“Why aren’t you out, dork?” Henry’s older brother, Brad, asked the Saturday night following the Homecoming dance. He had come up from behind Henry and flicked him on the head before plopping down on the other end of the couch.
“Why aren’t you out?”
“Good comeback, spaz,” Brad said. “Seriously, what the hell’s the problem with you?”
Both were staring ahead, carefully avoiding anything that might imply the conversation mattered.
“I don’t have a problem,” Henry said. “What’s your problem?”
Chico and the Man is a repeat.
“Is it that Figger fuck?”
Henry winces at his brother’s use of the word fuck. Brad has a harsh way of saying it. His teeth really cut into his lower lip before pushing out the for something but it always sounds worse coming from him and anyway it’s none of his business and he’s setting me up, I can just feel it, he thought at the time.
“Why do you care?” Henry said.
“I don’t want a freakazoid for a younger brother, that’s why,” Brad said.
Henry notices that there was a pause before Brad said this. And he could have sworn Brad had glanced over at him. In earnest. Like he really might have cared. A slight pause, but then with Brad sometimes it was what he didn’t say.
And before Brad left, the conversation abandoned just like that, dangling in between them, Henry felt an impulse to cry and to hug his brother, so grateful for the sibling talk, so filled with love that he, momentarily at least, forgot his social misery. The feeling was quick, like a skipped heartbeat. Once it passed Henry got up to change the channel.
The sensor running underneath the floor mat just inside Baxter’s front door has triggered the chime that to Henry sounds like the doorbell at his Aunt Millicent’s New York apartment. That apartment, a shabby walk-up in Greenwich Village, always sick with the smell of cumin and curry and God-knows-what-other Indian spices Aunt Millicent experimented with, fancying herself the sophisticate of Henry’s family. “Just because she went to India once twenty years ago,” his mother muttered every time her sister appeared wearing skirts fashioned out of sari material. Aunt Millicent also says “ciao” instead of “goodbye,” tells them she’ll “ring” them later and signs her letters and cards “cheers.”
“Can I help you?” he asks, knowing that if Mr. Beardsley were here he’d get a lecture about enunciation and eye contact.
“Just looking,” the woman says, fingering the circle of shoulders fanning out from the easy-sportswear display in the center of the store, Mr. Beardsley’s attempt to remind this generation that sport coats are, in fact, leisure wear. “Casual Fridays ruined us all,” he lamented to Henry when they set the sign in the middle of the rack. “Used to be no man worth his salt would enter a workplace in anything less than a suit and tie,” he said, sifting one by one through each jacket, making sure the tiny bright upside-down-cupcake markers indicating size matched the actual garment—”Nothing worse than landing on the perfect jacket and finding out it’s not your size after all,” he’d say.
Along with sport coats, easy sportswear consists of cotton chinos (straight-legged with one-and-a-quarter-inch cuff), wide-wale corduroys (some embroidered with golf clubs, ducks or whales for the clubby inclusion they suggest), a large variety of oxford cloth shirts (“The largest in three counties,” Mr. Beardsley would proudly point out), and a wide selection of classically styled sweaters that are instantly recognizable and therefore comforting to a certain set of customers wary of anything new, anything that varies wildly from what their forebears wore. And so a man could purchase a V-neck tennis pullover, cream-colored with navy and maroon stripes around both the neck and hem. Which is to say he could easily duplicate the Gatsby style his own father had cultivated, complete with red crepe–soled white ducks and the proper white flannel trousers to match. Also for sale, an exact replica of the ubiquitous L. L. Bean Norwegian sweater, navy with white flecks evenly distributed throughout, promising to repel water should the wearer find himself caught in a downpour without a corduroy-collared field jacket, found not so far away in the outerwear section.
Henry tries to busy himself with the week’s receipts so his customer doesn’t think he is smothering. Mr. Beardsley stalks customers toward the end of every month, so eager is he to bring the numbers up, somehow failing to see a connection between the too-polite, breezy “no thanks, just stopping in for a sec” and the backing toward the door. Henry sees it and winces, knowing he’d do the exact same thing in their shoes. At least they’re polite to him, he always thinks. At least they’re not simply walking out. Mr. Beardsley does not notice.
“Will this be all?” Henry says, reaching for the three-pack (spelled p-a-k) of Hanes undershirts, size small, and the thin box of twelve one-hundred-percent-cotton handkerchiefs. Though he has been trained to use the new bar code detector meant to simplify transactions, the bar code won’t catch the attention of the laser line in the wand. He has to punch in the numbers by hand.
“Yes, thank you,” she says. He showily counts out the eleven dollars and twenty-seven cents change so she knows it is exact.
She, he notes, pulls the door open.
Henry returns to the register area and reaches under the counter for the newspaper. He lifts out the classified section, folds it in half, to be transferred to his locker later. The rest of the paper does not interest him.
A little later—minutes? hours?—Henry becomes aware he has been staring at the wall for some time.
The store is empty. Vacant. The air stagnant. Sometimes, on the slowest of slow days, Henry is certain he can feel the atmospheric pressure bearing down and he fears he might choke.
And this is one of those days.
The sun, amber through the plastic window covering, spotlights dust particles suspended in the stale air. Baxter’s has bad circulation and on particularly humid days there is an unpleasant and inexplicable smell of camphor mixed in with the old fabric. Intellectually, Henry knows inanimate objects cannot breathe but occasionally finds himself thinking the clothing has sucked up all the oxygen, leaving him with only mustiness.
It does not help matters that the store is packed with merchandise, sparing only narrow aisles that snake to the fitting rooms located in the back. The maze is so cramped that large-size customers are forced, in some cases, to turn sideways while making their way through the store. Every inch of floor space is crammed with some display or another. Upon entering, a customer will encounter the first of seven round racks, this one announcing new arrivals. It is understood that new is a loose term at Baxter’s for many of the sport coats on this particular rack have been nestled there for several seasons. The new arrivals are flanked by two more circular displays, one set aside for sport coats in the smaller sizes, the other a bit taller, for heavier overcoats. So one must turn either right or left and pass in between these round obstacles just to make it halfway through the store to the square command center that is the register setting atop a glass case featuring cuff links, tuxedo studs, some ties, handkerchiefs—various and sundry items to complete a man’s wardrobe. If all the floor displays were magically lifted up and carried away, the old, worn industrial gray carpet would show exactly where they should be re-deposited, thanks to these trails beaten down by years of customers’ feet.
All four walls of the store are lined with racks that stretch length-wise, the upper level so tall Henry is called upon to reach the larger sizes of suits or coats. If left alone Mr. Beardsley is forced to use a pole with a hook on the end of it. Pants are hanging lower and therefore require less attention.