The “-isms” of Experience: Here’s What Happened When I Called The Cops On The Bagel Guy

The coffee was amazing, and the bagels — a work of art. There is nothing like a New Jersey bagel. When I travel outside of the New York metro area, I seriously laugh at the hunks of chewy dough that people refer to as bagels. And I don’t care if that makes me a snob. If you think I’m a snob, I am mentally sticking my tongue out at you.

And the coffee and bagels at this particular bagel store were no different. It was a small bagel store in town in a free-standing building with only one other store in it — my hair salon. The hair salon was owned by a woman, and my stylist there was also a woman.

It had all the stuff that makes a small neighborhood great.  The bagel store was owned by a nice guy and his wife — I’ll call them Dan and Sally. There were a bunch of guys who worked there, all of whom were Hispanic. Everyone was friendly, and they got to know me so well that my order was ready by the time I got to the counter after waiting in the long line. A well-done everything bagel with cream cheese and coffee on weekdays; two egg sandwiches and coffee on the weekends. One for me, one for my husband.

Dan and Sally were super nice and we used to talk all the time. We even started talking about hanging out together at one point — the four of us. Dan, Sally, me, my husband.

Then one day my marriage was over. I ordered one egg sandwich, and Dan noticed.

It wasn’t long after that that it happened. It was a weekday, and I was on my way to work. I’d gotten my bagel and coffee and was back in my car, fiddling with something before I headed off to the job, when a knock on my car window made me jump.

It was Dan. Just Dan! I smiled, and lowered the window. The waist of his sweatpants was at about my eye level, and he looked down at me and said, “No seriously. When are we going out?”

I laughed, and I said something like, Sure, I’ll set something up with Sally and we’ll all go out. He didn’t really smile back. In fact, he had a strange look on his face.

Then he said, “Well, all I know is I can’t control what you do to me.” At that point, his hands moved to his sweatpants. He proceeded to demonstrate to me through the fabric exactly what he meant.

What you do to me.

What I did? What I did was walk into a store. I bought a coffee and a bagel. I was friendly. I smiled and joked around and talked to him and his wife.

“See what you do to me?” he repeated.

I remember recoiling, my mouth open wide in shock, and saying, “Get out of here!”

He shrugged and said, “I can’t help it.”

He can’t help it. 

I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. I went to work feeling like I needed a shower. I felt assaulted, even though he’d never laid a finger on me. I felt disgusting.

And I was angry. I was angry when my boss, who I’d told when I got to the office, protectively decided out loud, “Well, you’re never going back to that place again.”

I’d loved my little morning ritual; the steaming, nutty flavor of the hot coffee with milk; doughy goodness of the bagel, the creamy cheese, the daily chit chat. Suddenly my beautiful and wholly innocent little routine was disrupted, for no better reason than a guy with an erection that he needed me to know about.

Seriously. When I think about it now I think of all the self-absorbed, the-world-revolves-around-me-and-my-maleness bullshit.

But wait. It gets better. Actually it gets worse. Keep reading to find out about how the bagel guy showed up at my house.