The 2:37 AM Club

*This story contains the use of homophobic slurs.

The glow of the flickering open sign hanging crooked in the window. The whining creak of the door in harmony with the jingling of a bell as it swings open. Thick air smelling of old cigarettes and even older grease mixed with coffee, bacon, and garlic. The hum of deep fryers and beeping appliances, and the same Garth Brooks CD on repeat through a single broken speaker.

This is paradise.

At least, at 2:37 AM, after a long night of serving vodka cranberries to wasted twinks and their coked-up daddies, cleaning up their vomit and getting slapped in the face for cutting them off, it’s an okay place to be. Better than going home to my three roommates. Every day, they each find a new way to piss me off. This morning, I discovered someone had used the last of my hair gel, so I had to wear a black cap today.

“What happened to your face?” That’s Art, or as I like to call him, Fart. The old fart has owned this place since the 90s, and he’s still running it like the Navy in his sixties.

“The usual,” I sigh, planting my bottom onto a stool. It makes a poof sound as it flattens beneath me. God, it feels great to sit.

“Them faggots and their rings,” he whispers. He’s gay, he can say faggot. And he’s right. The guy who hit me was wearing at least three rings, which felt fantastic against my face. “How many drinks before you had to cut this one off?”

“At least seven or eight. That’s not counting what he had before he came, or the coke he did in the bathroom,” I say.

“What’s with the hat?” He smacks the brim, and I flinch. “You owe someone money?”

“No,” I turn my eyes to the coaster on the counter. “Bad hair day.”

“Can’t leave the house without your pretty little hair looking perfect, huh?” He whips a towel at me, knocking off my hat like a gay ninja. I pick it back up, run a hand through my flattened hair, and place it back on my head.

“Well, I’m just a faggot, too. What can I say?” I smile.

“The usual?”

“Please.”

I like Fart. And the sanctuary that is his twenty-four-seven diner. His husband, Gus, replaces him in the morning working the day shift, and their son Roy works the evening before Art returns. I rarely see Gus or Roy, because I’m only ever here at 2:37 AM. And I’m not the only one.

“Good evening, Helen,” I wave to the eighty-something year old, long grey-haired lady in bright red lipstick and overdrawn black eyeliner. Her dentures fall onto the table as she smiles back.

In the booth next to Helen sits another regular, Davis, a nurse who takes a thirty-minute break every night at 2:30 AM. He’s my age, somewhere in his thirties, handsome, with his 90s boy band hair, clean-shaven jawline, and purple scrubs.

In the corner on the couch, you can almost always find Angel, a non-binary teenager with a mullet and huge, wired glasses that look like they were stolen from the set of The Lovely Bones. Why a teenager is always here at 2:37 AM is beyond me, but they’re usually reading a novel, or sometimes they’re just sleeping, and Art lets them. Sometimes I worry they might have nowhere else to be at night, which makes me grateful for the space created here.

There’s a few characters on rotation, like the drag queens who run a late show at the club down the street and the sex workers that Art gives free coffee to. All these characters make up what we call The 2:37 AM Club.

Well, I call it that. Nobody else does.

It’s similar to the people I see every day on the 8:06 AM bus on the way to my office job. The familiar characters that fill out your routine. I find comfort in that. Every morning I smile at the handsome businessman in a suit and tie who plays Tetris on his phone, or there’s the woman I’ve watched knit a scarf, toque, and pair of mittens throughout the last months of mornings. Always the same group of travelers headed to whatever destination their little lives demand of them. On hour ten of my sixteen-hour, two-job workday, knowing I’ll have a lovely conversation with Art and receive a lipstick-covered denture smile from Helen, somehow makes it a little easier.

“You know, you should really meet my granddaughter,” Helen says, waddling over to me.

“Helen, I’m gay,” I tell her, like I do every night.

“Oh,” she pauses, like she does every night. “Well, you should meet my grandson.”

“Is your grandson gay, Helen?”

“No, but neither is spaghetti—”

“Until you get it hot and wet,” I cut her off. She makes this same dirty joke every night. Whether she actually forgets, or just enjoys going through the motions of it, I don’t know. But I don’t mind.

“You deserve a nice man. My grandson is a nice man.”

“Your grandson doesn’t want a nice man, Helen,” Art jumps in, sliding my whipped cream covered waffles, crispy bacon, fruit salad, and a side of fries across the table to me.

“What,” I start, “no orange—” A glass of orange juice crashes into my plate, just hard enough to make a clink, but not spill. “Thank you, Fart.”

I cover the fries in a heavy layer of ketchup and bring them over to Angel.

“Thank you,” they say, sitting up and placing their book on the table, adjusting their striped zip-up hoodie and removing their hood to reveal a messy mop of hair.

“What are we reading tonight?”

“Murder mystery. Girl found out her husband was cheating. She made an elaborate plot to kill him, but someone beat her to it,” they tell me through a mouthful of ketchup and fries.

“So now she has to find out who did it to clear her own name?” I smile.

“Have you read it?”

“Nope.” It’s just predictable, but I don’t tell them that because I don’t want them to think I’m judging them. I’m not. I loved that kind of book when I was their age.

“You can borrow it when I’m done,” Angel says. I’ll leave it here with the rest.”

Angel steals books from the library, reads them here, and then adds them to the bookshelf Art had his son build after the books started stacking too high on the little coffee table.

“Will do,” I wink at them, because I won’t, and I return to my food. The bacon is making my mouth water as my tastebuds hug the rich, greasy flavour, and a dribble of maple syrup from a mouthful of waffles glides down my chin.

“Hey,” a voice from behind. Davis.

“2:52 AM already?” I ask, dabbing syrup off my chin.

“It’s almost creepy that you know exactly what time I leave.”

“Well, I know that it takes you six minutes to walk back to the hospital, and you like to give yourself two minutes of buffer time in case Michelle at reception gets chatty.”

“And that’s not creepy?”

“It’s just basic logic,” I shrug my shoulders. “Sue me for listening when you talk to me.”

“Can I help you with your face?” he asks.

“Well, some would say there’s no helping me there, but I didn’t think it was that ugly.”

“The cut, you idiot.”

I know. He’s just so easy to tease.

“Do you mind if I touch you?”

“Go for it.” I turn my hat backward, giving him better access.

He pulls an unlabeled jar from his brown leather messenger bag, scoops out some thick substance with his middle finger, and gently dabs it on the cut on my cheekbone.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.” Even if it did, I wouldn’t say so and repel the willing touch of a man’s hand from my face.

“Good.”

“Do I want to know what that stuff is?”

“It’s just Vaseline. I carry it with me wherever I go. You can use it for pretty much anything. It’ll keep it moist and prevent scarring.”

“Thanks, doc,” I smile with a hint of sarcasm.

“Do you want a bandaid? I have Dora the Explorer or Bob the Builder.”

“How can you force someone to make a decision like that?” Even more sarcasm. “I’m okay, I think.”

“Here.” He puts a couple of each of the bandaids in my jacket pocket. “Put one on before bed. I doubt you’re the type of guy who regularly washes his pillowcase.”

“Rude!” But totally not wrong.

“I have to go. I’m going to be late.” He snaps his bag closed.

“Sorry, I used your buffer minutes.”

He smiles and darts out the door.

I feel cool air against the shiny spot on my face as I gulp back my glass of orange juice.

“Helen’s grandson may not be gay, but do we think he is?” Art chimes in, blowing the smoke of a cigarette directly into my face. His diner, his rules.

“I’m not sure. He’s never told me about his dating life or his…preferences.” I poke at the last of my waffles, which are getting soggy.

“He’s got a rainbow pin on his scrubs, and don’t think I didn’t see the way he was tenderly rubbing your face.”

“A lot of nurses wear them, to make queer people feel safe in the hospital. Maybe he’s an ally,” I say, my voice unnecessarily higher.

“Ally? More like a lie.”

“And he was just fixing up my wound.”

“Like Achilles to Patroclus. Come on, son.”

“You know what else is a myth? My love life. No amount of your meddling will bring it back from the ashes.” I push my plate towards him, finished.

That’s enough of The 2:37 AM Club for me tonight.

“Goodnight, Fart.”

“See you tomorrow, kid.” He throws a towel over his left shoulder and grabs my plate.

“Bye, Helen,” I call out to her in her booth.

“Say hi to my granddaughter!” she cries.

“I will,” I say. It’s not worth it.

I turn to Angel, who has fallen asleep on the couch.

“Goodnight, Angel,” I whisper.

“He definitely likes you,” they whisper back.

Flickering open sign.

Whining creak and jingling bells.

Cigarette smoke, grease, bacon, garlic.

Garth Brooks.

Art behind the counter, Helen in her booth, Angel reading on the couch.

“No Davis tonight?” I ask the room. Nobody answers.

Helen waddles over from her booth. “You know, you should really meet my granddaughter.”

“Helen, I’m gay.”

“Oh. Well, you should meet my grandson.”

“Is your grandson gay, Helen?”

“No, but neither is spaghetti—”

“Until you get it hot and wet.”

Art brings me my waffles, bacon, fruit salad, and the fries I give to Angel.

“Where is Davis? He always works Saturday nights,” I ask, and again, nobody answers, but I notice a knowing grin growing on everyone’s faces.

“Happy Birthday!” Helen shouts between gulps of her strawberry milkshake.

“Dammit, Helen,” Art says. “You can’t remember your own name half the time, and this is what your brain holds on to?”

“What’s going on?” I didn’t tell anyone it’s my birthday. In fact, I went out of my way to ensure nobody knew. Not at work, not at home, not here. I hate my birthday. Year after year, I send the annual invite to people I haven’t talked to since last year’s invite, and year after year, everyone bails in the days leading up to it, reminding me I have no real friends who care about me enough to celebrate my existence.

“Sorry I’m late!” Davis bursts through the door, the bells jingling with ferocity.

“Helen spoiled it,” Angel tells him.

“Dammit, Helen!” Davis cries. She just smiles, unaware that she’s done anything.

“What is going on?” I ask again.

Davis has a plastic container in his hand, with a towel covering it.

“Art, get the stuff!” Davis commands, and Art returns with candles and a barbecue lighter. Davis runs behind the counter, grabs the candles and lighter, ducks out of sight, and I hear the lid snapping off the container.

“Three, two, one!” Davis starts.

Suddenly, everyone’s voices join him in singing, “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!”

My cheeks flush as red as the ketchup bottle.

“Happy Birthday, dear Jackson! Happy Birthday to you!”

A flurry of emotions overwhelms me as tears threaten to jump from the corners of my eyes. A sad embarrassment and vulnerability mixed with warm joy and gratitude.

“Come on, make a wish!” Davis encourages.

I blow out the three candles and silently wish.

“Don’t tell us what you wished for, or it won’t come true,” Davis says.

“I hate my birthday,” I mope. “How did you guys even know?”

“It was all him,” Art points at Davis.

“Sue me for paying attention when you talk to me.”

Angel sends a smile in my direction, then turns to Davis, “Can we eat it now?”

“Yes, Angel, but the birthday boy gets the first bite.”

It’s a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. My favourite. “Where did you even get a cake at this time of night?” I ask him.

“I made it last night,” he says. “I brought the frosting to work with me and spread it on just before I walked over. Hence, my tardiness.”

I don’t know what to say. My mother hasn’t even gone out of her way like this for me before. I don’t remember ever telling Davis when my birthday is.

“We were once talking about How I Met Your Mother,” he starts, as if reading my mind, or simply the shocked expression on my face. “You mentioned you have the same birthday as Neil Patrick Harris. I marked June 15th in my calendar that night.”

Art brings out a tray of milkshakes for Angel, Davis and me, and tops up Helen’s half-empty cup. “On the house. Happy Birthday, kid.”

Angel and Helen take their milkshakes to their spots on the couch and in the booth. Art goes into the kitchen, but through the service window, he mimes kissing, mashing his hands together and puckering his lips.

Davis is still standing behind the counter across from me with the glow of accomplishment in his eyes.

“Thank you,” I say, my head bowed.

“I know you hate your birthday. So we can forget about it once you’re done with your cake. Sorry if it’s too much. I just—”

“It’s not too much.” And I won’t forget about it.

“Good, because I got you this, too.” He puts a cone-shaped birthday hat on my head and fastens the elastic under my jaw, fingers lingering for half a second. “Wow, you might have the softest beard I’ve ever touched.”

“Now that might be too much,” I laugh. His eyes widen, and I correct the misunderstanding, “The hat.”

We eat cake in silence for a few minutes. I watch the way a strand of his blonde-streaked hair hangs down and dances on his forehead as the muscles of his jaw protrude with each chew.

“You know,” Helen says from her booth, “You should really meet my granddaughter.”

“He has a boyfriend, Helen!” Davis gently shouts at her before we go through the spaghetti routine again.

“Oh, right. I must have forgotten,” she says, waddling over. “I don’t believe I’ve met your boyfriend.” She puts out a hand to shake Davis’.

“Oh,” I start, “He’s not—”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” Davis shakes her hand. He covers his mouth with his other hand and whispers to me, “It’s not worth it.”

“Whose birthday is it?” Helen asks.

I sigh, not out of annoyance, but empathy. “It’s yours,” I say, putting the hat on her head. “Happy Birthday, Helen.”

“Oh, well, wouldn’t you know!” she sings, waddling like the happiest penguin back to the milkshake in her booth.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“Already?” I hadn’t even noticed the time.

“2:52 AM on the dot.” He taps his watch. “Take the rest of the cake. You can bring me back the container tomorrow night.”

He starts heading for the door.

“Davis,” I stop him. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Of course.” He turns to the door again.

“Hey,” I stop him again. This feels crazy, but, “Are you free in the morning?”

“Like, after work?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry, yeah. That’s—”

“I am,” he cuts in.

“My birthday lasts all day tomorrow. Would you maybe want to get breakfast?”

“Absolutely. I’ll meet you here at 7:08AM.” He plants a gentle kiss on my cheek and runs out the door, skipping down the sidewalk.

Angel and Art high-five each other. I don’t need to meet him here in the morning, because I don’t leave The 2:37 AM Club tonight.

Art grins, “So, what did you wish for?”