“Just come.”
The four of us—five, if you count Templeton—made our way next door. “You boys wait in the living room,” he said to Alex and Fabrizio.
The two of us climbed the stairs to the second floor, going at Sal’s pace, which was on par with a snail’s. Photos of Irma lined the wall. There was a photo from their wedding day, a photo of them dancing, a photo of the two of them in Paris. I stopped and stared at that one. They were on a bridge, holding each other tight. “You two made such a handsome couple.”
“We surely did.”
He motioned me into his study, which was the mirror image of my bedroom. Cardboard boxes littered the floor. “What’s all this?” I asked.
“I’ve been death cleaning.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“Book I read, by a Swedish woman. Talks about getting rid of a lot of your possessions before you die, so your loved ones don’t have to do it all after you’re gone.”
“But you’re nowhere near—”
“I’m eighty-five—”
“Years young! Sal, please stop talking about death.”
“You do realize that death is one of the few certainties in life—”
I slapped my hands over my ears. “La-la-la-la-la-la-la!”
“That is excessively juvenile, Wilbur, but okay. I will move on.” He opened the closet door. “Believe it or not, before I started to shrink, you and I were about the same height.” Inside hung a row of suits. And not just any suits; even I could see that they were seriously classy.
“Wow…these are like the suits from that old TV show Mad Men.”
“I wore one of these to my furniture shop every day. I was going to pack them away and send them to a thrift store, but then I thought, now that you’ve trimmed down somewhat, they might just fit you.” He pulled a dark gray suit out and handed it to me. “Try it on. I’ll wait downstairs.”
I changed into the suit and walked downstairs.
Alex’s eyes widened and he started to laugh. Fab clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Wowee,” said Sal. “Wowee zowee.”
I was genuinely confused. “Are these good reactions, or bad reactions?”
“Good!” Alex clarified.
“When Sal said you were trying on one of his suits, I thought, Oh, no, an old-man suit,” said Fab. “No offense, Sal.”
“None taken.”
“But this is seriously retro cool.”
“Very,” Alex agreed.
“We have just one thing left to do,” said Fab. “Just like they do on Queer Eye, we need to set up”—he did jazz hands to emphasize—“the reveal.”
The next morning, Alex, Templeton, and I went out for our run/walk. We could now go five whole kilometers alternating between four minutes of running at a glacial pace and one minute of walking. Spring was well and truly in the air; I even saw some buds on the trees.
When I got home, the house was quiet; the Mumps were having one of their long Sunday lie-ins which, now that I was older, I understood was code for “sex.”
The guys weren’t due to come over for another hour. I went upstairs and had a quick shower. I stood naked in front of the mirror and looked at my physique. I did look different. I swore that, when I held up my arm and tensed it, I could see an actual muscle trying to push its way out.
I did the dash to my room in my birthday suit. I put on a pair of my new Kelvin Cline underwear—a three-pack had cost only $9.99 at my local dollar store. Then I opened my closet. I had taken three of Sal’s suits, plus some dress shirts and socks.
“These are so perfect,” Fab had said. “You can dress them up or down. Wear the pants with a T-shirt or a sweater. Or slap on a dress shirt and a jacket and tie and go full class act.”
I hadn’t had the heart to remind them that I no longer had any casual pants, or sweaters, and only two T-shirts, because they’d tossed them all.
I was still deciding which suit to put on when the doorbell rang.
I threw on my ratty bathrobe, took the stairs two at a time, and opened the door. Fab stood on the doorstep, alone. “You’re early,” I said.
“Hello to you, too.”
We stood staring at each other. “Um, are you going to invite me in?”
“Oh. Sure.” Fab stepped inside. He held up a shopping bag. “Sal’s suits are amazing. But you need a bit of casual stuff, too. So, I went to my local thrift store….” He pulled a pair of jeans and three T-shirts out of the bag. “You can try them on for size. Oh, and I also got you this, because every person needs one signature piece.” He pulled out a beautiful, lightweight, dark green sweater. “Trust me, this color is you.”
I stood with the pile of clothes in my hands. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, thanks?”
“Of course. Thank you. But why?”
“I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in this experiment, Wilbur. My reputation is at stake. I can’t have you walking around Paris looking like a great big Fashion Don’t.”
“But—how much did all this cost?”
“Almost nothing. It was fill-a-bag-for-twenty-bucks day.”
“I’ll pay you back—”
“Sure, whenever.”
My eyes stung a little. “May I hug you?”
“You may.”
We hugged. “Alex is lucky to have you as his boyfriend.”
“I know,” he replied. “He really is.”
* * *
—
Alex and Sal arrived a while later. They herded the Mumps into the kitchen for my grand entrance.
I walked down the stairs, dressed in the dark gray suit. Fab had given me a jar of one of his old hair products; I’d used that, too.
They had perfect reactions. They looked surprised—then impressed—then moved. “Wil,” said Mum. “You look so handsome!”
“So mature!” added Mup. We hugged. They both cried a little.
From his perch at the kitchen table, Sal beamed.
Fab recorded it all on his phone. “We so deserve our own TV show!”
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. I saw someone who stood up straight. Who wore clothes that didn’t hide his body. It wasn’t a perfect body. It wasn’t a perfect face.
But it was me. And for the first time in ages?
I liked what I saw.
The match is on
The game is set
Then a curveball is thrown
Smacks me right in the head
From “Out of the Blue” by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf
The next week flew past. I worked my extra shifts at Foot Long, and I gave Mr. P more installments toward the trip. I only had five hundred dollars to go. I went to band practice, I ran or lifted weights with Alex, and I took French lessons with Sal.
On Saturday morning, with just two weeks left before my departure, Sal and I stood in the change room after aquacise. We’d both just stripped down to nothing.
“Getting excited about Paris?” he asked me.
“I haven’t had time to get excited.” I got his clothes out of his locker and put them in a neat pile on the bench beside him.
“Aw, shoot,” he said. “I’m sorry, Wilbur, but I have to whizz.”
“No worries.” I took his arm and walked him to the urinals, both of us buck naked. He held on to my arm with one hand and aimed with the other while I looked away. It was nothing I hadn’t done for him before.
“Wank.”
My insides curdled. It was bad enough having to hear that voice, and that word, Monday to Friday at school. But my weekends had always been sacred.
Of all the change rooms in all the cities in all the world…
Tyler Kertz had to walk into mine.
He stood a few meters away, in a Speedo
like mine, although the similarities ended there. All of my efforts in the past weeks suddenly felt laughable. Tyler had actual six-pack abs. He looked like a shorter Michael Phelps.
It was like I’d sprung a leak. All my confidence and good feels oozed out. “Why are you here?” My tone was accusing.
“Swim practice. Our regular pool is closed for service today.” His gaze drifted to Jeremiah, who was still in shrinkage mode from the pool.
He smirked.
Sal had finished at the urinals and turned around.
Tyler’s smirk got even smirkier.
I wanted to kick him in the nuggets. Instead, I walked Sal to the sinks so he could wash his hands.
“This your grandpa?”
“No. This is my best friend. Sal Goldstein. Sal, this is Tyler Kertz.”
Sal didn’t say a word. He grabbed a paper towel and carefully dried his hands.
Tyler is a master at behaving like a normal, decent human being around adults. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Fully naked, Sal turned and fixed Tyler with a steely gaze. “The feeling isn’t mutual.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve heard about you. Taking pleasure in making my friend’s life miserable.” He turned to me. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Wilbur. I’ve known guys like this all my life. He’s a putz.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Tyler Kertz was speechless.
Sal put his hand on my arm. We slow-walked back to our lockers with as much dignity as we could muster, which, given that we were totally naked, was not a lot.
Miraculously, I felt okay again.
Not great; but okay.
Sal had patched up the leak before all the air could seep out.
* * *
—
“You are truly the best friend a guy could have,” I said to him later as we lay under Fulton.
“Thank you, Wilbur. You’re a great friend as well.” We were quiet for a while, lost in our own thoughts. “I wanted to say something to you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re still at the beginning of your life—”
“Not really, Sal, I’m fourteen—”
“At my age, that’s still the beginning. Now please shut up. I’m trying to impart some old-man wisdom.”
I shut up.
“Whatever happens on your trip—whatever happens with Charlie—just remember, you’re going to Paris. This journey is about so much more than a girl. It’s about expanding your horizons, your mind, your heart…you will remember this trip for the rest of your life. It is a tremendous thing.”
“Not as tremendous as Fulton.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Sorry.”
A shadow loomed over us. “Sal. Wilbur.”
“José,” said Sal. He held out his hands. José hoisted him to his feet and handed him his fedora. I got up on my own. Sal reached into his tote bag. “Another one of your favorites today. Oat fudge bars.” Sal handed José a few bars from his stash.
José took the bars. “My wife complains I’m putting on weight.”
“Just tell her there’s more of you to love,” said Sal.
José grinned. “I’ll do that. Have a great day, Sal.”
“You too, José.”
* * *
—
I arrived at Foot Long just in time to start my shift at noon. Mitzi and Dmitry were scheduled to start then, too. Mitzi arrived on time.
Dmitry arrived at twelve-thirty.
“You’re late,” I said when he waltzed in.
He didn’t even answer. He just yawned and yanked up his jeans so that they revealed only a third of his butt.
Mitzi rolled her eyes.
“Go and check the bathroom and make sure it’s clean.”
“Figured you’d have done that by now, Willoughby.”
“Wilbur. And you figured wrong.”
“I’ve told you about my psoriafungalitis.”
“Which is a lie. You never brought me a note from your doctor.”
“I have it.”
“Where is it?”
“In the back.”
“Then go and get it.”
Dmitry returned a few minutes later, in uniform, and handed me a note. “This is written on a Foot Long napkin,” I said. “You must think I’m a complete idiot.”
He grinned. “You said it, Willard. Not me.”
“Go and clean the bathroom,” I said again, trying my best to sound forceful.
“Hmm, let me think, nah,” said Dmitry. He stuck a finger into his ear and wiggled it around.
I glanced at Mitzi, who was watching both of us closely. I took a deep breath. I willed myself to speak with confidence. “I’m technically your boss. And I’m asking—no, telling—you to do it.” Dmitry stared at me. I stared back. My heart was pounding in my chest. I was determined not to blink, but it was really hard. My eyes started to water. A Muzak version of Drake’s “Know Yourself” was playing.
To my surprise, Dmitry blinked first. “Fine.” He disappeared down the hall.
“Way to go!” Mitzi thumped me on the shoulder so hard I lost my balance and almost knocked over a vat of special sauce. “Sorry. It’s all this CrossFit training I’ve been doing for the Pennsic Wars this summer. I don’t know my own strength.”
“No worries.” I rubbed my shoulder. We slipped on our gloves and the two of us started prepping for the lunch rush in between customers, filling the bins with jalapeño peppers, banana peppers, olives, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and cheese. “How’s Franklin?”
“He’s great. Full of vim and vigor. Hey, I never told you I like your haircut.”
I touched my head, pleased that she’d noticed. “Thanks.”
“What’s that song?”
I cocked my head to listen to the Muzak. The Drake song had ended. “I’m not sure.”
“Not that one. The one you’re humming.”
I hadn’t realized it, but I’d been playing “Charlotte’s Web” in my head. “Just something I wrote.”
“You write songs?”
“Well, no. I write poetry. My friend Alex is an amazing composer. He puts some of my poems to music.”
“Cool.”
A few minutes later she said, “Dmitry is taking a long time.”
“Maybe he’s just being thorough.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Dmitry finally reappeared, whistling tunelessly. He had a smug look on his face.
“Slice some buns,” I told him. “I’m going to check out the job you did.”
“Oh, I did a job all right,” he said.
I headed to the back and opened the door to the unisex washroom.
The smell hit me first.
I put a hand over my nose and mouth and entered with trepidation.
I ventured a peek into the toilet bowl.
I gagged.
Mitzi was in the midst of Submarine Sandwich Creation for a customer when I returned. Dmitry was texting on his phone. “Go and flush that down immediately,” I whispered.
“Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Now!” I hissed.
“I should take a photo. Send it to Guinness World Records.”
A customer got up from his table, threw out his trash—and headed toward the bathroom.
I glared at Dmitry. “Move!”
He did not.
I had to get to the bathroom first. I moved to step around Dmitry, but he blocked my path. I tried again; he moved with me. Finally, I shoved him out of the way and ran down the hall—
I was too late.
A moment later the customer stepped out, his face a rictus of horror. “This place is disgusting.” He pushed past me to the front
doors. “I’m posting about it on Yelp!”
* * *
—
Dmitry thought it was hilarious. He was in a good mood all afternoon and into the evening, while I quietly fumed.
At eight-thirty, he went to the back and emerged a few minutes later in his street clothes.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To a party.” He slowed his voice down. “Par-tee. It’s this thing where a bunch of people get together and talk and drink and have a good time—”
“Your shift doesn’t end for another half hour.”
“Twenty-eight minutes to be exact. It’s dead quiet. You don’t need me.”
“That’s not the point. You’re getting paid for the time. So you’re staying. Also, you were half an hour late.” My insides were a quivering mess, but I kept my voice calm, like Sal had tried to teach me. “Start sanitizing the veggie bins.”
Mitzi’s eyes darted from me to Dmitry.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes, I can. I am a Submarine Sandwich Creation PhD. You are a Submarine Sandwich Creation Engineer. I am your boss. And you will do as I say, or else.”
Dmitry smirked. “Or else what?”
All of the work I’d done over the past number of weeks just crystallized. I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. “Or else I’ll fire you.”
He burst out laughing. “You can’t fire me.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can—”
He opened the front door—
“You’re fired!” I blurted. “Give me your badge.” I held out my hand. It was shaking.
Dmitry stopped. “You’ve got to be joking—”
“Give. Me. Your. Badge!”
He stared at me, hard. Then he took his badge out of his jacket pocket and threw it. It skittered across the floor. “This isn’t over.”
He left.
I picked up his badge. I was jangly with nerves.
But I also felt exhilarated.
I had stood up to Dmitry. But more important, I had stood up for myself.
Mitzi stared at me. “You do realize you had no authority to fire him.”
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