“Say, why don’t you come with me to Woolworth’s tomorrow?” Billy sets the glass upside down with a dirty rag over it. “There’re some transistor radios in the window, but they’re hunks of junk too. But they might be all right. Have you seen those radios they’re coming out with now? They’ve got stereo sound, like in the pictures. Say, would you like to go see a picture later? I heard Elizabeth Taylor shows some skin in this one. Oh, gee, what’s it called? It was just on the tip of my tongue…”
I can feel my eyes glazing over, resigning myself to this fate, utterly defeated, when a girl with lipstick and fingernails the same shade of red bops up to the counter and shrieks, “Hi, Billy!”
That shuts him up. Suddenly he can’t talk at all. I give her silent thanks and want to hug her, but then it gets busy for me while he’s distracted. At least when I’m doing this, I’m not thinking so much. For that, I’m also grateful.
And then it gets later, the younger crowd trickling out, getting home before it’s too late. Or getting to the park before it’s too steamy. Billy starts running his mouth to Mr. Meriwether, and I get a chance to wipe up any spills from the counter while there’s a lull. I look up and there’s a guy leaning over the counter who looks vaguely familiar. Buzz cut with angular features. He pushes some change at me and asks for two cream sodas. I reach for the change and his fingertips brush mine, lingering longer than necessary, but not enough for anyone to notice.
Except for me.
I feel my breath catch in my throat, and I look at him, blinking. His eyes flick down the front of me and up again so fast, I’m not sure I actually see it. I get the cream sodas and hand them over. His fingers brush mine again, and it all happens so fast, so smoothly I can’t be sure it happened at all. He takes the sodas over to the girl he’s with and they peruse the records in the jukebox. I stand there for a minute and then continue with my work.
I look up a little later and he’s staring at me. Big, brown eyes, long lashes. Then he says something to the girl he’s with and looks over at me again. He goes into the men’s room.
I wipe up a stubborn glob of hot fudge from the counter. I hand someone a Coke and make change for a five. And then I untie my apron, hang it on a hook by the counter. I make a glance around me and see no one’s paying the least bit of attention. I put my hands in my pockets and walk past Billy, deep in a detailed description of the transistor radios at Woolworth’s to an indifferent Mr. Meriwether and go into the men’s room.
He’s at the sink. Washing his hands. He sees me, and I stand there for a second and then go over to a sink to wash my hands. He looks at me in the mirror. Dries off his hands on a towel. He goes over to a stall and leans against the door, opening it, inviting. I dry my hands a little longer than needed because I don’t want him to see they’re shaking. I stick them back into my pockets and slip into the stall and he’s does too. He shuts the door. He leans against one side and I lean against the other.
I almost say something, like shouldn’t we lock the door, but he’s up against me, and I turn my head away at the last moment, so he ends up kissing my ear. Then my neck, his mouth warm and close. And I’m trying not to make it obvious that I haven’t done this before, but my shaking breaths betray me. He rubs his crotch up against mine, a soft grunt in my ear. I take hold of his shoulder as his fingers find the button on my slacks. The zipper. I take my other shaking hand out of my pocket and cup his erection, feel him through his pants. His lips try to touch mine again, but I turn away. And as skin meets skin, I really think I’ll be able to do it. If I keep my eyes closed, if just pretend…because this is all it is. This is all it’s going to be. I won’t see him again after tonight. I won’t ever know his name. And he’ll never know mine. Neither of us will even ask.
But then I push him away, not too hard, stuff my dick back in my pants, and tell him I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry. The last words stuttering out as I’m out the door, running hunched over to grab the apron and put it back over my deflating cock.
Mr. Meriwether is over at the register selling some lady some cold cream. Billy comes over to me. I turn my back to him.
“Gee,” he says. “What’s eating you?”
I grab a rag and pretend to clean something that isn’t dirty. “Nothing.”
“You’re all sweaty.”
“I’m hot.”
“It’s November, pal.”
“Don’t talk to me,” I grumble at him. “Go away.”
“Gee.” He goes over to the register. “You’re a strange one.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh of resignation. “Yeah. I am.”
Mr. Meriwether wants to decorate right after Thanksgiving.
He says he wants to get people thinking. He has me and Billy string up some lights around the front windows. He displays some candy canes by the front register. He has us start serving hot chocolate at the soda fountain.
Billy complains. He says, gee, it’s awful early for all that Christmas stuff. Whoever heard of such, and do I like peppermints? He thinks they’re okay. Just so-so. Maybe we should put out some peppermints on the counter. Mr. Meriwether should be okay with that, don’t I think so? And what if we sprinkled some cinnamon in the hot chocolates. Cinnamon in hot chocolate tastes really swell. Have I ever tried it? I should. You only live once.
And then we start closing earlier on the weekdays. It gets dark so early and there’s hardly anyone out. We get a small crowd after school, but people are eager to be home in the cold and dark. Eager to be around dinner tables, passing plates, and saying prayers. Gathered around televisions, writing essays under desk lamps.
Aunt Amy adjusts our dinnertime so I can join her after the store closes. She insists on having something ready when I get home, after walking through biting cold and snow flurries, something hot like soup or stew. But sometimes I bring us dinner. I tell her ahead of time so she doesn’t make a bunch of food for nothing.
It’s Tuesday evening and we’re winding down. Billy takes off an hour early because he’s got this killer essay to write on the War of 1812. Gee, it’s really murder. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to fill up an entire blue book with all that jazz. Mr. Meriwether sticks around for a bit, then hands me his giant key ring, entrusting me to close up so he can get to Woolworth’s before they close. He wants to mark a few things off his Christmas list.
I take the faith Mr. Meriwether has in me seriously. He’s let me close up alone before, but I always get nervous. I check and re-check everything, and he’s got so many damn keys that I’ll need the last ten minutes to find the right ones to lock up. And tonight I told Aunt Amy I’d get us a pizza. I’m not up for another spaghetti disaster, although she’d never say it was as terrible as it was. But I’m looking forward to the pizza, and I’m looking forward to spending time with her.
It’s fifteen minutes before closing when I hear the jingle bells Billy put on the front doors. There’s a burst of cold up the aisles and I’m over at the soda fountain, refilling a shaker of powdered sugar. I silently curse whoever thought it was a good idea to come in so close to closing time and hope they don’t take too long.
Right as I’m getting ready to go to the front register to wait on them, I hear someone behind the counter, sitting on a stool.
“We’re not serving anymore tonight,” I call over my shoulder. “But if you need something from the store —” I turn around, holding the powdered sugar shaker.
