Everything Must Go

by Elizabeth Flock

  “I’m going to run up the street for a minute,” Mr. Beardsley says. “Can you hold down the fort? Gee, it’s just great having you back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer from Henry.

  He walks up to the counter, the register, the stool. The Windex on the shelf below, a half-used roll of paper towels next to it. The lidless grey shoe box filled with odds and ends, paper clips at the bottom. All the same.

  The front door chimes sound but he barely looks up until the man is nearly directly across the counter from him.

  “May I help you?”

  This question does not come easy to Henry Powell. He would like to be able to substitute the word can for may. It doesn’t seem like that would make that much of a difference. In the beginning—back before he left for college (“b. c.” is how he thinks of it), it was “Need help?” but to Mr. Beardsley that was an unpardonable offense so Henry adapted to suit his employer. The words, though, have not adapted to suit the speaker, often resulting in making the customer equally if inexplicably uncomfortable.

  “Naw, just looking,” the man says, fingering the ties.

  The small-town reaction to any face not immediately recognizable is very much like a dog that, before lying down, circles and circles to beat down the tall grass that plagued his ancestors. Henry wonders if he should know this man. Refusing to follow up with Mr. Beardsley’s suggested “My name’s Henry if you need anything” he checks his watch and moves toward the front window. Almost lunchtime.

  Looks like snow, he thinks.

  “Tell you what I’m looking for,” the voice cuts through the silence. Henry swings around to face it. “I’m looking for a tie clip. You got any tie clips here?”

  “Absolutely we have tie clips,” Henry answers, already in motion. He has learned people love hearing the word absolutely. His communications professor (Interpersonal Communications 101) told them it was a mark of charisma to use that word. That and exactly as in: “I know exactly what you mean.” She’d lectured that these and other similar words instilled confidence. She’d read aloud bits from presidential press conferences to prove her point. Seems Harry Truman used the code words a lot. You’d think FDR, she said, but not so much. He didn’t really need to, she said.

  “Tie clips we got. Right over here. Are you looking for gold or silver?”

  “Whatever’s cheaper,” the man replies. “Silver, I guess.”

  “We’ve got a sterling silver one right here.” Henry struggles with the lock and then finally shimmies the glass along the metal runner enough to fit his arm in.

  “Sterling,” the man says, “I don’t need sterling. You got anything cheaper?”

  “Let me just see what the price is on this one.” Henry turns the dangling price tag over. “Sixteen-fifty for this one. Sterling’s usually not too expensive. Plus this one’s pretty simple, not too big.”

  “I’m gonna have to think about it,” the man says. “What else’ve you got, maybe cheaper?”

  “Let’s see. There’s this mother-of-pearl one. I think that’s less. Yeah, $12.99. Then there’s this turquoise one. Let’s see…no, that’s more. It’s Indian. Made by Indians, I mean. Somewhere out in Nebraska or South Dakota or something. Let’s see…what else. The rest are all gold and going to be a bit higher. This mother-of-pearl one’s nice. Doesn’t look like it’s only $12.99, either. Looks much more expensive.”

  “I’ll be back.” The man’s backing away from the counter. “Lemme just think about it. Thanks a lot. I’ll be back.”

  “You’re welcome,” Henry says to the man he knows he’ll never see again.

  An hour later Mr. Beardsley returns with “What’d I miss?” but though Henry shrugs he has not really waited for an answer. Not long after his return it is noon. Lunchtime.

  The bologna sandwich isn’t filling—bologna sandwiches rarely are. Henry curses himself he forgot the bag of Fritos. They were right there on the kitchen counter, he thinks. Right there. His hand—karate chop formation—irons out the wrinkles of the paper bag. After it is folded and tucked back into his bookstore tote bag, Henry pulls his wallet out from his back pocket and counts his money. Nine dollars.

  Mr. Beardsley comes into the break room. “Just double-checking: you’ll be here to work the sale, right? I’m assuming yes but you know what happens when you assume. Ha.”

  “Yeah,” Henry says. “I’ll be here for the sale.”

  “You make an ASS out of U and ME,” Mr. Beardsley says.

  “What?”

  “That’s what happens when you assume. Get it? You make an…”

  “I get it,” Henry says. He closes up his locker. “Good one.”

  “Mr. Football Hero? You think you could come over here for a minute?” Mr. Beardsley says. Henry can’t see who he is shushing but he knows it must be a child because his boss is looking down at a head that is not clearing the shirt display.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Henry says.

  When the little boy sees him he holds out a pad of paper. “Could I have your autograph?” he says.

  Mr. Beardsley is beaming over the little blond head. “I told you you’d be good for business.”

  Henry reaches out for the paper, not wanting to embarrass the boy, who he estimates is about six. In college Henry did in fact sign his share of autographs, even though he was a freshman bench warmer. Mostly they were children like this one, lining the walkway that led from the locker room to the parking lot, which Henry would cross on his way back to his dorm. The older players climbing into sports cars even though they lived within walking distance. The kids were children of die-hard alumnae who, in their younger days, would have painted faces—or worse, painted bellies—in team colors at similar games. He knew his autograph was insurance in case he became famous some day. No matter. Who wouldn’t enjoy signing an autograph here and there? he wondered with a smile. That was only two months ago, he thinks.

  “What’s your name?” Henry asks the little boy.

  “Frankie,” he says. “But you could just sign it to Frank if you want.”

  Henry nods with the solemnity the remark deserves: a little boy wanting to be a grown-up. “To my friend, Frank,” he writes, “from Henry Powell.”

  He frowns at his signature. He has never liked his handwriting.

  The boy says “thank you” and hurries over to his mother. He holds the pad up for her to see and when she looks up from it, smiling, Henry recognizes her. She is somewhere around his brother’s age, he thinks. In his class, maybe? Maybe Frank isn’t six, he reasons. Maybe he’s five.

  “Hey,” he says, nodding at her and smiling.

  “Hi,” she replies. “Thanks.” She tilts her head toward little Frank and Henry sees that it is likely she who has christened him Frankie. Her freckles and red hair intone Irish roots that explain—justify even—the nickname.

  “I’m Henry Powell,” he says, extending his hand for a shake. Unself-conciously, thanks to college.

  “I’m Paige,” she says. “Paige Graves.”

  “You went to Fairhaven High, right?” he says. And when she nods he adds “My brother went there.”

  He realizes his mistake too late. Her eyes widen as she puts two and two together and it is only a matter of time before the pleasant recognition gives way to the pall that accompanies every recollection of Brad Powell. Here we go, he says to himself.

  “Powell, Powell,” she is racking her brain. “Oh, my God, Brad Powell is your brother?”

  He has perfected the nod that younger, better-behaved brothers offer when the embarrassing exploits of their older siblings are cataloged. “Yep, that’s my brother,” he says. He no longer adds the look that reads: don’t hold it against me. He long since gave that up as futile when he realized the road was littered with the fallout from his brother’s misdeeds.

  “Wow,” she says.

  In his younger years Brad Powell was the sort of boy who rode a bicycle four sizes too small, knees angled out to avoid knocking into elbows. Th
e whole picture a circus act were it not for the menacing curl to the boy’s lip, a look that left no doubt that somewhere a swollen-eyed weakling was standing on a curb missing his beloved bike.

  “It was nice to see you,” she is saying, ushering little Frankie out toward Henry’s end zone.

  “Bye,” he says. “See you, Frank.” Little Frank waves over his shoulder.

  And there’s the flaw, he says to himself. After the Confrontation his brother had washed his hands of the Powell family, and they of him. The Confrontation—always capitalized in Henry’s mind—probably would have been considered nothing in another more expressive family, but in the Powell house any display of emotion, any outburst whatsoever, nearly shook the earth off its axis. The unspoken agreement was that everyone stay out of Brad’s way until they were delivered from his presence with either a college scholarship or a prison sentence. Whichever came first. Henry steered clearest of him.

  Henry wonders if Frankie will keep his autograph.

  “Will you do the honors, Mr. Football?”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Henry says, taking the sign from Mr. Beardsley.

  “All right, all right,” his boss says. “Let’s keep it in the same corner. The right side, remember.”

  “I know, I know,” he says. He tucks the sign into the corner of the front window.

  Within minutes of unlocking the doors, Henry knows the crowds will start and will not let up until five o’clock that evening. He takes a deep breath and turns the key in the lock, then carries it back, with exaggerated fanfare, to Mr. Beardsley, who mistakes his irony for sincerity.

  “Exciting, isn’t it? Every year it’s the same feeling,” Mr. Beardsley says. “Butterflies. A buzzing sound in the air.” He rubs his hands together as if he is warming them in front of a bonfire. “It never gets old. Never gets old.”

  Henry checks his watch and Mr. Beardsley says, as much to himself as to Henry, “Those poly suits are great…that’ll save us a lot of headache today, I’ll tell you. We won’t need to be straightening that section as much. What’s really going to be tough is keeping the shirt area presentable. Just remember, whenever you can, go over there and fold. Not when customers are around, mind you. But if there’s a lull. If there’s a lull, fold. The polyester area over there—” he points to the New Arrivals section “—is fine. Whoever came up with that blend knew what they were doing. It just does not wrinkle. Remember to tell your customers that, by the way. I told you that, right? No? Well, it doesn’t wrinkle, that’s point number one. Number two, it’s less expensive than the silk weaves, the wool blends, even. And number three, it’s selling like hot cakes. Stores can’t keep it in stock. You made the yellow pages in polyester it’d be your next bestseller, I’ll tell you. Bottom line, it doesn’t wrinkle. Just try to remember that one point.”

  “Got it,” Henry says.

  “Mr. Warren! Welcome to the sale,” Mr. Beardsley says. “Good to see you again. What can I steer you to today?”

  Henry watches his boss float across the store. A haberdashing debutante, he thinks.

  The second customer of the day punches Henry in the arm.

  “You don’t remember me,” he says, smiling at Henry’s wincing bewilderment. “That smack should’ve reminded you. The last time I saw you, you were going, ‘cut it out, cut it out,’ like this….” He held his hands up in a defensive gesture, indicating Henry must have had serious concerns for his upper-body region. Primarily his head.

  The laugh gave the customer away.

  “Oh, my God, Tony Coulson,” Henry says, a wan smile as much as he can muster. “How are you?”

  Henry feels the need to toughen up even though he is now quadruple the size he was when he was at Tony Coulson’s mercy.

  “Good, good,” Tony says. “Talked to your brother just last week, actually. Funny seeing you now.”

  Henry resists the urge to ask details about his brother’s life. “Yeah. No kidding.”

  “I heard you’re like this huge hometown-hero football guy,” he says.

  “Naw,” Henry says. If they had been on a beach, his toe would have been drawing circles in the sand. He looks up. “Did my brother say that?”

  “Just heard it, you know. I hope you’re saving your paychecks, though. You’re a freshman, right? Yeah, well, they never tell you what those scholarships cover, and if you want to do anything that’s worth anything in college you’ll need your own spending money. Trust me.”

  As if for emphasis he punches Henry’s arm again. Henry recalls that Tony went away to the University of Nevada at Las Vegas on a basketball scholarship. He was the only white boy on the team for two years and then got kicked off. Henry couldn’t remember what the story was.

  “Yeah, okay,” he says. No point in telling this guy my whole life story, he thinks. “You live here in town now?” Oh please God, no, he thinks.

  “Shit no. I stayed out west. In Vegas, buddy. In town for the holidays. You know, log some face time with the ’rents. Vegas is fucking incredible, man. You’ve got to come out. Your brother just came for the weekend, what was it, like a month ago or something? Man, took me three days to recover from that. Shit. But I don’t have to tell you…”

  “Yeah, no shit.” He is so unaccustomed to using profanity, it has the effect of making Henry feel even more insecure, not less.

  “You got any of those shirts with the sailboats on them? Those KOOL sailboats, you know? Actually, wait. Show me some of those polyester suits you guys got,” Tony Coulson says. “They’re on sale, right? Everything’s on sale?”

  Henry was tempted to say No Shit, Sherlock but did not. His brother would have.

  “Yep, everything’s on sale. The poly suits are over here, I’ll show you.”

  “Look at you,” Tony says, “mister clothing-store guy. Little Henry Powell selling me a suit. Shit. This is hilarious.” And then that laugh. A laugh that—in Tony Coulson’s teenage years—might easily have accompanied cruelty to animals or the sight of a mentally handicapped child.

  “Hilarious,” Henry says. They walk to the leisure-suit rack.

  “All right, kid,” Tony Coulson says, ignoring the sarcasm in Henry’s comment, “hard-sell me. Why do I want to buy a polyester suit from you.”

  Henry looks at him, and before looking back at the clothes they are standing in front of, he scans the store for any potential distractions. Anything that might, say, require Henry’s immediate attention elsewhere. But they have thought of everything, he and his boss and even Ramon, who has been called in for the week to be a floater.

  “They don’t wrinkle,” he hears his own voice saying.

  “What? I couldn’t hear you, what’d you say?” Tony says. “Speak up, kid. You want my sale or what?”

  “They don’t wrinkle,” Henry says louder. “And they’re flying out of stores, the poly suits are. We can barely keep them in stock. We just had to reorder.”

  He is making this last part up but wants this to be over.

  The laugh. “Shit, man, I’m just yanking your chain,” Tony Coulson says. “I can’t wait to tell Brad. Shit, that was too funny. They don’t wrinkle…we can barely keep them in stock….”

  The high-pitched voice Coulson is using to mimic him catches Mr. Beardsley’s attention.

  “Henry, could you trade places with me and pin up Mr. Warren’s trousers, please?” he says. When they pass each other Mr. Beardsley says, “I told him we wouldn’t charge, just so you know. But still write up the ticket, so when I send them out we can keep track of them.”

  Though he is halfway to the dressing room area he hears Mr. Beardsley addressing Tony Coulson. “Now. What can I help you find?”

  Was there an emphasis on the “you” in that question? In fact there was: Mr. Beardsley had overheard the entire exchange.

  “Oh, my God, there’s Henry,” he hears a female voice say and hurries to finish Mr. Warren’s pants.

  “Shhh, wait till he finishes,” another voi
ce says, muffling a giggle.

  He pretends he has not heard them so he can remain professional with Mr. Warren. “There you go, sir,” he says. “Just hand me the trousers when you’ve changed out of them and we’ll call you when they’re back from the tailor.”

  “Oh, my God, Henry, hi.” The two girls descend as one. Henry fancies himself one of the Beatles. The Cute One. The girls rushing in…ravenous…hoping just to touch him. Maybe one even passes out from the excitement.

  “Hey! Wow, hi,” he says. “Look at you guys. You look great.”

  “Thanks,” they say in unison. “How’s school” and “My mom said you were back in here working over the holidays” and “What’re you doing tonight?” all tumbles out at once.

  “What’s going on? How’s school going for you guys? Wait, you’re at Brown, right?” He points to the girl on the right. Alissa. Alissa with the Farrah hair. “Oh, yeah, Tulane, that’s right. Where’re you going again?” is directed at Jory. Jory with the too-tight fuzzy sweater that has pilled up in the spots where her arms rub against her torso. Two former classmates he saw at all the games but never really talked to since they both had boyfriends who did not appear to appreciate their girlfriends befriending a football player. But these two had always waved, smiled, lingered just a little longer than the others after games.

  College stories pour out, accompanied by shrugs to keep enthusiasm in check. Most tales center around the excess of alcohol. But Henry is more aware of the ambient sound. He nods at the girls and smiles—laughs even—at the right places, but all he is hearing is “excuse me” and “just trying to inch by you here” and “oh, sorry. I’ll switch places with you” with increasing frequency.

  “I’m really sorry but I better go,” he says. He rolls his eyes as if to say “It’s a drag, this whole working thing.” “My boss’ll kill me if I don’t get busy here in a second.”