Bruce and Naomi have a Hard Day's Adventure - 1. The Boy in the Wheelchair

.

The Boy in the Wheelchair

Bruce sat in the Ninth Floor Auditorium. He was lost in the enchantment of the film; the father's heart melted, his banking career forgotten so he could spend time with his children – so they could fly a kite. As conclusions go, it was so very simple. However, it was also the one longed for. Acted and filmed perfectly, it filled Bruce with emotional inspiration. It made his holiday tasks seem easier, and more important too.

Someone suddenly plopped down in the seat next to him. Thinking it had to be one of his Display Department cohorts, he turned to roughly tell 'em to piss off, but it was the cute black girl.

She wore her striped Baskin-Robbins uniform with a set of sly expressions beneath her dairy nursing cap.

Achitoff grinned and pointed to his own head. "Nice, um – hat?"

She reached up and took it off while the movie credits started to roll. The house lights came up slowly.

Naomi fumbled in her bag, shoving her headpiece out of sight and digging for something. Her hair fell forward and partially obscured Bruce's view of her.

"No matter how many times I see that ending," he explained in awe, "it gets to me."

She tilted her gaze to him. "How many times have you seen it?"

"Counting today?"

She found and retrieved her polka dot headband. To Bruce's eyes she was both snarky and cute, saying, "Yeah, Einstein."

"Twenty-two."

"What!" The hair band fell with her hands to her lap.

"Well, they play it for staff every afternoon, and I've seen almost all of them."

The girl shook her head. "Dedication."

A grinning Bruce shrugged.

She started fixing her hair. "It probably suits your style or something. Maybe you like it cuz they wear your clothes."

"I won't deny it's a plus."

"And where does a Saint Louis Teddy Boy shop anyway?"

"Thrift stores! They're great. We should go sometime."

Naomi was less than enthused. "All…right…?"

"Tomorrow! Come on – don’t be a tosser. We'll have a great time."

"I don’t even wanna know what you just called me…. Adventure, huh. Well, why not. Okay."

˚˚˚˚˚

A puff of diesel exhaust left Bruce and Naomi behind. They started walking amid the sound of airbrakes releasing, gears grinding, and the engine roar of their bus pulling away.

Hard sunshine made the young woman squint while she gestured to her buddy's attire. "How can you wear that? On a day like this?!"

"These?" He grabbed his lapels with pride.

She fanned slowly and waited for him to explain himself.

"What's wrong with my suit?"

"Oh, well. First off, let me say – it's a suit. Secondly, it's 1964!" Naomi felt fine in her cotton print dress, but Bruce's four-button linen jacket, string tie and white Levi's with the cuffs rolled up four-inches looked downright hot – and not in the 'cool' way either.

"Well, I'm perfectly comfortable." He shoved a hand in his jeans' pocket, and Naomi – despite her best efforts not to – noticed how caressingly the boy's watch chain moved over the protrusion behind his zipper.

She changed the subject. "And just where are you taking me anyhow?"

As this wide boulevard hosted shops both large and small, the sights and sensations were varied. The sweet smell of a bakery nearby scented the air; talented moms pushed strollers and simultaneously collared rambunctious, ambulatory youngsters; tangles of teenage boys lurked in doorways, all with slicked hair, tight jeans and even tighter tee-shirts.

Greasers. Standing around, leaning on each other and smoking. As if that's life's greatest ambition.

"We're going right here!" Bruce announced. He pointed at a tall structure about half-a-block still in front of them. It was perhaps five-stories, and the front appeared rather monolithic – darker-patterned bricks in a mix of browns and tans sat flush with a hundred or more 'windows' of glass block. Story-high letters in white spelled out "Goodwill INDUSTRIES" in friendly illuminated text.[1]

"It used to be a neighborhood department store," Bruce told her.

Naomi could see that, as now they started walking past the run of full-height display windows, each framed tastefully by plain limestone piers and lintels. Behind the glass rolled desirable 'fashions' – male, female and juvenile mannequins extolled the catalog pages of several seasons back, but at unbeatable prices.

The pair got to the center of the building. Bruce held open the door for Naomi.

"You're so old fashioned," she chuckled.

With his best Notting Hill 'edge,' he muttered: "Ungrateful bird."

Naomi went first, and they entered laughing.

Like the blast of heat that initially tingled the young woman's face stepping off the bus, the primary wave to greet her senses was the whiff of the place.

Why do all thrift stores smell the same? Clean, but earthy too – like a combination of faded rust, 'old' closets and cedar balls.

Smiling and clearly in his element, Bruce led Naomi further into the store, and in a moment her eyes adjusted to the quieter light. They stood on a mezzanine open to all the front windows from behind; Naomi supposed it was for shoppers who just had to have 'it' when spotted on display from the sidewalk. Broad central steps led down to a wide-open space. Tall ceilings capped concrete pillars with round, fantail capitals. It reminded Naomi of ancient Egyptian temples she had seen in National Geographic.

In terms of layout, clothes on racks took up three-quarters of the floor. They formed clusters – some in long rows, others, round daisies of nickel-plated hoops with a hundred or more hangers loaded onto each. Hugging the right wall near the front lived the book and records section. Moving back along this wall, Naomi saw a bank of elevators, and the housewares section in the rear corner. Here, many shelves of glasses, dishes and cookware 'sparkled' alongside appliances.

Sprinkled amongst the aisles and shelves, industrial-sized fans with wire cages oscillated smoothly atop ten-foot poles. They blew a crosscurrent of 'cool' across a salesroom floor liberally inhabited by shoppers, while the competing drone of the hard-working Emerson motors blent into a soothing hum.

She could almost sense Bruce's excitement next to her growing to feverish pitch.

"Come on," he chimed. "Records first!"

Bruce charged down the steps, and Naomi followed at a more measured pace. Rolling motion caught her eye. A fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy in a wheelchair looked bored as he 'popped wheelies' in the main aisle of the book section.

At the bottom of the stairs, her coworker skittered and grabbed onto the handrail to propel himself to the right.

In a moment he was happily thumbing through records.

Naomi eyed the bookshelves across the way. She needed something to do….

Maybe, although odds are slim, I can find something for school.

She drifted along the ends of the stacks, reading the hand-written signs tacked there.

Looking for an indication of 'Textbooks,' she instead noticed the wheelchair boy hanging around her, making noises like he wanted her attention. She stopped browsing and watched him.

A mercurial face twinkled beneath an ashen crew cut. He suddenly popped another wheelie – no doubt to impress Naomi, whom he'd just 'caught' inspecting him – and the girl noticed the kid's tan-colored tank top and strong upper-body.

When he eased down on four wheels again and started rolling up to her, Naomi saw he was dressed in blue shorts and 'Jesus' sandals.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey back at ya."

"Watcha lookin' for 'round here?"

"Nothing particular. You?"

"Just killin' time."

"Cool." Naomi couldn't figure out what this kid's story was; she suspected there was less to it than met the eye. She was skeptical to say the least.

"You sure you're not lookin' for something specific…?"

What? Was that a juvenile come on…

"Actually, I wondered if they have textbooks here—"

"Sure as shootin' do! Come on, follow me!"

He led the way, and rolled them right up to a section of bookcases in the back corner. Since they were collected on the bottom shelf, Naomi had to gather her skirt and bend her knees – in ladylike fashion – to get down to their level.

She half figured he'd scram at this point, but he didn't. Naomi scanned the books with him taking a very close, apparently personal, interest. His head bobbed and darted looks over her shoulders, while his hands worked the right-wheel/left-wheel/hand-brake with expert maneuverability.

"Say," she asked bluntly. "What's your deal?"

"Me? I got no 'deal,' I'm just who I am."

There was nothing she could use on the shelf, so she stood, thinking something like sincerity had just shone in the kid's tone. Naomi accepted it – at least for now.

"Umm, I was wondering…."

"What?"

He wants my phone number.

"I was – it's kinda embarrassing – but I love those National Geographic magazines."

She was stunned. "You do?"

"Yes, but they keep them high up over there. Do you think you could help me reach some, you know, to take home?"

"Oh. Yeah, I'll help. No need to be embarrassed." Embarrassed is what she was though. Now she began to entertain the suspicion of how seriously harsh she'd been in her distrust of the youth.

"Cool!" He rolled on with renewed vigor, stopping at one end the aisle. He pointed up. "There."

Naomi reached up to the top shelf. "You want more current ones?"

"Yeah, I mean, yes please."

She followed the info on the spines and got the latest five available for 1964. "These?" She fanned the covers for the boy.

"Yeah, great."

When she placed them on the bare skin of his legs, he seemed genuinely pleased. Naomi felt she'd done good.

A sly grin rose on the boy's mug. "You from the City?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"What high school did you go to?"

"Sumner."

"Cool. I go to Washington University High."

He'd just named the ritziest public school in Saint Louis. "Nice."

"Would you help me with the cookbooks too?"

She suddenly thought of Bruce. "I'm not too…."

After a beat of Naomi's silence, he went on in a measured pace. "See, thing is, people look at you, same way they look at me, and make judgments, or maybe assumptions. It's not really fair, is it? So, maybe you and me, we both have that feeling in common, that…'unfair' feel, if you know what I mean."

She knew what he was getting at, but still didn't know how to respond.

"So, can I have your phone number? I think you're cute."

Her mouth fell open.