“It looks just like what you guys have back home,” Alek said.
“This was our inspiration. It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is, a bunch of kids are always at it out here. And check them out!
“Awesome moves, dude,” Ethan called out to a skateboarder who jumped onto the rail with his board, slid down, flipped it around in midair, and landed with ease. The skater responded by punching his chest twice and throwing Ethan a peace sign.
After watching the skateboarders for a few more minutes, Alek and Ethan continued walking south. A few blocks later, they made a left on Astor Place.
“Okay. I know that you didn’t ask for it, but if we’re gonna make you over, we’ve gotta start with the hair.”
“Ethan, you might think of yourself as some kind of miracle worker, but you haven’t met my Armenian ’Fro. This will be my hair until I die.”
“You don’t know my man Marco. The guy’s a genius.”
Ethan walked down a staircase under a barber’s sign in which the words “ASTOR HAIR” were formed with white lightbulbs against a black background. Alek quickly followed. He emerged into a basement labyrinth of mirrors and barber chairs, so dark that Alek didn’t know how the barbers could see anyone’s hair, let alone cut it. This place bore no resemblance to the brightly lit, elevator-music hair salons at the mall, where Alek’s mom had been taking him his whole life.
Everything in this room was in motion—barbers furiously snipping, assistants anxiously sweeping, and electric razors boldly buzzing. The customers were mostly grown-up men, but Alek could see kids who looked younger than him and some senior citizens navigating the room with canes and walkers. Even the clients sitting in the chairs had a glow of energy around them, animatedly discussing local politics or sports with one another across cutting stations. Ethan didn’t pause to take in the pandemonium. He beelined to a barber in the back of the room.
“Ethan, mio caro, great to-ah see you!” a pudgy middle-aged man with a few days’ worth of stubble, a thick bushy mustache, and an even thicker accent called to him.
“Marco, this is my friend Alek. Save him!” Ethan called. Marco had warm brown eyes, and his fat fingers, squeezed into the scissor handles, looked like sausages about to pop out of their casings.
Marco pulled Ethan and Alek aside. “I-ah finish with my-ah current client in five-ah minutes. There’s a wait list, but any friend-ah Ethan’s a friend-ah mine.” Marco ran his sausage fingers through Alek’s hair. “Greek?”
“Armenian.”
“That-ah would’ve been-ah my-ah next guess. Only the Greeks and the Armenians have-ah hair this-ah crazy. We-ah see what we can do, eh? You should be-ah wearing your-ah hair, not the other way around, yes?”
Half an hour later, Alek emerged from the basement sporting his new short, tousled hair. In spite of the detailed instructions he’d received, Alek had no idea if he’d ever be able to re-create that perfectly messy look that Marco could achieve in fifteen seconds by squirting some product in his hands and running them over Alek’s head.
“Check out my boy!” Ethan said admiringly when Alek stepped out of the barber shop. Alek saw his reflection in a glass storefront. The cut looked even more drastic in the light of day than it had in Marco’s dark mirror downstairs. He’d never realized how his old hair had drawn focus away from his eyes, nose, and ears. With this new shorter do, his features jumped into the foreground.
“I feel exposed.”
“Scary, isn’t it, to have nothing to hide behind?” Ethan asked.
“Yes,” Alek agreed. “But also freeing.”
“Dude, it looks freakin’ hot.” Ethan took a deep breath and screamed out, “My boy looks hot!”
“Shh!” Alek looked around to see if anyone had responded to Ethan’s outburst.
But Ethan had already moved on. “Now we need to get this hottie some hot clothes,” he continued. “Let’s go.”
Ethan and Alek walked for another fifteen minutes until they stood outside of a brick building with the words HOUSING WORKS stenciled on the windows and door. “Follow me,” Ethan said, entering the store without breaking his pace. Alek did.
“Ethan!” a young African-American woman called from behind the register. “You haven’t been here in ages—it’s good to see you, babe!”
“Clarice! What up, girl?” Ethan said, leaning over and giving her a hug. “This is Alek. Alek, this is Clarice. She’s finishing up at FIT—Fashion Institute of Technology—so you know she’s legit.” Then he turned back to Clarice. “I’m thinking preppy/artsy/nerdy chic. Can you help us?”
“Follow me,” she said. When Clarice walked out from behind the counter, Alek could appreciate her full ensemble. She wore tight purple pants and a sleeveless black shirt with sequins that shimmered whenever she moved. Ethan and Alek followed Clarice as she navigated through the clothes racks.
“This is a used-clothes store!” Alek exclaimed.
“How do you think I remain so fashionable on a budget?” Ethan asked. “But it’s not just a used-clothes store.”
“We donate our profits to homeless people with HIV or AIDS,” Clarice told Alek as she guided them through the racks of clothing. “So you get to look tight and support a good cause.”
“They’ve also got a bookstore downtown,” Ethan said. “Not that I’ve spent much time there.”
“Now let’s see.” Clarice appraised Alek like a scientist trying to puzzle the results of an experiment. “No pale earth tones or yellows—I like you in rich primaries, and maybe a luscious brown to bring out those eyes. That sound right to you, Ethan?”
“Spot-on as always, Clarice.”
“What about this?” she asked, pulling out a faded green T-shirt.
“That’s the Green Lantern insignia!” Alek exclaimed with joy, admiring the white circle graphic on the chest of the shirt.
“What?” Ethan said.
“‘In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight.’ That’s the Green Lantern motto!”
“Whatever,” Ethan said. “I just think it looks fierce. You hold, Clarice and I grab,” he said, throwing Alek the shirt.
Soon Alek was buried in a pile of clothes. He immediately vetoed some of the stuff as too weird, like a pair of bright red flare pants and a neon purple tank top. But Ethan didn’t mind. “We’re just figuring out what you like.”
When Alek thought he’d crumble under the weight of the pile of clothes he was holding, Ethan said, “Take these and try them on. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Alek found the dressing room in the back corner of the store and waited in line until it was available.
Sliding the curtain closed behind him, Alek slipped his shoes and khaki shorts off and tried on the first pair of pants, slim-fitting dark blue trousers with a button fly and stitching on the sides in neon-orange accents.
“Alek, get out here and model for me!” Ethan screamed from outside. Shyly, Alek slid the curtain open and walked out.
“‘The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,’” Alek recited in a British accent.
“Excuse me?” Ethan appraised the pants’ fit on Alek from all angles.
“That’s what Eliza Doolittle is taught to say correctly when she’s finally transformed in My Fair Lady.”
“Whatever, man. Those look gorgeous. Try them with…” Ethan ran into the dressing room and pulled out a tight black V-neck T-shirt.
Alek changed shirts and walked out in the full ensemble. Ethan whistled in approval. “This is what you’re going to be wearing when you walk out of here. Go in there and show me the rest of it.”
Ethan’s enthusiasm drew everyone in. When Alek walked out a few moments later, this time wearing the Green Lantern T-shirt with low-riding gray boot-cut jeans, the other customers waiting in the dressing room line clapped. Ethan made him model the clothes up and down the aisle, much to the impromptu audience’s pleasure.
“You’ve got to get some kick-ass shoes for that getup,” a trim, w
ell-dressed young man holding a briefcase suggested.
“Those two make an adorable couple,” a middle-aged woman in a beige straw hat whispered to her friend.
Back in the dressing room, Alek pulled the shirt off and was deciding what to try next when he heard Ethan from the other side of the curtain.
“I picked these up for you. I want to see if you look better in the black or silver frames. I think we’re ready to move into accessories.” Alek caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, shirtless, before Ethan barged in, holding two pairs of sunglasses and a few chains of wood beads.
“Oh, uh, I didn’t realize … Sorry, I assumed you were dressed,” Ethan sputtered when he saw Alek half-naked. But he didn’t make any movement to leave.
“I was just trying to figure out what to try next,” Alek responded, turning around so his back was to Ethan.
“How about this one?” Ethan held up an almost transparent white button-down covered with a floral Southwestern design over the shoulders and back.
“Great, you want to leave it?” Alek asked.
“I’d rather you turned around so I could see you put it on.”
Alek paused for a second before he slowly turned around. He could see Ethan look him up and down. Although he should’ve been uncomfortable, Alek secretly felt thrilled to be seminaked in front of Ethan. And having so many people close by made it even more exciting.
“I didn’t realize you had such sexy tris.” Ethan spoke slowly, taking his time with each word.
“Tris?”
“Triceps, duh.”
“I told you I played tennis for years.”
Ethan put a finger on Alek’s elbow and traced his triceps up to his shoulder. Alek felt every hair on his body go rigid in response. Ethan’s finger lingered on Alek’s shoulder for a while, and then slowly, it wound its way forward, tracing down his pecs.
“And I didn’t realize how well you tan. Do all Armenians tan this well?”
“Well, lots of Armenians are really pale, like my mom. That’s where my brother gets it from. But I look more like my dad. He’s so dark, he’s sometimes mistaken for Turkish.”
“Thank God for Dad’s dark Armenian genes.”
Ethan’s finger slid up under Alek’s chin, and then he pushed him against the dressing room wall. Ethan leaned his body against Alek’s and kissed him.
“Not here!” Alek protested weakly after a few seconds.
“I don’t care where we make out.” Ethan smiled slyly but pulled away. His body language, however, made it clear that he would’ve happily continued kissing. And maybe more. “But it’s cool. Let me see you in that button-down.”
Standing in the checkout line a few minutes later, Alek couldn’t believe that the two pairs of pants, three pairs of shorts, and four shirts he was holding, not to mention the blue pants and black V-neck outfit that Ethan chose for him, with the silver sunglasses and a string of wooden beads around his neck, totaled less than half the money his mother usually spent on his summer clothes.
“And how about this, to pull it all together?” Ethan asked, holding up a beat-up brown leather backpack.
Alek dropped his clothes on the floor and held the backpack in a loving embrace.
“Goodbye, JanSport,” he said, nuzzling the bag with his nose and inhaling its old leather smell.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” Ethan asked, picking up Alek’s clothes from the floor.
A few minutes later, they stood outside the Housing Works store, Alek proudly wearing his new clothes, the rest of them folded into the leather backpack strapped on his back.
“You remember the five bucks we didn’t spend last trip because you were being all salty?”
“I wasn’t salty, whatever that means! I thought you were being homophobic…”
“… when I was just being homosexual,” Ethan quipped. “You hungry?”
With all of the day’s activities, Alek didn’t realize he hadn’t eaten since the soudé incident.
“Starved!”
“That’s what the remaining five bucks go to. Food. Even in New York City, you can find good cheap food.”
Ethan turned and Alek followed. What must it be like, Alek wondered, to actually know your way around this city?
“We’re going to grab a bite, and then we’re going to hit the High Line.”
“What’s the High Line?”
“You’ll have to see it to believe” was all Ethan would say.
Alek and Ethan passed countless restaurants, stands, and food carts as they traveled through the city. “Can’t we just grab something at one of these?” Alek asked.
“No,” Ethan responded quickly. “This place is a little bit out of our way, but if you want the best, you have to be willing to travel for it. Especially if you want the best on a budget.”
They passed a basketball court, and Ethan look a sharp left. “We’re in the West Village. It used to be the bohemian/gay neighborhood, but then gentrification happened, and now only rich people live here. And NYU students. Here we are.”
Ethan stopped in front of a small, white-and-brown-striped awning attached to a sign that read MAMOUN’S FALAFEL.
“Falafel!” Alek exclaimed.
“Don’t tell me falafel is Armenian, too?”
“It’s not—it’s Middle Eastern. But my mom grew up next door to an Egyptian family, and their moms traded recipes all the time. Falafel is to me what hot dogs were to most kids.”
Ethan stepped up to place their order, but Alek interceded. “I got this,” he said. “We’ll take two falafel sandwiches, and give me the real pitas—not that thick stuff these Americans like.” The guy behind the counter nodded at Alek approvingly. He grabbed some thin pitas from beneath the counter, opened them up, then used a pair of tongs to pick up some falafel balls from the fry basket.
“How long has that falafel been sitting there?” Alek asked the guy, who looked down sheepishly instead of answering. “That’s what I thought,” Alek continued. “You mind whipping us up a new batch, please?” The guy scooped some mashed chickpeas into balls and dropped them into the boiling oil.
“You really know your way around a falafel stand,” Ethan commented, impressed.
“You have no idea how proud my parents would be of me right now,” Alek replied. When the falafel was ready, Alek pointed to the toppings. “You can go light on the salad, and then give us some of those cucumbers in brine and—”
“Some soudé fruits!” Ethan exclaimed with joy.
“And some pickled eggplant would be great. And we’ll take the tahini and the hot sauce, please. Sahtein,” Alek said as the man handed him the falafel sandwiches.
“What does sahtein mean?” Ethan asked.
“It’s like bon appétit in Arabic,” Alek responded.
“Will those be together?” the man asked, ringing them up.
“Yes, please,” Alek jumped in before Ethan had a chance to respond. He handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill from the envelope and slipped another dollar into the tip jar.
“Alek, you don’t have to pay for me.”
“I know I don’t. But this is a date, right?”
“Preach.”
“Assuming that means ‘yes,’ it would be my pleasure.”
“Check me out. My boyfriend bought me a falafel sandwich,” Ethan boasted to the Goth girls behind them.
“You two are so cute. And you’re so lucky. Gay is so ‘in’ right now. I’m totally thinking about going lesbo,” the taller one responded.
Alek would’ve laughed or at least acknowledged the girl’s comment, but he was still absorbing Ethan’s use of the word boyfriend. They ate while they walked, Ethan practically dragging Alek along.
“My mom says it’s not healthy to walk and eat,” Alek protested.
“Your mom doesn’t have to get to the High Line before it closes.”
They walked up and then over, and Ethan guided Alek up a circular outdoor staircase. A walking garden, running parallel to th
e river and suspended in the middle of the city, welcomed them.
“This is so cool!” Alek cried.
“I know, right?” Ethan nodded. “This used to be a train track that would deliver milk, meat, produce, and raw and manufactured goods into the city. Then it was closed down for, like, forever, and people wanted to tear it down, but someone had the idea to turn it into a park. Come on!”
“It’s like the opposite of Central Park,” Alek observed as they strolled.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, in Central Park, you forget you’re in a city. Here, the city and nature meld into this incredible hybrid thing. The High Line couldn’t exist anywhere else.”
“No, it couldn’t,” Ethan agreed. “I just love the way the city looks from this second-floor perspective.” He pointed west. “That’s where the Ramblers, the city’s gay soccer team, play every Monday night. And down there is the Hotel Chelsea, which used to be the place to be. And look, this is one of my favorite parts,” he said when they reached 26th Street. They sat suspended over the street, watching it stretch into what looked like infinity. “You never get to see a street or avenue from this angle. Isn’t it amazing?” Ethan asked.
Alek nodded yes, watching the street stretch into the horizon.
They passed couples holding hands and more food carts. When they reached a Mexican paleta stand, Ethan proudly produced his own wallet. “If you can buy me falafel, then I can buy you dessert,” he said, and purchased one strawberry and one mango chili frozen fruit bar. “You wanna go splitsies?” Ethan asked.
“On a popsicle?” Alek exclaimed.
“Scared of catching my germs?”
They continued walking as they ate their dessert, admiring the floating park’s architecture and how it seamlessly melded into the foliage and greenery. “Come on, come on,” Ethan hurried Alek along. “We don’t have much time left.”
“Time left for what?”
“Just hurry up!” Ethan said, practically dragging him down another circular staircase. Alek followed Ethan across a highway onto a small grass-lined pier.
“We’re all the way west in Manhattan.” Ethan pointed to the road that ran parallel to the water. “This is the West Side Highway.”
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