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 didn’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?
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 Arturo
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.”
Now that seemed like a lie, or an excuse for
starting on a bad foot.
“Well, I’m here now. I had a big sale at the end of
my shift.” Since we were lying, what the hell.
“Another purple tie?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said. “Yours was my biggest sale of the day.
Are you finished your coffee, already?”
Matt sipped through the straw.
“Actually,” he drawled. “I’ve had two cups and one
of these icy things.”
“You’ll be pissing razor blades. I’ve had my quota
of coffee for the day, so I’m going to get one of those big fucking
chocolate chip cookies.”
Matt hesitated, and then hopped over to the counter.
This gave me a chance to size him up from the back, something I
really didn’t get a chance to do earlier. I liked what I saw. I
just wished he wasn’t so fidgety. He tapped on the cookie counter,
and rocked on his feet. I felt like getting up and anchoring him. I
didn’t understand why he was so nervous. Surely, this wasn’t his
first time fishing in the mall for a beautiful trout like me. I
mean, this sort of thing is Gay Pick-up 1.1, taught in Miss Pearly
Bottoms fifth grade faggot class. I sighed thinking that I might
have picked up another loser. The fidgeting could be more than just
the coffee. I watched carefully to see if he scratched — a sure
sign of a heroin addict. I wasn’t going to hang around a druggie
tonight, especially at Christmas when the only dust should be
Tinkerbelle’s.
He returned, cookie in hand, held out to me like a
votive candle. He smiled nervously. I grasped the chocolate chip
host and took it between my fingers. He stared at me, never
blinking. It made me nervous, so I broke the cookie and offered him
half, which he took, gobbling it in two bites. Hungry dude, and now
with an additional caffeine jolt, he might just bounce around the
mall. I ate my half more lady-like, not as Viv taught me, but as
Miss Julie Andrews would.
Where to begin? We just couldn’t sit there over the
empty iced coffee cup and crumbs, and make google eyes at each
other. I reached into my conversation log, and not far from the
surface, mind you.
“Matt,” I said, with a Cheshire grin, not beguiling,
but certainly breaking the ice. “Do you cruise the Mall often?”
“Cruise?”
“You know, search for human companionship.”
“Never,” he said. “What kind of person do you think
I am? I’m not some easy guy starving for something better than a
cookie.”
He sounded offended, but the truth was the truth. If
he weren’t cruising, then just what definition would he place upon
his conduct? It was cruising by every definition I knew, Miss
Pearly Bottoms and all that. I tried to rescue the comment.
“Well, maybe you’re not easy. But you cruised me for
at least a half-hour, with all the skill of seasoned hunter. Then,
you came and babbled all that crap about never having done this
before.”
“Well, I haven’t. I come to the Mall to shop.”
“I bet you do.”
“No, really,” he protested. “I’ve seen good looking
men in the mall before, but I never had an interest, or at least
the courage to further an acquaintance.”
“Further an acquaintance?” I said. “I like that. I
really like the way you talk. What do you do? Are you into the
writing arts?”
“No. Computers.”
“Computers? Really?”
I had little interest in computers. They were just a
toy you played
Pac Man
on, and I hadn’t the inclination.
However, I knew a money job when I heard one.
They don’t want to
know ya, but take something away.
How mercenary Viv had
inclined me. I shook my head hoping that her near-cat house morals
would flee to the parking lot.