incredibly good-looking, even in his current ridiculous getup.
Clearly, we couldn’t leave my apartment with him wearing my purple robe. So I’d hastily ransacked my room and managed to find some scrub pants I’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend in my twenties—can’t remember who it was, but those magical one-size-fits-most scrubs were well worth whatever crappy breakup they came from. I also dug out an oversize T-shirt from the one and only 5K I ever ran, with a shoddy screen print of the Chicago skyline jutting up beneath the words Lakeshore Drive Feel Alive 5K.
When he had on pants and a shirt, I breathed a sigh of relief, then looked down and saw his large bare feet. There’s literally nowhere I could take him if he was shuffling around barefoot. Thinking fast, I grabbed my flip-flops out of the shower. They’ve always been too big for me. They’re a terrible December footwear choice, but that’s never stopped Midwestern bros from exposing their toes all winter long. And I’m guessing the cold won’t bother a golem much.
Not that he’s actually a golem , some part of my mind still insists.
In my front hall closet, I’d managed to scrounge up a men’s winter coat that someone had once left at my place after a party, back when I used to throw parties. I’ve been meaning to take it to a coat drive for three or four years now, but thankfully my lengthy procrastination means I can shove my unexpected visitor into a nicely bulky coat. I also discovered a knit cap in the pocket of the coat, but when I made the golem put it on, it didn’t go low enough to cover the letters on his forehead.
I had to find a way to cover the alef, mem, and tav. Even in Chicago, where body art is celebrated and interesting ink is no big deal, ancient Hebrew script tattooed across the brow might draw some stares. I grabbed my father’s old Cubs baseball hat, the one he gave me when I left for college, and shoved it over the creature’s thick mop of brown hair.
The handsome golem blinks down at me now from beneath the pulled-low bill, awaiting further explanation.
“Coffee,” I say, louder and slower. “Do you know what that is?”
He shakes his head. No.
His attractiveness is almost cinematic. There’s something about the strong but lean build and the intense expression in his eyes. He makes my stomach flip-flop like the first time I saw Clueless , and Cher Horowitz’s insanely hot stepbrother entered the scene. A young Paul Rudd, ageless before he was...well, before he was officially ageless. Lanky body, twinkling eyes, all those open flannel shirts over loose tees. He was the absolute ideal.
God, that movie is such a perfect preservation of the nineties. The outfits—the plaid, the suspenders, the miniskirts and boas! The Valley Girl intonation! And I always wished I could be a Jewish girl who looked like Alicia Silverstone, but that was never going to happen. The best I could hope for was to be the cute-enough nerdy new girl, like Brittany Murphy’s character. What was that song they sang, in the party scene, when perfect Paul Rudd is singing with plaid-clad Brittany Murphy?
Rollin’ with my homies...
My thoughts are pinwheeling so ludicrously, I almost burst out laughing. I am officially losing my mind.
This can’t be happening. I can’t be standing here outside my favorite local coffee shop thinking about my favorite nineties movie while I buy a coffee for the golem that I made out of some clay from my apartment’s creepy basement.
Then again, is it any more ridiculous that I’m living in a world where my dad is dead, my sister is having a Hanukkah-themed wedding on my fortieth birthday weekend, my grandmother occasionally speaks to me through homeless people, random guys spit at me on the train, and we survived a pandemic by perfecting our sourdough skills?
This is the weirdest timeline.
“You putting in an order, or not?”
The barista at the walk-up window gives me a pointed look. Jade, I think, might be the barista’s name. They sometimes host the poetry open mic nights at the coffee shop, which I used to go to now and then. Jade has short green hair and star tattoos running from their collarbone up their neck, looping around their ear. Three small silver hoops dangle from their left eyebrow. Only artists and baristas can pull off this edgy look with zero effort, and the trio of hoops in their raised eyebrow adds a powerful indictment to their stare.
Fair enough: there’s a line forming behind me, commuters who need their caffeine fix before they catch a train downtown. The same train I need to catch, as soon as possible.
“Um, yeah...yeah,” I say quickly, stepping up to the counter and pulling out a ten. “One peppermint mocha, one regular coffee.”
“We don’t do peppermint mochas,” says Jade with such ire that I almost apologize.
“Oh, just, uh, regular latte and a coffee,” I say.
“For the latte, you want soy milk, oat, almond—”
“Just regular milk is fine.”
“You want cow milk,” Jade says witheringly.
At this, I vaguely remember them wearing a shirt that screamed The Future Is Vegan!!! the last time I was in the shop. I wince and wish I’d gone with oat milk, so I wouldn’t seem like the asshole who is not only holding up the line but also exploiting animals. But it’s fifty cents extra for oat milk, and the lattes at The Other Chicago Bean are already overpriced, and I hate oat milk.
Behind me, I can feel the golem tense. He takes a step forward, looming over me. Jade, ever nonplussed, looks up. Their eyes do widen slightly at the intimidating presence towering over them.
“Yep, great,” I say, smiling brightly. “Cow milk.”
“Name for the cups?” Jade asks, eyes still on the golem.
“Eve,” I say.
“And let me guess,” Jade says, regaining a little of their edge as they nod up toward my supernatural bodyguard. “This is Adam?”
I interject before the golem can growl.
“No, uh, he’s—This is...Paul,” I say, the name tumbling from my mouth before I even know what I’m saying. “Paul Mudd.”