By Stew Pid

Rating: Should be okay

Disclaimer: I only own the Stew Pid stuff

She was standing outside the hotel with her luggage all about her.

"Would you like me to call you a cab to the airport, miss?" the doorman asked.

"No, that's okay. I'll hail one. I prefer gypsy cabs."

"Yellow cabs are safer, miss. Let me call you one."

"Really, it's okay. I'll be all right. Thanks for your concern," she shakes his hand slipping a bill into his palm. He nods and smiles and walks away.

She was waiting for him. She didn't even stick out her hand. Something told her he would come. She watched the cabs as they passed by, looking through the mirror at turban-clad drivers. She was going to miss her bus if she waited any longer, so she stuck out her hand and entered the first cab that stopped for her.

"Port Authority, please."

"Beddy good, ma'am."

As they neared eighth avenue, the driver was about to continue straight down. Noticing this, Rory's fists tightened and she shouted out,

"Turn right."

"Don't you remember what happened the last time we turned right. Don't worry. I'll get you back home."

With that, she woke up. After hours of apologizing profusely to Lane for causing her to worry, she had collapsed into four hours of dream-plagued sleep. She pressed her eyes with the thumb and index finger of her right hand, and groped with her left hand for her watch. Once she had grabbed the watch off the night-stand, she released her eyes and read the time. Seven-thirty. She figured her mother should be up already, so she grabbed the phone and dialed.

"Hello and this better be my daughter calling at seven-thirty in the morning because if it's anyone else, I'm hanging up on you."

Rory deepens her voice, "It's me. Luke."

"Luke would be very offended by that imitation of his voice."

"Blame it on the lack of testosterone."

"What's up? How's Lane?"

"She's okay. She loves it here."

"She's not coming back to Stars Hollow when she graduates, is she?"

"I don't think so."

"Uh huh. So tell me, did you get mugged yet?"

"No."

"I hear you're not an official New Yorker until you've been mugged."

"That's a horrible stereotype and we hate stereotypes."

"Yeah, like those small-town stereotypes about Stars Hollow, about everyone knowing your business and big man-hungry women and over-the-hill, balding men who wear suspenders and cardigans and loafers. Hey, wait. Those are all true. And what are you talking about? We love stereotypes. Cheerleaders, jocks, blondes, Frenchmen. We love them all."

"Yes, but you have to stop with the cheerleader jokes. That's still a sore spot for Lane."

"But I'm not around Lane, am I? Three cheerleaders walk into a church…"

"Mom!"

"Okay. Fine. So what's this important thing you have to tell me?"

"How do you know I have an important thing to tell you?"

"Hmm. Let's see. It's Saturday. It's seven-thirty. You're calling. You called at seven-thirty on a Saturday."

"Thanks, because I wasn't able to put all that together."

"You know better than to call at seven-thirty on a Saturday for regular conversation and expect me to be coherent."

"I know better than to ever expect you to be coherent."

"Ugh. That hurt. I can't take shots like that at seven-thirty on a Saturday."

"Fine. Is Luke there?"

"What?"

"Oh come on. I'm not five. I know that there's a possibility that Luke might be at our house at seven-thirty on a Saturday."

"Well, I guess if we had a slumber party and spent the night having pillow fights and whip-cream wars, then yes, you might find him here at seven-thirty on a Saturday."

"Pillow fights. Is that what they're calling it these days?"

"Okay, I'm officially changing this subject. Why do you want to speak to Luke at seven-thirty on a Saturday."

"Okay, it's officially seven thirty-one. And I don't want to speak to Luke yet. I just want to know if he's there."

"Well, no, he's not here. And what's with the 'yet?'"

"Well, I may need to speak to him, but I need some advice."

"Huh."

"From you."

"Oh, goody. Okay, shoot."

"But first, you have to promise not to freak out about anything I am going to say."

"Can I hear what you're going to say before I promise?"

"Mom."

"Okay. I promise."

"Okay. Well, last night when I was leaving Lane's, I bumped into Jess."

"Jess?"

"Luke's nephew."

"James Dean wannabe, broke my daughter's arm, kissed her and then found some other slut to smack lips with, skipped off without telling anyone and hasn't sent so much as a blank birthday card to the uncle who put up with all his crap, in four years? That Jess?"

"Okay, did we forget about the not-freaking out clause?"

"How could you expect me to be calm about this? That punk hurt the two people I love the most. I have no sympathy for him and I'm not going to give him any favors."

"Mom, you don't understand…"

"No, I don't understand. I don't understand how you can still care about that kid after all he did to you. He doesn't care about anyone…"

"Mom, that's not true. There's a lot you don't know. And Jess didn't kiss me. I kissed him, and then I left for six weeks without telling him, didn't write to him or call him, and I had a boyfriend. I was the wrong one there."

"Look Rory, this is old and I thought we buried the hatchet on this one. I don't want to get into it. All I know is that he left town without even so much as a thank you and good-bye to Luke and he hurt Luke and he hurt you, and I won't forgive him for that."

"You don't understand him. Don't you see, the diploma was his thank you. He didn't even want to graduate high school. He didn't think he'd be hurting anyone. He didn't think anybody would care."

"Because he doesn't care about anyone, he can't fathom that other people might possibly care."

"That's not true. He does care. He went back to Stars Hollow inconspicuously to check up on Luke. He knew about you two and about the diner decoration, about the new bed." She was embellishing on the truth a little, she didn't know why.

"And I suppose the fact that he came back to look at the Holloween banner makes up for all the worry and heartache he put Luke through."

"No, it doesn't. I'm not saying what he did was right. I'm just asking you to try to understand him. He didn't mean to do anything wrong."

Lorelai sighed. After all this time, Rory still had feelings for the one person in the world she completely hated. She recognized that she was not going to be able to change Rory's idea of him, so she had to yield—not accept, but yield.

"So what's the advice you needed?"

"Whether or not I should tell Luke."

"I'll tell him. So was he okay?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So what happened?"

"Well, I was trying to hail a cab, but none stopped for me, and then he came. We talked, he offered me a ride. He drives a cab…"

"What state gave him a license? Oh, well, New York."

"That's another stereotype."

"We like stereotypes. Cheerleaders, jocks, blondes, bad boys."

"We hate stereotypes."

"That's right. We hate stereotypes. So continue. What has be been up to?"

"Mostly wandering around, works when he needs money, waiter, barber, repairman, cab driver."

"Great. He grew up to be Kirk. Luke will be glad to hear that."

"It's not like that, mom. You really just don't understand."

"I guess I don't."

"Well, I need some coffee. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, sure."

"Don't forget to tell Luke."

"I won't."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Jess woke up, feeling a brush of hair caress his cheek. If only it was Rory's, he thought. But wait. Who was it? He opened his eyes and found a brownish gray cat balled up next to him on the bed, its tail smacking him once again across the face. He sat up, pressing his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand, pulling the cat closer to him with his left. Once he had firmly cupped his hand under the cat's belly, he released his eyes and got up off the bed. Walking to the window, he climbed out onto the fire escape and sent the cat down the steps to its home. He climbed back into his apartment and shut the window, muttering about the day he would send the cat back down to its home as a bowl of soup.

After showering and dressing, he grabbed a book and was about to head out the door when an overwhelming impulse came over him. He had tried to fight it all night with no success, and so he yielded. He grabbed the yellow pages, walked over to the phone and dialed.

"Hello, could you connect me to Rory Gilmore…I don't know what room she's in. Can't you look that up?…Try Lorelai Gilmore…Thanks."

"Hello. Mom?"

"Now that hurts."

"Jess?"

"No, this is the cab driver from yesterday. You owe me fifteen bucks."

"Damn it. I thought I got away."

"You forget I know where you live."

"So what's up?"

"You hungry?"

"Starved."

"I know a place."

"I hope it's not hot dogs again. It's too early for hot dogs."

"How about pizza?"

"What?"

"I really want pizza. John's of Bleeker Street makes the best pizza but they only sell pies, not slices. You can probably go there on your own and be just fine, but for those of us with only slightly abnormal appetites, it's a bit much. We like to bring friends along."

"Jess, it's eight o' clock."

"You're right. They don't open 'til 11:30. We could hang around in the park and stare at our shoes until it opens."

"I have a better idea. Know a place where they sell pancakes?"

"Yes. Nothing like Luke's though."

"Close?"

"Close to Caesar's."

"Yuck."

"Yep."

"Hmm."

"Actually, there is a place I think you'd like. Food's pretty good. Has a bit of unknown musical history."

"What?"

"Tom's Diner."

"Suzanne Vega?"

"Yep. Not Tom's Restaurant in Manhattan. A lot of people think she was talking about that one because it's near Barnard and where she once lived, but Tom's Diner in Brooklyn has a note on the wall from Vega. You'll see it."

"Oh, that's so cool."

"Pick you up in a half hour."

"Okay."