Bruce and Naomi have a Hard Day's Adventure - 2. ...fakers...?

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

Her mouth fell open.

A slight rustling sound preceded him, but then her associate turned the corner, obviously looking for her. Bruce strode up, appearing 'well content,' as he'd call it, and gripping a few 45s in their colorful sleeves.

"Find anything?" he asked, and then noticed the boy. "What's up?"

"Not much. How's it goin'?" A new caution had crept into the kid's voice while he scanned between older boy and girl.

"Good; good."

Naomi witnessed the wheel chair boy begin to smirk.

"So, nice clothes, dude."

Bruce took it as a compliment. "Thanks."

But Naomi grew instantly mistrustful of the kid. His attitude raised some unexpectedly strong instincts to protect her friend.

Bruce is unique, but that's a good thing in this cookie-cutter world.

"Name's Alexander. So, are you two like boyfriend and girlfriend?"

Naomi and Bruce glanced at one another. They both chuckled: "No."

"Just friends," explained Naomi.

"Cool. Friendship is good, not that I'd know. Life on four wheels is hard. No one gets me. People take a look at this chair and figure I'm 'bad luck,' or some such malarkey. I don’t get it; I don’t know. But there's nothin' I can do about it."

Something in the teen's voice again struck Naomi's heart. She renewed the doubt that perhaps she'd been overly quick to judge initially, and thereby heartless towards the teenage boy.

But when she looked to Bruce, she saw only skeptical amusement there. If she let herself linger a moment, she could swear Bruce would wink knowingly in her direction.

She was confused and growing hot at her buddy's apparent lack of empathy, but before Naomi could organize a proper reaction, a loud female voice started calling from a nearby aisle.

"Mitchell?! Mitchell, answer me!"

A middle-aged woman rounded the corner near the racks. She stalked over and arrived with clicking sounds: both as a dismissive pop from her tongue, and the rattle of plastic hangers sliding down to her wrist as she slammed hands on her hips.

"There you are! Why didn't you answer me?!"

The boy in the chair colored. "I was making friends, Mom."

Mom glanced over to them, her mouth going agape as she lingered a silent interrogation on the young woman. Naomi could read the expression well enough.

Making friends, but not the 'right kind.'

Without another word, the older woman reached down, latched onto his right ear and pulled him up.

The boy stood with perfect facility, hands on the armrests to push himself up. "OUCH!" The National Geographic magazines, so carefully curated by Naomi for him, spilled in a heartless torrent on the floor.

Only once the teenager was out of the tangle of the chair's footrests did the boy's mother let go and shove him towards the racks. "Stay with me. I don’t want you wandering off. You never know what kind of weirdoes are lurking around…." Her voice trailed off as mother and trickster son vanished amongst the clean, cedar-ball redolent apparel.

The young woman's ire needed something to do, so she strode up to the mess in which she'd played an involuntary role, bent down and started gathering mags. She was in a silent huff; she hated to be fooled.

Bruce came up quietly behind her and rotated the chair. "Look," he said, pointing.

Naomi followed his finger. Stuck to the backrest was a masking-tape price tag; $15.00 it read.

They glanced at each other, and despite her injured pride, they both burst into laughter.

She set the yellow-framed periodicals fittingly in the seat of the chair, prepared to leave her bad feelings behind.

"Come on," said Bruce. "Let's look at clothes."

As they walked, Naomi turned conversational, thinking about how her coworker had dealt with the faker on wheels; he obviously knew he was not all that he seemed.

"You're nice. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"A few people."

"You handled that kid just right."

"I knew him from 'around.' He's a kid, and kids are pranksters."

"I guess, but still, you're a patient one. Just look at how you don’t mind working with that Fink. I still can't believe that."

"Why…?" Suspicion ringed his tone.

"Cuz that man is definitely not nice."

"And?"

"I just thought creative equals even-keel."

"Hardly. Artistic people are not always mellow – some are creative to be anti-social. Think of Jackson Pollack dealing with the issues raised by his shrink, and his angry reply by throwing paint on canvas."

"Could be. All I know is, you're nice and creative."

He shrugged and doled out a shit-eating grin. "Sometime it happens. I guess you're lucky."

"Guess I am, huh."

A few minutes later, while Bruce contentedly slid hangers along a rail in his search for just the right thing, she noticed the tops of the racks were piled with small items. Clear plastic bags with goods had folded strips of construction paper sealing them. Glancing at a few, she realized they were color-coded; blue for toys, yellow for notions, red for grooming supplies. Scrawled on each tab, the price appeared as a smeary black crayon mark. Most were 10¢ to 25¢, but some went all the way to $1.00.

Eventually, Naomi gave up the pretense of looking at anything on display with a sigh. Instead, she leaned an elbow on a rack and watched Bruce enjoy himself. She noted the kid was glowing with happiness, and she liked the look of that.

"All thrift stores have the same smell. You ever notice that?" she asked.

"Hmm, yeah. I guess they do."

"What exactly do you think is making it?"

"Dunno. The clothes I guess. But whatever's making it, it's a cool smell to me."

Yeah, he would think it's cool.

Bruce pulled out a few shirts to try on.

Naomi became distracted by the drone of a fan. A moment later, a lick of cool breeze touched her face.

The Teddy Boy had moved on to ties. He held a pair of them under his chin. "What'd ya think?"

"Umm…. That one's nice." She gestured to a white tie, not too thin, but with gunmetal gray stripes and red boxes grouped in fours to make diamond patterns here and there. It was beautiful, actually.

Bruce flipped it over. "Good taste, Miss Tyson. It's Dior. I'd say it's from the late 40s – it's a definite purchase."

She smiled. "Let me see." She looked it over for holes or other defects her coworker may have been blinded to by his enthusiasm. She folded the inside hem, and there tucked underneath was a second label.

"Brucie Boy, look what you missed."

"What."

She held it up for him, and quoted: "Made in France expressly for Famous and Barr Co."

He chuckled. "Even better."

"Yeah, so if your mean old boss gives you grief about it, you can show him how much of a store patriot you are."

"I guess you're right." He slid down the aisle and found the racks with size 32 trousers.

"What’s Jerry's deal, anyway?"

"Who?"

"Jerry! – Your boss."

"I'm sure Mr. Fink would hate to hear that used to his face—"

"Ah, Okay. Thanks for the tip. I'll be sure to slap his back and say 'What's up, Jerry Boy!'"

They laughed together.

"You don’t want me to keep my job in the Display Department, do you?"

"Agh—"

"Nice. Thanks a ton. I could always slip on a pair of brown polyester slacks and push Baskin-Robbins, could I?"

"Why not? It's major fun."

"You can't fool me. I know you like doing what you do. How did you get the position?"

"I've worked at FB for about two years; before that, at Woolworth's across Locust Street from the store for another two. Over there I made popcorn in the front window all day long, which was okay. When I started Famous I did the same thing but also ran the little coffee shop on the Skybridge. When a position opened up on the First Floor, I took it. At Woolies I'm sure I'd still be doing the same limited job – stuck in their display window like a mannequin – but at Famous-Barr I can advance and learn as much as I want. Plus the pay is much better. I've saved enough to start night school."

"Cool. Studying what?"

"Accounting."

Silence.

Yeah, I'm used to people being silent once they learn I'm paying money to lean how to be 'boring.'

"I like it though," she reassured him. "It's a good career path."

"Well, I admire you going after what you want in life. That's great."

"You're pursuing your creative side. I admire that."

"I love my job. Creative's the thing I've always wanted to do; to make a living off of my imagination. As for 'Jerry,' I think he's just stuck in the mindset of his generation. They were raised to mistrust and misunderstand based on appearance. If you were black, you were put in a certain pigeonhole; if you were a woman, you went in another; if you were young – the worst possible thing – you were instantly treated as a threat to 'the way things are.'"

"Huh. Never thought about in quite that way."

"It's true. Take for instance the case of Old versus Young in England. We Teddy Boys get blamed for a lot of stuff that's their doin'. They – the old men; the 'Lords' who had their empire and robbed and enslaved most of the world – are now facing folks of different colors and speaking different languages and eating different foods being crammed together in 'their' cities with no jobs or hope, and the young people, like the Teds, are blamed for the unrest. We get blamed for all the old men's sins, when all we want to do is dance and listen to our music. Codgers shaking in their boots always want to destroy what they don’t take time to understand, and if they cannot destroy it or the young people calling for change, at least they can raise fear by calling those people bad names."

"Well, there's a lot I don’t know, I'll admit. But maybe there's a big piece of what you say that Dr. Martin Luther King would nod his head at." She changed tones. "And you are…how old again?"

"Twenty, but twenty-one in a few weeks."

"I'm a bit older at twenty-three."

"Don’t worry. You're not one of them – yet."

Naomi laughed. "I never want to be one of the Jerries of the world."

"Doubt you'll ever get there, even if you tried." He picked out a few pants.

"Only bad thing about being young is being broke. Relying on the buses and streetcars is getting to be a drag."

"I hear ya."

"I wouldn't mind a car – the right car."

Naomi laughed. "No Nash Ramblers for Brucie Boy?"

"No. Never." Bruce scooped up his pile of clothes and announced, "And now it's your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"Come on." He led the way.

Soon they were amongst a daisy field of round racks, each with ladies' coats and jackets on them.

He laid his own selections aside and started sorting.

"Bruce, I don’t think—"

"Won't hurt to look, and maybe try something on."

Her resistance was temporarily stymied by his damned reasonableness.

He muttered deep in concentration: "This Goodwill really is the best place…to get…. Salvation Army across the street and down the block is okay, but…. What do you think of this one?"

Bruce held up a nice, Edwardian coat. Despite it being nice, and obviously clean and in almost-new condition, Naomi had a gut-reaction. She was appalled.

He held the hanger up to her chin. The coat was made of a smooth-laying black fabric, almost resembling a fine-napped fur, say in imitation of seal. It had simple but bold lines: wide lapels, so wide in fact they went all the way to the slightly darted shoulder seams; plain rolled cuffs at the sleeves, up about four-inches; three braided closures the size of a lady's palm starting below the bust line; and a hem length nearly down to the floor.[1]

"Why don’t you try it on?" Bruce forced it into her hands.

Unable to stop her emotions, she told him bluntly, "I don’t need to shop here, Bruce."

The boy was confused. "Me neither, but isn't it great we can shop here anyway?"

She sighed and put the hanger back on the rack.

Bruce looked deflated, but after a shrug, he picked up his 45's and asked, "Would you hold onto these while I try my clothes on?"

"Sure."

He slung his apparel selections over his arm and they started walking towards the men's changing rooms.

She asked, "What records did you find?"

"I got Ken Mackintosh's Creep."

"Whaat?"

"It's a dance, nice and slow and close. Wanna see?"

She shrugs. "Why not."

He dropped his clothes on top of a nearby rack and stood in the aisle with his heels and toes locked side by side. His knees dipped, left arm coming out straight and then gradually angling down to the floor; the right arm circling the air in front of him as if holding a partner. He stepped slowly backwards with his left foot, humming a clipped beat as he went. He paused, then stepped back with his right. After a beat, he moved to the side with his left foot, and then his right followed. Still humming, but now raising his doey eyes to Naomi, he repeated the motions in the same tempo, but in reverse.

He arrived back in front of her.

When Naomi suppressed a chuckle, the boy stuck his hand towards her. She took it and he pulled her into his body, making her relax by placing a spring in their knees. Meanwhile, she saw his swooped hair, string tie, soulful look, and pouty lower lip in greater intimacy than ever before.

Her right arm was stretched taut, and guided by his intertwined fingers to point to the floor at a sixty-degree angle.

He started the rhythm again with his lips, and she felt it in her body: move only on the second, slow beat. His presence was calm and reassuring, and he smelled good as he repeated his left leg motion, compelling her forward.

Beat; pause; step back.

His looming gaze seemed to dominate her from above, and his arm around her waist telegraphed the next direction to follow.

Beat; pause; step to the side.

She felt very much alive suddenly, and flushed.

Beat; pause; repeat in reverse.

As the deep-toned pulse coming from his throat and chest drew to a stop, Bruce gradually pulled up to a rolling halt.

Dreamlike, he released her waist and fingers, stood tall, and took one step back from the girl.

Not knowing what to do, she did nothing at all.

Slow clapping from nearby broke the enchantment. Mitchell, the teenage trickster, stood leaning rakishly against a tall rack of slacks. Apparently he'd been watching the whole time. "Very hot."

Naomi's core temperature rose to molten. In a pissed-off tone, she told the boy, "Better run along to Mommy now. Don't want you gettin' in trouble again, sonny."

He laughed. "Oh, that. Look, I'm sorry, but the truth is, I was bored. You wouldn't hold that against me, would ya?"

The young woman's lips pursed; the answer was self-evident.

"Look, I am sorry, and you were great to help with the mags."

She scoffed, "If you want 'em, they're right over there on the floor, where you dumped them."

"Ah, don’t be sore. I said I was sorry."

Bruce explained, "Maybe the young lady is 'sore' at you having fooled her. Maybe she thought you were someone society was giving the shaft to. Ever think of that?"

The boy shook his head, and appeared affected.

"Don’t do it again," Naomi clipped.

"Okay, I won't."

"Cool," Bruce affirmed without any attempt at conviction in his voice. To Naomi he seemed to be trying to break the tension.

"Anyway," the kid announced brightly. "Do you know how nice the two of you looked? You were dancing like a real Fred and Ginger."

"So?" Naomi asked.

Both were astounded.

"We told you—" started Bruce.

"Yeah, yeah, told-schmold! I might not be the only faker in Goodwill today."

Silence fell for a moment.

It ended abruptly with the kid's mother yelling from a few aisles over: "Mitchell!"

The boy bolted to an upright position, his eyes scanning the racks and planning his escape. He dashed off in the opposite direction of the calling sound, but shouted back playfully at the Famousites, "See ya! Wouldn't wanna be ya!"

Bruce chuckled. A lopsided, ironical grin washed his features. "Anyway, before we were so rudely interrupted, that little dance we did is known as the Creep. Like it?"

"Yeah, I guess, but look at you, smoothie. Got girls dancing in the aisles."

The young man grabbed his clothes, heading off for the changing rooms. "Just one. But that's enough for me."

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."