I kept to my paperwork, but peeked to see his progress. I had nothing planned tonight. Well, nothing special. I meant to head to the Cavern with Russ and lift the eggnog in song with a rag-tag collection of Jersey Gay Swallows. However, art never belayed a rugged cowboy in the jacket thickets. I couldn’t stretch the paper game for too much longer. The stacks would be a mess soon, and if you get too far behind, the place would look like Filenes’ basement instead of A&S’ finest. I remember that the prickle suddenly ceased. I darted about and the eyes were gone. Shoot! I then remember spotting the ugliest tie I had ever seen in my cravat forest — a neon purple thing with a subtle charcoal fleck through the fabric. Yuck. That will never sell. I stole another glance toward the jackets, but my cruiser was gone.
“I hate Christmas,” came a voice, which didn’t startled me, because I knew it well.
It was Russ. I just ignored him and stroked the ugly purple tie.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. You hate Christmas, although any sissy worth his salt wouldn’t brag about it. Watch out or I’ll cut up your gay membership card.”
Russ leaned on the glass top.
“I just polished that,” I complained. I really hadn’t, but the nerve of the man. He should know better. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I’m on break, hon,” Russ announced. “And did I mention? I hate Christmas.”
I had had this conversation about Christmas with Russ for every Christmas since ninth grade. Still, I had to say it. “Best time of the year for retail. Fresh merchandise. Lot’s of hungry shoppers. Plenty of fabric in hand, and sales, sales, sales.”
“Not to mention, no rest for the weary,” Russ said.
“Well, rest ye Merry Mary men, dearie, but not on my glass counter.”
Russ pouted. “This girl’s feet are in the Pearl Bailey zone.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I wish I had a boss like yours in that fucking shoebox you work in. If I walked away from my counter as many times as you walked out of Tux and Ties, I’d be shit-canned.”
Russ stifled a yawn. I ignored it. He was always trying to get my goat.
“Formal wear,” he said, with his usual condescending campy air. “Formal wear just doesn’t sell like this crap from Santa’s elves.” He brushed his hand through the ties — my ties — even that ugly purple tie that you couldn’t give away at a tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. “Besides, when you work in retail, never work big and schlock. Work exclusive. Work for perks.”
Suddenly, he grasped my arm and I felt the prickle again. I knew that prickle didn’t come from Russ. We were too much the sisters to generate any steam. His head lowered and his voice dropped.
“Honey, honey, honey,” he mumbled. “Look at that perk in the jacket racks. Maybe I should start working in schlock retail.”
My cruiser was back — eyes, hat and five o-clock shadow.
“Don’t be so obvious, Russ. He’s been checking me out for the last half-hour. But you know how it goes. They come in, look at this pretty ass, wink and wait, and then they open their mouths. And there it ends.”
“Give it a chance, hon.”
“They’re all strangers. Don’t know me and don’t want to know me.”
I gave a start. It was as if Viv stood beside me, her stringy raven hair kissing her shoulders — her Estee Lauder aroma dripping over the glass. I was my mother’s son. Shithead. Russ conveyed a stern look of gay wisdom. He had been around the block more than I had — danced more, screwed more, and was beat up more. In many ways, just like Viv, only with more verve than the manicurist’s hippie heritage. Less flower power. More Scarlet O’Hara.
“I know these over-the-counter encounters,” Russ said. He fanned himself with his hand. “Who knows? Perhaps a little Christmas cheer would do us all some good. You know, a little pick-me-up.” He glanced toward the racks. “He doesn’t look so little to me, hon. There might be a stallion under that cowboy lid.”
“Don’t encourage me,” I said. And I was encouraged. After all, it was Christmas, the time of the year I would pick up the matching gift to go with the vacuum broom. “That’s what I love about you, Russ. You’re so practical. You’re encouraging me to pick up a man while I’m on the clock. Do you want me to lose my job?”
“Not much of a job, you know. Still, it pays the electric bill in that little shanty you maintain, I suppose; especially now that Mr. Meth is gone.”
That pissed me off. I ran my hands forcefully through the ties, spinning them in their carousel. I wished Russ would toddle back to that fru fru mall shop that employed him — employed him to take a break every hour. Russ bowed, not in forgiveness, but because it annoyed me.
“Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps, that one over there’s a millionaire on the prowl. A Texas oil man.”
“A millionaire who shops at A&S. Give me a fucking break. And, speaking about breaks, isn’t yours up?”
Russ careened on the counter despite my admonishing against his fingerprints on my well-polished counter top.
“Listen to your Auntie Russ. Never pass up an opportunity to take what is rightfully somebody else’s.”
“Listen to your Sister Martin. That’s the fastest ticket to hell. I know.”
“Hell, girl. According to the Pope, you and I are going to hell — table for two reserved on the aisles. Best seats in the house, waiting for the devil’s striptease.”
“Shoo. Back to work.”
A lady shopper appeared at the sweater stacks and looked like she needed help.
“Shouldn’t you be helping her?” Russ said, winking. “Some retailer you are.”
I turned my attention to the shopper, while Russ scooted over to the jacket rack, probably to get a better look at the mystery man. Russ was such a bitch at times. I guess if I wasn’t interested in my stalker, Russ wanted a gander. He took table scraps if offered — hell, even if not offered. I don’t know why we became such friends. Maybe it was the Viv in him I loved. He had the same daring fuck the world, I don’t want to get off attitude. It was like having a portable mother and one that probably cared for me more. After all, I was Mrs. Powers’ little accident, not that she neglected her maternal duties. However, I was always that complication in her life that didn’t fit well into the rest of the puzzlement that life really is.
“Can I help you?” I asked the shopper, but really had my eyes averted to the jacket rack.
The shopper smiled dimly, her yellow teeth flashing a wanton smile.
“Can I show you something?” I insisted.
She ignored me. She was wasting my time. Why did they always think their time was more valuable than mine? By the time she moved away, the cruiser was gone, probably fleeing at Russ’ approach. Russ returned, like snagglepuss.
“He wasn’t that good looking,” he announced. “Good ass, medium hands and about a nine and a half shoe.”
“You scared him off. Where did he go?”
“Well, you know your chances of . . .”
Suddenly, he was back. He emerged from behind the leather jackets and approached the counter. I slipped back behind the glass, pushing Russ away.
“Okay, girlfriend, your break’s up. Disappear.”
Russ didn’t budge.
“Leave,” I whispered. I introduced a sinister malevolence into my voice, a demonic grunting that Russ could not interpret any other way than get out of here now or I’ll kill you with a clean heart. Russell snarled like a cat, but flitted away. And he’s at least a size eleven shoe, I remembered thinking.
2
The man stopped just short of the counter. He wasn’t as rugged as I first thought. He had a lovely face and a slight mustache, which blended into his shadowy beard intentionally to increase my prickle. He was also shorter than I expected. Distance is a hard judge of these particulars, and I was just peeking after all. Staring gets you nowhere. I busied myself with the ties. Still, the man made no move toward his business. I knew I would need to help this along. He di
dn’t look like a shy guy, but what does a shy guy look like? Nothing ventured, so I stopped my tie fiddling and assumed my best retail pose.
“Did you want me to match something up?” I asked, punctuated with a pixie smile. That always worked to get them off a dime.
Then he fixed me with his eyes — frosty blue. I trembled. It wiped my pixie smile away. I had never seen such a gracious look in all my days on this here Jersey shore. Sea blue eyes — Caribbean seas reflecting pink sands.
“I was thinking,” he said. He had a distinct drawl — something past Louisiana, perhaps down El Paso way. “I was thinking of a tie to go with . . .”
“To go with . . .” I asked, heading him off at the pass, Amigo. “To go with a particular shirt? I can match one up for you, if you pick out the shirt.”
He came closer, shifting from one foot to the other. I remember wanting to steady him with my hand. Stop bobbing, man. You’re making me seasick.
“Well, actually, it’s a gift,” he drawled.
A gift. Father or lover? I thought.
“Great,” I snapped, suddenly less pixie and more employee of the month. “Then, you don’t need to match it to anything but a personality. Is he a relative?”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, does he like silk? Designer names?” I frittered through the tie racks, my hands sweeping dangerously close to that ugly, purple tie. I stopped at the French stuff. “These paisleys are all the rage.”
“Do you like them?” he asked.
I winced. Why should that matter? You’ve spent all this time cruising me from the jacket rack, only to ask me if I like the paisleys. Better to talk about the weather.
“No. Not really. Too busy. They clash with stripes. I think they’ll be out of fashion as fast as they came in.”
The man swallowed, casting his eyes toward the tie spindle.
“Well, if you were picking something out for . . . for a special friend, what would you pick out?”
Special friend? I was crestfallen. Another waste of my time. My eye swept across the tie display now resting, as vengeance dictated, on the one tie that was beyond human nature to wear — the ugly, neon purple tie. Hideous. I plucked it off the rack with considerable élan.
“This one,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He snatched at it as if it was a raw piece of liver. “The color is a bit . . . well, very hard to match with anything. I don’t know.” He peeked at the price tag. “Wow,” he said. “Well, I’ll be guided by your judgment. It’s a special gift. I’ll take it.”
“Great,” I said. I regretted it. It was a rough joke to play on such a cute man. He was a bit rough around the edges — square jawed and stocky shouldered. “Do you need a box?”
“Yep.”
“Gift wrap? We offer free gift-wrap. Just go up the escalator to the right.”
“No . . . ah . . . um . . . no gift wrap.”
I folded the tie over my hand. Hideous, but expensive. It almost bit me. I thought to pull it back and tell him my tastes were as peculiar as a pimple on the Pope, but, what the hell, I was too embarrassed to fess up.
“You can’t go wrong with Givenchy, sir,” I said instead. “Good choice.” The customer is always right, even if the customer was shopping for some unsuspecting friend who will open the box and probably puke.
“A bit eye opening,” he said.
“Breaks the ice at parties.”
“Yep. Breaks the ice.”
“Credit card?”
“Yep, A&S.”
“Good. That’ll be $36.99.”
I rang up the sale while the man still fidgeted. Then, he tapped on the glass. I noticed fingerprints on the glass top, damn that Russ.
“I was . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was also wondering . . .”
“Did you need shirts or socks . . . socks for those . . . big . . . well, underwear maybe?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then, Merry Christmas,” I said, handing him the bag.
“Thank you. You too.”
The man turned quickly, but then hesitated again. He turned back.
“Did you forget something?” I asked, hoping. Second thoughts on the color. “Did I forget to return your credit card?”
“Well, no,” he said. He gazed to the ceiling. He really appeared shaken. Finally, he cropped his elbows on the counter and met my eyes squarely — Caribbean blue meets Carrara black marble. “You know, I’ve never did anything like this before,” he stammered. “If I’m out of line or offend you, please . . .”
I leaned in now. This one needed the full bull pull. I whispered in his ear.
“I’ll save you the time. I’m family also and . . . I’ve been watching you too.”
“Oh, thank God,” he declared. He closed his eyes as if he were in church set to shout his hallelujahs. “That’s such a relief, I can’t tell you.”
“We’re everywhere, you know. But you wanted to ask me something.”
“Yes. I was wondering if you’d like to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee or something?”
Ah, the coffee ceremonial, I thought. At last.
“And what kind of something did you have in mind?” I remember laughing. He sighed, his eyes darting toward the floor. This was a tender flower — a gentle cornflower eyed gentleman. I had to be careful not to crush him with my raging sunflower flare. I reached across the counter. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He brightened.
“Then, that’s a yes?”
“That’s a yes,” I said. “I’m off in an hour. There’s a coffee shop by the Tux and Tie rental shop. Old World Coffee. Do you know where?”
“On the first floor. Yep.”
Suddenly, I spied the woman, who probably decided she wanted one of those damn expensive sweaters. Now that the deed was done, I had to get back to work, although the prickling was incessant now.
“I’ll see you there, then. By the way, I’m Martin.”
“Matthew.” He offered me his hand. A gentleman, are we? I gave it a shake. “My friend’s call me Matt.” How original. “In an hour. I’ll be there.”
Matt walked off forgetting the package. Suddenly, remembering it, he returned and snatched it off the counter.
“In an hour. I’ll be there.”
What a rube, I thought as I watched Matthew disappear into the mall. I twitched. The prickle was gone. Strange how that feeling came and went with this guy. Strange? There was something in the air — other than Christmas carols and retail and shoppers and ugly, neon purple ties. I felt a spark of eventuality — those instances in life when fate transcends the folding of sweaters and games in the jacket rack. I am a child of Christmas, ever since I opened that long ago long-box with the ironing board and thanked flaky Viv for the best gift in the whole wide world. However, with the departure of the prickle, time seemed to fold on me — something kindling, echoing over the counter, trailing like fishing line to some indiscernible point at sea. I still wasn’t certain whether this over-the-counter encounter was a gift from Santa. The ironing board still might have been better, but the sea ebbs and flows, and I was drifting. If I was a child of Christmas, then why did it feel like the Fourth of July?
Chapter Three
Old World Coffee
I was not generally a clock-watcher, but I was that day. I shuffled through seven or eight more sales, and then decided that my shift was up. My relief had shown up early and I took advantage of him. He came to sort out the register and when he turned around, I was gone — not as much as a Christmas card. If there were adjustments to be made, we’d do it on that madness called “the day-after Christmas sales bonanza.” Whatever. I grabbed my coat and kit and scurried out into the bright neon of Eatontown Mall. Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind. What if this urban cowboy was just pulling my chain? It had happened before. I’d be pissed. But why? The world didn’t turn on his balmy eyes. Yet, it had been some time since I had dumped Ar
turo and, being wary of the next crop of pick-ups from The Cavern, it had been a dry spell. It was Christmas, after all. I saw the Ties and Tux shop on the right hand rise. Old World Coffee would be coming up soon.
Old World Coffee was a sweet affair with a European-style bistro jutting out into the mall — a perfect place for sitting alone and watching the countenances of those about us. Alone was sometimes good. I liked my space, but Old World Coffee was also a great place for cruising men or whatever floats your boat. In the cowboy’s case, it was a place to fidget and pace. I saw him at once — his distress and impatience. He fumbled with an iced coffee as he watched every person that passed by. I was relieved. He was anxious to find me. I bet he saw a dozen possibilities, but there was just no one like me in this mall or any other. I’m not vain, but I have a particular presence that takes the stage. Whenever I managed to land a solo with the Jersey Gay Sparrows, the audience was entranced long before I opened my mouth and treated them to my glorious tenor voice. No, not vain at all.
“Thank God,” he stammered.
I swung into the bistro and took my place with my usual presence and flare.
“I’m right on time.”
“You didn’t really say, what time.”
He sat, his head bowed, but his eyes peering up — an odd position giving him the glam of servitude. I wasn’t sure I liked that. It might have served Uriah Heep well, but it was all too fussy for the coffee ceremonial.
“I said, in an hour.”
“You did, but . . . my watch stopped.”
Look Away Silence Page 2