The song slips back into unrecognizable territory, makes a pit stop at “All You Need Is Love,” takes an alarming detour into “We Text U A Merry Xmas,” redeems itself with “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side,” and then finishes with something new, a sound that perfectly matches the sight of the snowfall outside the window. When he stops, we sit in silence for a couple of seconds.
“What are we calling that, exactly?” I ask.
Arthur ponders this for a moment. “Hmm. How about … Haphazard Medley Inspired By Radio on the Drive Over, Messrs. McCartney, Lennon, Harrison, and Starr, The Most Hideous Preteen Holiday Monstrosity Ever Inflicted Upon The Ears Of Longsuffering Parents, The Smiths Because I Know You Like Them, And A Great Deal Of Nonsense Made Up Spur Of The Moment, All For The Beautiful Boy Who Is Sitting Next To Me, Because Somehow, Amidst The Recent Chaos, Dissatisfaction, And Mediocrity Of My Existence, Lord Knows How, I Seem To Have Done Something Very Right.”
Oh, this guy.
“You’re never going to fit that on any album sleeves,” I say, leaning in to rest my forehead against his.
“Just the beautiful boy part, then,” he compromises, starting to smile.
“Hey, Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for turning into a lunatic that one time, chasing a bunch of shoplifting teenagers through a rainstorm, and coming back to kiss me in the fake flower aisle at random. In retrospect, I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” he says fondly. He doesn’t quite kiss me, even though he’s close enough to. I look at him, loving the quiet and the quirk of his mouth when he smiles, thinking I could stick around this guy for always and be happy, thinking I could count his eyelashes and not get bored.
+
The next day I’m out front at the store. Kristy’s in the kitchen having lunch. MGMT is on the stereo. I may be partaking in some fairly enthusiastic head-bopping to the end of “The Handshake” when the bell jingles on the door. I don’t stop right away, because – and this is a tragic testament to the amount of customer traffic we’ve been getting lately – I figure it’s just Cora dropping by. I look up, though, and there’s no yak-coated mad maiden in sight. Instead, it’s a woman who looks maybe mid-thirties. She’s got crazy flyaway brown hair, glasses, and a look that can best be described as mondo-tremulous. (I mean, maybe, like, Proust wouldn’t agree, like, he’d find a more elegant synonym, but that’s the description that I’m sticking with.)
“Heyyyy,” I say, trying to give off the vibe of a man who wasn’t just caught head-bopping. “How can I help you?”
“I am going to start knitting,” she announces, with the very steady conviction that can only accompany poorly stifled craziness. “I’ve been meaning to do it since I was twenty, and now … I am going to do it. It is going to happen.”
“Uh,” I say, “that’s great. Congratulations. Knitting stuff’s that way—”
“I’m getting a divorce. After fifteen years of being not divorced. You know. Married. I was married. Am married, still, technically, but, you know. That’s over with. There is nothing salvageable there. So! Knitting! I’m not really sure who I’ll be knitting things for, but …”
She trails off, and stands there looking lost.
It is so sad. Not, like, ha-ha-you’re-lame sad, but genuine, Old Yeller sad.
“How ‘bout I give you the tour? The grand knitting tour?” (Secret: there’s no such thing as the grand knitting tour. Or at least, there wasn’t ‘til two seconds ago.)
“That would be nice,” she says with a quavering smile.
“Great! So, what have you got in your knitting arsenal so far?”
“Nothing at all. This – this is all new for me. And I’m awful at new things, as a rule. But not now! This is me starting over. With knitting.”
“Okay then! No biggie. We can grab you some needles over here—” I start off toward that aisle; she follows me, nervous puppyish. “You probably wanna go with some eights, that’s your standard size. We’ve got an assortment of colors, as you can see, so, ya know, whatever your fancy—”
“I do like purple,” she volunteers shyly.
“Purple it is. Go purple, totally. The color of royalty. For some royally good knitting.” Some things, I reflect, never change. Namely, the fact that I talk like a dumbass.
The mondo-tremulous customer laughs, though. She seems pretty grateful that I’m trying (emphasis on ‘trying’) to be funny. “Okay. Wonderful. Purple it is!”
I retrieve some purple needles and hand them to her. She smiles down at them in her hands, like they’re promising her a splendid future.
“Then you’re gonna need yourself some yarn,” I continue, leading her down the aisle. “Now, okay, important knitting life lesson right here: don’t go acrylic. Just don’t. Acrylic’s what you’re gonna find at, like, Wal-Mart, and acrylic is crap. I have it on good authority that it’s like knitting with barbed wire, that it’s squeaky, yeah, that’s right, squeaky, and that – although I can’t vouch for this one personally – apparently it’s what Satan uses to make Christmas sweaters for the ninth-circle sinners.” She giggles. “What you’re gonna want to do is go for good, old-fashioned wool – which, fortunately, is what we’ve got here. Lots of colors – again, go for what feels right. Pick out something you like. Now, I’ve never done any knitting myself, but I just received a pair of socks for Christmas made out of some kick-butt baby alpaca, and they are excellent socks. My feet have never been jollier.”
She laughs again, taking in the magnificent sight that is the yarn aisle.
“Oh, they’re all so lovely,” she says admiringly, reaching out to run her fingers over some dark pink merino. “How do I choose?”
“Take your time,” I say, smiling. “You want any other pointers?”
“Oh, whatever you can tell me,” she replies earnestly.
The fact that I have more to say is a little creepy – like, when did that happen? – but I oblige. “You can get started with a how-to guide book that’ll outline how to do the basic stitches for ya, and we sell those over at the end of the aisle, but from what I’ve heard, it’s less confusing if you can just find someone to teach you.”
“I’ve got a friend at work who knits constantly. I was thinking I would ask her—”
“Perfect. And, okay, sometimes you’ll hear to start with a scarf, because you’re pretty much, ya know, knitting a big rectangle. Very basic, not much that can go wrong there. But actually, I’ve heard from a friend of mine that that’s not necessarily the best way to go, because it’s quite the undertaking, and by the time you’re finally done, you might be so irritated that you never want to knit again.” (Or, well, okay, the way Cora phrased it was, “You’re just like, oh my God, die, you fucking cocksucker scarf, screw this fucking knitting nonsense,” but.) “So instead, you might wanna just start small. Do, like, a coin purse.”
“All right,” she says with a slow nod, like she’s trying to commit every word to memory. “And who doesn’t need a coin purse?”
“Exactly!” I say. “We all got coins.”
“Yes!” She gives me a big smile. “Thank you.”
It’s like she’s thanking me for something way bigger: getting her kitten out of a tree, helping her granny across the street, I dunno. It’s funny, how stuff that seems so small can be so important. I guess there’s no real way of telling how much something can mean to somebody else. Maybe even this job is sort of important.
“Of course,” I say, smiling back at her. “Good luck. You’ve got this already. I can tell.”
She smiles at me just a little bit longer, then turns her attention back to yarn.
When I return to the cash register, it’s to discover that Kristy’s standing there. She’s got this big, sappy smile on her face. Damn it. Caught in the act.
“You can go eat now if you want to,” she says, her fingers traipsing affectionately up my arm.
“Nah,” I shrug, throwing a glance back the yarn aisl
e’s way. “I’m not too hungry.”
“Okay,” Kristy says easily. Her eyes have that pesky adorable knowing sparkle.
After about five minutes, the customer comes over with her arms full of yarn. I ring everything up, giving her a ten percent discount on the grounds of Just Because, and put it into a bag.
“Thank you again,” she says, pausing at the doorway. “This is a very kind little store.”
It’s a funny choice of adjective, but I like it.
“Thanks,” I say. “Have a nice day.” And I really mean it, too. I would like her to have a nice day – and a nice life, too, if she can swing it.
The door jingle-jangles itself shut. I turn to see Kristy looking at me like she’s suddenly transformed into my proud mama bear.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing!” she says, beaming. “You did that really well, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, guess what, home girl? I’m a professional.”
“I can tell,” she says, giggling.
“She was a nice lady,” I can’t help saying. I glance back over at the door.
Kristy just keeps on with the smiling. “I bet you made her day.”
“Let’s not go all crazy.”
“I’m not! You’re wonderful, Howie Andrew, and I think it’s time for you to just accept it.” She is a picture of adorable sternness, all hands-on-hips, trying really hard to glare up at me, like this is somehow going to convince me that I am, contrary to twenty-two years of believing otherwise, actually wonderful.
Just between you and me, I’m beginning to maybe, I dunno, reach the tentative conclusion that I’m not that bad. Possibly even pretty okay.
But it’s not like I’m gonna tell Kristy that.
“The middle name, Kristina Elyse?” I say instead, mimicking her pose. “Really? You wound me.”
“It’s very serious business, Howie Andrew.”
This could, of course, potentially continue on until the end of time, but a thought strikes me. A wistful thought indeed. “It’s a bummer Cora’s not here.”
“Coralia Victoria Caldwell,” we sigh together.
When “Kids” comes on the stereo, Kristy lets out a squeal of delight, the way she does every time “Kids” comes on, and starts dancing around the empty store. She grabs my hand and tries, not for the first time, to get me to dance with her. This business of hopping around like a hooligan, it’s way super dorky, it’s so not my style, it is – in short – not how I roll.
But damn it, it’s a catchy song, and I think Kristy’s ponytail has hypnotic powers of pep.
And so, for the first time in Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts history, I surrender, and I dance with her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cora decides that, regardless of whatever plans we may have, the employees of Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts need to be together at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Mitch and Rudy are throwing a party, which will no doubt result in a whole legion of humans getting New Year’s Crunk. I’m gonna be hanging there until eleven thirtyish, and Amber’s brave enough to accompany me. Dennis and Emily are coming too. The idea of Emily bearing witness to bellybutton shots kind of makes my soul want to cry, but she’s very intrigued by the whole thing, since she’s never been to a party-party before. Mom and Herrick are going to some fancy party the dean of the community college is throwing; hopefully, there won’t be quite as much going on there in terms of bellybutton shots, but who knows?
When I voice this aloud to my mother on my way out the door, I get this in reply: “Oh, little boy, now you’re trying to monitor Mommy’s bellybutton shots? You just want me to stay at home and do your laundry all the time, don’t you?”
“I’m just saying,” I reply innocently. “If Herrick’s going to lick your bellybutton, he should at least buy you dinner first. None of this free party food crap.”
“Who’s to say it’ll be David?” she replies, eyes mischievously a-glint, as she slips into her coat. “And, come to think of it, who says he’ll be the one doing the shots?”
“My mom,” I groan, “the boozy, boozy college floozy.”
She kisses my forehead. “Have a good night, hon. Only lick the bellybuttons of the very cutest boys. Or that Rudy. He’s enchanting.”
“Ha ha ha ew.”
“How in the world did I raise such a little prude?” she fake-ponders, putting a newly-polished fingernail to her chin.
“How in the world was I born of such iniquity?” I shoot back.
“Life’s profoundest mysteries,” she declares, squeezing my shoulder. I stick my tongue out at her. Love, love, everywhere.
In the greatest New Year’s Eve gift of all time, Amber reinstates my Femmes privileges. The heavens sing.
“Here you go,” she says, pulling the CD case out from behind her back as soon as she climbs into the car. She looks extra-pretty, with her hair down loose and curly. She’s wearing a little more makeup than usual (read: enough that I actually notice she’s wearing makeup), and the neckline of her shirt, while prudent by normal girl standards, puts her collarbone on gorgeous display. Mitch is going to go so googly-eyed.
As I take the CD from her and pop it into the player, I could weep from joy. My boys, back again!
“I’ll even trade you for Tori,” Amber adds, officially making her my favorite person in the world.
I dig Boys For Pele out of the glove compartment and hand it to her, and feel a whole lot like I did when I finished my last math class junior year of high school. Never again. Ahhhh.
Amber turns around to say hi to Dennis and Emily. Dennis tells her she looks fantastic, and she smiles at that, but when Emily breathes, “Oh, your hair! You look like Arwen Evenstar,” that gets a way more pleased grin. She’s gonna be okay, Amber. Hell, it’s happening: this is her, being okay. It feels good to watch.
On the drive, we all sing along loud to “Blister In The Sun” – well, except Emily, who has clearly had nothing to do with that song in her whole life, but even she bobs her head along enthusiastically, and she’s picked up the chorus by the end.
When we pull up to Mitch’s duplex, the driveway’s already packed with cars, and sound is booming out of the house.
“How does he know so many people?” Amber muses, shaking her head. “I don’t get it.”
“He’s universally beloved,” I reply wisely.
“You sure you want to go in?” Dennis asks Emily.
Emily, ever the seeker of all things new, is the first one out of the car.
“Okay then,” Dennis mutters, smiling, and climbs out after her.
When we step inside, it’s to discover something truly baffling: Mitch and Rudy’s place is actually … clean. Sure, it’s filled with people, but there’s no food on the floor, or the walls. As far as I can tell, the only place where there is food is the kitchen table, which is shockingly conventional. Not only that, but there are gold Christmas lights strung up around the windows and streamers draped from the ceiling. A silvery HAPPY NEW YEAR banner hangs on the wall.
“Oh look,” Amber says faintly, “we’ve wandered into an alternate universe.”
Mitch comes up to us, wearing a nicely pressed Oxford shirt and beaming broadly. Maybe it’s alternate universe Mitch.
“Howie, yes! Hey guys! Okay, How, question: Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man, what what!) or Christian Bale (Batman, what what)?” He delivers the ‘Batman, what what’ in a seriously spot-on gravely Batman voice.
The shock wore off pretty quickly, and ever since, Mitch has just been curious about the whole gay thing. “What’s it like to kiss a dude?” and “Who pays when you go out?” and “So, uh, do you think I’m like … gay guy cute? Like, would you want to get with me, if you weren’t you and I wasn’t me and I was just some guy you saw chillin’ in the club?” (At which point I said, “What club?” and he said, “Good point,” and we sat in thoughtful silence for awhile.) What he’s really been having relentless fun with, though, are the either-or ques
tions.
“Downey Jr., no question, man. Bale Batman’s just like, whaa whaa whaa, man pain.”
“Nice! That’s totally what I thought.” He fist bumps me. “And I was also wondering if—” He goes suddenly silent, and his mouth falls open, and his eyes light up. Which means he’s just really noticed Amber. He stares for like ten straight seconds.
“Ambie,” he finally says, “you look so beautiful!”
She smiles. I think there may be some actual blushing going on. “Thanks. You look nice, too. What is this, a shirt with buttons?”
“Yeah, well,” he says, looking down when her hand fleetingly grabs onto one of the aforementioned buttons. “I’m glad you came. I, uh, tried to straighten the place up a little bit, I know it kind of bums you out when it’s a mess—”
“You … did well,” she says, staring around in awe.
He grins. “Cool. Hey, I know you don’t do the drinking thing, and I know you looove Mango Madness Snapple, so I went and I picked you up a couple of those earlier, they are currently chilling in the fridge. Those are just yours, everybody else has gotta keep their hands off. I put a note in there, I wrote it in all capitals and everything, but maybe we should go grab one right now because I’m not really sure—”
“Yeah, sure,” Amber interrupts, smiling at him.
“Awesome.”
“I’ll be right back,” Amber tells me.
“Missing you already,” I assure her.
She rolls her eyes and elbows me gently in the side, then heads off with Mitch.
“Hey, I read King Solomon’s Mines,” I hear him telling her as they walk.
“All of it? Already?”
“Dude, yes, I woke up one morning and it was right by my bed, and I thought, ‘You know what would be awesome? Just reading this, and not even getting out of bed.’”
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