Bruce and Naomi have a Hard Day's Adventure - 3. Damn Greasers

He called back after a few paces: "You feelin' peckish?"

"Feeling what?"

"Hungry."

"Oh, well, I could eat something, or 'peck' at it."

He laughed. "Good, cuz I know a little place."

Bruce's 'little place' turned out to be as eccentric as his shopping habits. They had crossed over the wide expanse of Forest Park Avenue to a corner building of red brick. This was an old structure, and above the door to the ground-floor shop jutted a wrought iron balcony. It was supported by the most flamboyant bracket – all flowers and curlicues – that she'd ever seen. The funny thing about this terrace was that at about eighteen-inches wide and three feet long, it was barely large enough for a person to stand, if they could get to it, for it was mounted on the corner where no windows or doors opened onto it.

He must have seen Naomi looking, for Bruce informed her, "This day-old bakery is in a building once owned by a decorative iron foundry. This was their showroom."

"Oh. That makes sense." And indeed, it did explain it perfectly. "Advertising on display."

The shop door stood open, so they went straight in. The sweet, yeasty smell of baked goods greeted Naomi's nostrils.

Inside, a high ceiling was supported by slender cast iron columns. Even painted white as they were, the fancy details and elaborate capitals of each still shone through.

Shelves lined the perimeter wall, and low-height racks filled the open floor space.

Wandering down the first aisle, the sound of roguish teenagers at play met her ears.

Greasers.

Row upon row of bagged loaves lined this portion of the store. Bruce strolled past them and turned into the next. As she passed, she caught sight of a group of adolescent boys. They leaned in a corner, obviously intent on ogling the patrons and not the pastries. They had cigarettes pinned behind ears, and would have lit up if they could in the shop. Several had their packs of smokes folded once over in the short sleeves of their tight tee-shirts. Dark jeans clung to their relaxed lower quarters with rolled-up cuffs just as high as Bruce's, but not nearly as suave. They gave off a hostile-yet curious vibe spotting Naomi's inspection of them.

She trailed along and found Bruce in the center of the aisle looking intensely at the display of boxed donuts, muffins and Danish. Stepping next to him, Naomi felt guilty.

"Look, I'm sorry about the coat thing. I know your style is your style, and the fact is you're picking out clothes so old no one would even know you got them at a thrift store. But, for me, it's different."

"Don’t worry about it, Naomi." A grin slid across his features. "Even if you did crush my dream of me and you knocking about as Teddy Boy and Girl, I'll get over it."

She knew she was taking this too seriously, but Naomi couldn't stop herself. "Bruce, you gotta understand, what you do is cool, and I like it, but I'm black, and we don’t want to do 'old' anymore. It's not cool for us. Get it…?"

"I get it."

Without warning, the punks were there, in the aisle pushing past Naomi and Bruce. Their glares and cocky sneers kept referring back to a particular greaser in red shirt and black jeans – the leader, she assumed. That teen kept eyeing Bruce and then the young woman. Once they had just barely inched past, they gaggled together and loudly laughed, sputtering things like: "Did you see his getup?" and "Get her, trying to pass."

She saw her companion tense up.

Stupid punks make me mad. I hate to see Bruce lose his cool, but I don’t mind losing mine.

She picked up a box of cheese Danish. "These?"

He smiled with an eyebrow flare. "Yeah. My faves."

They made their way to the front of the shop. There were long lines and a pair of workers behind the counter, one of whom was a black guy with muscles, and in a baker's uniform of white pants, cap and tight tee-shirt.

They got behind a mom and her little daughter. Both of them gripped a loaf of Texas Slices – thick-cut bread, perfect for French toast.

The little girl smiled at Naomi, and the young woman returned it.

In a minute or two Bruce and Naomi inched forward and stopped next to one of the fancy columns.

Just above her head-level was something out of place. A Jesus fish symbol in light blue with black outlines. She touched it and it came away in her hand; she realized it was a magnet, and for some reason decided to keep it.

Bruce watched her with a slight grin.

"What?"

"You having a good time?"

That was not what she expected to be asked, however she relaxed enough to answer honestly. "Yeah. Thanks, Bruce."

"My pleasure."

The punks rolled up, this time with the red-shirt leader in front. He came close to Bruce, extended his elbow and leaned on Bruce's shoulder. He curled his lip and flicked the bottom of the young man's string tie up into Bruce's eyes. "What ya supposed to be, hmm? Colonel Sanders – you like chicken, is that it?" His greasy leer slipped onto Naomi for a second. "We know she does."

He popped upright and rotated around into hoots and backslaps of approval from his hoodlum pals.

Naomi's hand calmly came out and landed on Bruce's arm to silence him. "At least he don't need a stepping stool to see over the sink when he combs his hair – not that you comb yours."

The teen boy stiffened and turned back to her in slow motion; his crony pals blinked with wide-open eyes and mouths at her.

He offered her a grimace, but suddenly pivoted to Bruce and spat out: "No. You ain't no Colonel Sanders. I know he'd never be seen in public carousing with an uppity missy like this."

"HEY!" the baker's shout erupted from behind the counter. "You delinquents, get lost! This ain't no Boys Town."

After a moment of teen-boy indecision, the man behind the counter cracked his knuckles and repeated low and slow: "Don’t make me come out from behind this counter."

One final flick at Bruce's string tie, and they moved towards the door.

After they had gone, the mom in front of them with the loaves of Texas toast turned and said, "Don’t listen to them. I think you make a lovely couple."

"Oh, we're—"

Naomi anticipated and cut off Bruce's 'just friends.'

"Thank you, ma'am."

Exiting the shop a few minutes later, Bruce slung his heavy sack of clothes and records over his shoulder.

He eyed Naomi who carried the white paper bag with their Danish.

"What?" she asked.

"Why'd you tell her that? The lady in the store."

"Bruce, she was happy for 'us,' so why spoil it?"

He chuckled. "Spoken like a true dispenser of ice cream."

"What'cha mean?!"

"You're in charge of making people happy, and you enjoy it too."

Just then, as a slight popping sound caught his attention, he glanced over his shoulder for a moment.

"Naomi, don’t panic, and whatever you do don’t look, but those punks are following us."

"Cracking their knuckles, huh. About how far behind?"

"Umm, a good half-block."

She inhaled resolutely. "All right. What we gonna do?"

"When I say, we run. I know a place we can duck into."

"You sure?"

"Nope. But I think it's our best option."

"Okay."

"And…. RUN!"

Bruce's hand came out and latched onto Naomi's. He added a burst of speed to her pace.

Loud shouts of "You can't escape" broke out from several guttural voices behind them.

In the center of the block, Bruce shouted at Naomi, "Here!"

He hauled up in front of a pair of glass doors, and tore one open, while at the same time guiding Naomi inside.

It was another thrift store – the Salvation Army Bruce had mentioned earlier.

Just as they got there, a commanding voice called out from within the shop. "No running."

A security guard with a stony demeanor stood there and Bruce informed him, "Those punks are after us. Don’t let 'em in!"

And, just as Naomi and Bruce slowed to a stroll within the store, the sounds of angry sneakers biting into sidewalk pavement was heard by the front door.

The guard had already moved to stand like a mountain before the entry. A punk reached for the handle, but the man in charge tapped loudly on the glass by the boy's face and made a 'move it along' gesture with his fingers.

The greasers gathered themselves for a moment, eventually collecting in a line along the front window. They peered in and made it be known they saw Naomi and Bruce. Then they acted like they could wait all day, if they had to.

"Now what?" Naomi asked softly.

"There's a side door." He pointed with his chin.

Down some steps to their right lived the book section, and beyond it, another pair of doors to the parking lot.

"You want to go through—"

"No, but – just follow my lead. Okay. Are they looking?"

She nodded.

"Make an exaggerated gesture towards the side doors."

She raised her arm and tugged on his shoulder vehemently.

Bruce hammed it up too, and knocked her arm down. "They still watching?"

"Yeah."

"Count of three, we run towards the side doors. Got it?"

"You sure—"

"Just trust me."

"Okay. Count."

"One; two; THREE!"

Bruce's hand again reached out and found Naomi's. He grabbed on, and just as they started to run, Naomi saw the greaser thugs also take off for the side of the building.

The instant they got to the place where the steps down started, Bruce put on the brakes and did a breakneck spin back towards the front door.

Naomi almost giggled; it was so exhilarating.

As they neared it, the young woman caught glimpse of a metal sheen down the block on the other side of the street. "Bruce, Bruce, Bruce – one is coming!"

He saw it too, and they double-downed on their speed.

The guard protested "No running in the store!" but stepped aside as the boy and girl hurtled out of the building.

Once again in the summer heat, the muggy oppressiveness was no match for the pair's cold determination to catch that bus!

Just as they bolted into the street, Naomi's head pivoted and saw a flash of red; the leader and his crew of punks had rounded the corner from the side door; they had figured out the ruse.

"Bruce, they're coming."

They high-stepped it over the grassy median of this parkway boulevard and the young man began flagging the bus driver with his suit bag.

Another glance confirmed to Naomi that the boys were after them and had dashed into traffic. Horns blared and brakes screeched.

On the other side of the street, the Bi-State bus slowed for the Famousites.

They skittered around its rear end and jogged up to the front door. Bruce had both their transfers and handed them to the driver. "Those thugs are after us."

The man shot a glance over his shoulder, closed the door and said, "Hold tight."

The bus pulled away just as hands smacked the side of the vehicle. Shouts of "Hey!" went ignored by the Bi-State employee.

"Thanks!" chimed Bruce.

"Damn greasers," muttered the driver.

Naomi and Bruce went and found a nice place to sit. They plopped down, with Bruce's bag going on the seat in front of them.

"Phew!" Naomi exclaimed.

"You can say that again."

They sat back and let the cool bite of the air conditioning tingle their skin for a moment.

The young woman joked, "Is this a typical shopping day for you?"

Bruce joked, "Pretty much. Now, let's dig in." He undid the bag and placed the Danish box on top. He opened it and let Naomi choose first.

After they both had one, Bruce said, "I definitely need a car."

"You said it, Jack!"

They dissolved in youthful, carefree laughter as they 'cheered' and took a bite.

~