An 'Idol' with aw-shucks appeal

"The doughnuts are gone," says Clay Aiken. "I'm going to look for them."

The "American Idol" alum is having his hair done in host Ryan Seacrest's Los Angeles studio, and he's taken a style break to speak to a reporter and have a sugar doughnut. Aiken wants a doughnut very badly. A 15-minute phone interview is interrupted half a dozen times to chronicle his search, which grows desperate. The sound the singer makes when he discovers an empty counter where the doughnuts are supposed to be is not unlike the sound a crack fiend might make upon finding his stash has been raided.

Could there be a geekier diva than this? Aiken is "American Idol" personified -- his unglamorous looks, underdog back story, and wholesome delivery combined in unfathomable reality-TV fashion to turn the 25-year-old singing contestant into pop gold. In a coup for runners-up everywhere, Aiken parlayed his second-place showing in the 2003 "American Idol" season into a recording contract with RCA, magazine cover stories galore, and a wild-card spot on People magazine's "Sexiest Men Alive" list. And in a telling development that reveals as much about an Idol's expected shelf life as Aiken's glorious annointment, it was recently announced that the white shirt, pin-striped pants, and shoes he wore in an early round of "Idol" will become a part of the permanent collection at the North Carolina Museum of History.

"I'd never even been to LA before this started!," says Aiken, who performs with Kelly Clarkson at the Worcester Centrum Monday. "I'm still dorky, I'm still a nerd, and I'm totally out of my element."

That's an understatement, and it's also part of the reason he's loved by so many. A year and a half ago, Aiken was studying to be a special education teacher in his hometown of Raleigh, N.C. On a whim, the mother of a student convinced him to go to Atlanta and stand in line with thousands vying for a spot on "American Idol." Things went well.

Now, Aiken gets to cut in line at the DMV and take lunches at the Ivy. His debut album, "Measure of a Man," a slick collection of middle-of-the-road ballads, has sold more than 2 million copies. He has regular pedicures, a bodyguard, and an LA pad with a pool.

The public, however, has taken to Aiken like he's a skinny puppy who needs a good meal. That's not to diminish his big-money high notes or earnest interpretations.

But Aiken oozes the sort of aw-shucks charm that wobbles the knees of preteens and seniors, mainly women, who call themselves Claymates. He seems to know who he is, who he's not. Aiken happily compares his music to that of '80s soft-rock group Air Supply and says he has no intention of writing his own material, currently provided by a stable of songwriters. "You make a lot more money that way, but that's the wrong motivation," he says.

His American idol? Mr. Rogers.

"There are plenty of singers with great voices and great pop songs, but Clay has a really down-to-earth personality," says Steve Ferrera, senior vice president of A&R for RCA (and a Lexington native) who, along with record mogul Clive Davis and "Idol" creator Simon Fuller, is helping to oversee Aiken's career. "He's completely grounded and absolutely likable, and people see that."

Aiken wears his newfound fame with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of someone who had never planned on arriving at this particular destination. There were no vocal coaches or dance lessons, but Aiken was a child star of sorts, singing country songs on the counter at the Sears store where his parents worked. He was a member of the Raleigh Boys Choir and sang at the Leesville Road Baptist Church. He loved music, but working with autistic children was Aiken's passion, and he's wistful for the work he's left behind.

"I had my life planned out. I was going to be a teacher," says Aiken, who received his degree from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte last year through a special independent study provision. "I get a little jealous of my friends who have their classrooms now. It's a different sort of gratification.

"I once worked for three months to get a child to be able to read a word. You don't get anyone clapping for you when you do that. You work hard. You earn it. I didn't work hard to be able to sing. God gave that to me. It's easy, and people scream and cheer, and who wouldn't like that? It's great. But there's a different feeling associated with it." Aiken is keeping it as real as he can in "the strange, strange monster" called Hollywood. His concert performances with Clarkson feature no headsets, no dancers, no pyro, no lip-synching -- just a couple of fresh-scrubbed singers singing good old-fashioned songs.

"I've got a responsibility to the public," Aiken says. "Parents want to let their kids listen to people they can trust. I used to trust everybody."

Aiken still hasn't taken off the WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelet that a former charge from his days as a YMCA summer camp counselor gave him during "American Idol." It has more significance now than ever, he says.

"It reminds me of who put me here. It reminds me that I can trust God, who had a different plan for me. It reminds me that I want to be a role model.

"And," Aiken adds cheerfully, "it reminds me that when he's ready for me to be done with this, this ride's gonna be over."