Practically Perfect - 3. III. Goodwill; Day-Old Jesus Fish; and Escape via The Salvation Army

III. Act One – A Familiar Situation

Scene 3: Goodwill; Day-Old Jesus Fish; and Escape via The Salvation Army

 

"…All advances require failures to succeed…."

 

The words echo through the mind of Bruce, finally having an impact. He glances up. Folks are gathering. The Housekeeping staff has unplugged its equipment and is in the process of rolling vacuums and buffers towards the employee doors, but several come back and stand near the podium. Window Dressers too are filing past with materials they needed to install holiday animation and color in the store's 'eye teeth.' They tidy up as well but drift back to where Bruce, Naomi, Mary and Fink will throw the switch.

The Display Department boss is at the circuit breaker, checking the connections himself, as he had to ask Kelsey to step aside so he could do it.

Naomi watches too, knowing as soon as the rest of Bruce's coworkers return from putting the ladders and lifts on the freight elevator, they'll be back. At that point, it'll be 'go' time.

Almost as stressful as a rocket launch.

Bruce touches her lower arm and says in a soft tone: "You didn't have to do it, you know."

Her lips part.

"Didn't have to come here," he clarifies. "Honestly, when you showed up in jeans and with a full thermos of coffee, saying 'Put me to work,' I was surprised. You didn't have to do that; you didn’t have to stick around all night working with us, with me."

"I'm happy to help. Besides, after all we've been through in a short amount of time – I got your back, you've got mine – we're buddies, right…?"

Bruce swallows.

He watches Naomi's face puzzle for a split second before melting into a warm smile. Yes, they're fast friends, 'chums' who had had their companionship questioned and tested, but they only bonded the quicker for it.

"Remember back in August – " His sentence quits in a chuckle.

"Not the infamous day-old bakery incident?"

"Oh, yes. The very one." He assures her through a shifting grimace, "Best damn Danish I ever ate!"

"Well, I remember how you 'picked me up' at that movie showing and led me astray on your so-called adventure."

"Did I?! Seems I remember it was you who picked me up."

"Oh, you do, do you…?"

"Yep.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

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 server's 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 without fail."

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

"Counting today?"

She found and retrieved a red 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. It's a plus."

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

"Thrift stores! It's 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 4-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 lopsided smile appeared. "You from the City?" he asked slyly.

"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.

A slight rustling sound preceded him, but then her associate turned the corner – obviously looking for her – and strode up with a beaming smile. Bruce appeared 'well content,' as he'd call it, gripping a few 45's 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 and 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 of the chair 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.[2]

"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."[3]

"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, 'cause 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.