LITMIR.BIZ

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yawn.

      “Just get down here,” Henry says and hangs up.

      The phone rings before Henry has moved away from the counter.

      “I’m serious,” Henry says, sure that it is Tom calling back.

      “What? Henry?” It is Mr. Beardsley.

      “Oh, sorry,” Henry says. “I thought you were someone else. Actually I was just going to call you.…”

      “Jesus. How bad is it? Did the smell go away? Is it dry?”

      “Everything’s fine,” Henry lies. “I was just going to check in, you know, see how it went last night.”

      “I was there until one in the morning,” Mr. Beardsley says. “But really, is it okay?”

      “Yeah, sure, everything’s okay. Actually, why don’t you come in late. Since you were here until one and all.”

      “So now you’re setting my hours? What’s going on, Henry?”

      “No. I mean I’m not trying to set your hours. I’m just saying, I’ve got everything covered here and if you wanted to take your time getting in that’d be fine. Sorry.”

      “I am a bit tired.”

      “There. See? Just take your time. I’ve got it covered.”

      There is a pause and Henry cannot be sure but he thinks he hears Mr. Beardsley stifling a yawn. That, he thinks, would be perfect: if Mr. Beardsley could go back to sleep that would be perfect.

      “All right,” Mr. Beardsley says. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

      “Take your time.”

      Henry hangs up and goes back to the front doors, opening them one at a time so he can unfold the gateleg rubber stoppers that prevent them from closing. Fresh air wafts into the store. He imagines it a fight between superheroes: the strong, evil Mr. Mildew standing, feet apart, hands on hips defying the lightweight but equally powerful Captain Fresh Air, master of all that is good and right and decent, to try to thwart Mildew’s diabolical plan.

      Because Baxter’s is a storefront in the middle of the block there are no windows to open. But it occurs to Henry that the backroom door, the emergency door, could be opened. This would create a crosswind. He looks out the front doors, up and down the sidewalk, to make sure gangs of looters aren’t lying in wait for the opportunity to make off with armloads of men’s clothing. Then he moves through the store, dodging displays as if they are players on an opposing team, Henry with the golden football under his arm.

      The back door is metal and has a menacing brace across it that cautions it is not to be used or “alarms will sound.” But he happens to know the alarm will not sound because the company that installed the fire door went out of business two years ago. The door is issuing empty threats. The crossbar makes an official-sounding clang as it unlocks the door to Fresh Air’s troops, hurrying in as Henry lowers the bridge across the moat.

      “Yo! Powell!” It is Tom. Henry can hear him say Jesus frigging Christ and knows the smell has hit him.

      “I’m back here,” Henry yells out. “Hang on. Be right there.”

      He is looking for something to prop open the door and finds a cinder block mercifully close to the door in the alley.

      “Hey,” he says in greeting Tom.

      “What the hell happened? It smells like shit in here,” Tom says.

      “Shit.” Henry had hoped Tom would arrive wondering why he’d been called in.

      “Beardsley’s gonna freak out, man,” Tom says. He is shaking his head.

      “What should I do? You’ve got to help me think of something,” Henry says.

      “Did you do this?”

      “Did I do what?”

      “I don’t know, this,” Tom gestures to the problem area, including a wave of his arms meant to include the smell.

      “No! Why would I do this? The store flooded yesterday. With all the rain,” Henry says.

      “Why are you so worried, then, man? You guys got insurance to cover flooding, right? Plus it’s not like it’s your store. Let Beardsley worry about it. Why’ve you got your panties in a wad?”

      Henry steps out onto the sidewalk to see if it is not windy out or if there is another reason air is not moving through the store as he had hoped. No wind.

      “Seriously, man.” Tom has followed him out. “I can’t believe you hauled me down here when you could be dialing frigging State Farm. You should’ve come out last night. Blackie’s was packed. I got two numbers.”

      Geigan was perpetually gathering pretty girls’ phone numbers. Even not-so-pretty girls. He held on to them like lottery tickets.

      Henry stalks back into the store. It’s one of life’s great mysteries, Henry thinks. How that shitty—yes, shitty, so there—mullet can get women and I can’t. Screw him. Screw State Farm.

      Still, and for different reasons, a tiny part of Henry cannot believe he is so concerned with the store carpet. Not because it very well may be an insurance issue but because this is not what he had in mind. That tiny little voice in his head thinks this is not how I thought my life would go. But this only annoys him more so he shakes it out of his head, like a random piece of lint, picked off clothing, that won’t float off from a hand.

      It occurs to him that the fans will create what Mother Nature cannot: a perfect crosswind. “Just give me a hand, will you?”

      “Did you hear a word I’ve said?” Tom asks, following him to the backroom.

      “I heard you,” Henry says, handing Tom a fan. Just drop it, he thinks. For God’s sake, drop it. “I’ve got an idea. Here. Take this one and set it up facing the street up toward the middle of the store. I’m going to plug this one in here so it can get it started from back here.” He has to yell over the whirring fan as he plugs it in.

      Henry comes up to just past sportswear and pushes pants and jackets wider apart to accommodate the fan. “Here.”

      “It’s not gonna reach,” Tom says. “Where’s your outlet? You got an extension cord?”

      “Yeah, let me go get it.”

      “This is stupid, man,” Tom calls out across the store to him. “I’m telling you.”

      “Here.” Henry hands him one end and snakes the coil along the floor to the closest outlet.

      The second fan starts, taking the ball passed off from a huffing Captain Fresh Air and carrying it to the gray cement end zone.

      Henry checks his watch. It is eight-thirty so he has an hour and a half until he should start looking for Mr. Beardsley. He knows Mr. Beardsley will, in the end, not be late.

      “I’m going on a coffee run,” he says to Tom, who is lighting a cigarette outside in front of the store. “What do you want?”

      “Now you’re talking,” Tom says, inhaling. “Black. Large. Just how I like my women.” Which Henry knows is not true—he has never known Tom Geigan to date a black woman. What he does know is Tom Geigan adds this phrase—just how I like my women—to anything ending in an adjective. If a traffic jam is slow and snarling Tom would follow up with just how I like my women.

      “I’ll be right back. Can you stay right in front here just in case?”

      Tom nods but says, “In case of what?”

      Henry walks over to Cup-a-Joe. This time it is empty. He hurries in when he sees a car pulling up out front.

      “Hey,” he says to Cathy.

      “Hey,”

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