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This writing was accepted for publication in the May 1996 issue, v79 of cc&d, and was re-releases in 2019 as a 100 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Poetry and Prose” cc&d (v79, 2019 re-release)  You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:  |
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Order this writing in the issue book Among the Debris the cc&d July-Dec. 2019 issues & chapbooks collection book |
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get the 494 page July-Dec. 2019 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:
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Standing in the stockroom doorway, Doris repeated the question demurely, with just a hint of humility. Jacky pretended not to hear, as he polished the display case. He couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t believe in the tapered Van Heusen shirts he was supposed to be selling.
Doris cleared her throat with a purpose in mind. Suddenly nervous, Jacky spun around and looked into her baby blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Doris,” he muttered. “Did you say something?” She meant to smile at him, but changed her mind at the last minute. She batted her eyelashes instead.
The tall, chunky salesclerk with the blonde bouffant hairdo sashayed over to the cash register and pretended to press the “no sale” button. She asked the very same question. “Are you buying us candy today, Jacky?”
The big-boned eighteen year-old swallowed hard and hesitated before answering. “Yeah, sure.” He stared at the floor, thinking that Doris bore a certain resemblance to Lainie Kazan.
Eleanor walked lazily out of the stockroom a second later, a thin dark-haired woman of average height who always seemed to be smiling. “Candy today, Jack?” she asked. The teenager looked in her direction nervously, but said nothing. “Ti’s so nice of you to buy us girls candy all the time,” she added. Her pleading tone seemed to work miracles very time.
Jacky plunged his hands into his deep pockets. He allowed his gaze to linger on the lower half of his brown pinstripe pants. He didn’t look up for some time, but when he did, he was staring wistfully at Doris again. She seemed to have an impatient expression on her face, or so he thought.
“Lunch time, boys and girls!” emanated form somewhere in back of Jacky’s head. It was the emotionless voice of Bill Davila, the dapper brown-haired ladies’ man who was the supervisor of the men’s furnishings department. He spoke with a lot of authority for someone only five feet tall.
Jacky and the two ladies snapped to attention and grinned self-consciously. Bill frowned good-naturedly, then shook his head as he walked into the stockroom.
Jacky straightened his tie, brushed two specks of lint form the left lapel of his gold blazer and patted his brown hair carefully. He had used Wildroot cream oil that morning to make sure every single strand of this hair stayed put. “If you look in control, you are in control!” was a thought that echoed in his brain before he left Gimbel’s, the department store where he worked.
Just before he stepped onto State Street, the glass door swinging to a slow-motion close behind him, he heard Eleanor’s voice again. “Candy, Jacky!” This time he didn’t look back, fearful he might blush or convey a stubborn petulance. It was a cool, crisp day in mid-November, 1970, in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
He paused on the sidewalk before crossing the street to the entrance to Lafayette Plaza. He looked all around him, intending to take in the sights and sounds of the city. After all, he had his freedom for a full hour. Glad to be alive, he wiped the lenses of his black horn-rimmed glasses with a lavender Sight Saver. When he slipped them back on, he snorted impatiently. The lenses still had those stubborn streaks.
He waited for the red light to change. “Come on,” he thought to himself. “Change already!” Jacky was a spoiled, impatient sort who thought waiting for a red light to change was a complete waste of time. Still, he felt refreshed. The cool autumn breeze slapped his face. He inhaled deeply and went into a coughing jag.
Car whizzed by a few feet in front of him. His hands in his pockets, he shrugged off his impatience. Suddenly, he felt an urge to daydream, as the stared at the red stoplight across the street. He was not part of the sidewalk on which he stood.
Precisely when the light turned green, Jacky saw Her walk toward the mall entrance briskly. He had seen Her a few times before, but had no idea who she was. She was a major part of downtown life, though, in those innocent days.
This mystery woman was tall and very thin. Her black hair was always piled on top of her head in a haphazard upsweep. She always wore tight black dresses, fishnet stockings and high heel sandals. Something stirred within him.
The loud snap of somebody’s fingers made him look to his right very quickly. Danny Boy Doyle, a tall, brown-haired salesclerk with a crossed eye, passed him and crossed State Street in a hurry. Wearing a broad, toothy grin, he looked in Jacky’s direction, snapped his fingers again and pointed a long index finger at him. He said what he always seemed to say. “That’s a supercool tie, man.” Jacky smiled, but really wanted to laugh. “Hey, Jacky!” Danny Boy shouted. “Green light! Time waits for no man, ya know!”
Jacky crossed the street casually. When he pulled open the door of the mall entrance, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He glanced to his right as he passed Tie City, a tidy, compact little store. “Yeah, supercool tie,” he muttered to himself. Jacky was hungry, but unaware of so many things. Working at Gimbel’s was only his second job.
He passed people and stores and pay phones, trying to convey a sense of confidence. He found the coffee shop moments later, an eatery he found himself returning to time and again. He wondered what kind of mood the matronly, dark-haired waitress would be in this time.
He picked a table a few yards from the counter in the empty restaurant. From somewhere in the busy mall, there came the sound of piped-in music. He lit a Marlboro, perused the glossy menu and waited for the waitress.
Different people sauntered in to different areas of the coffee shop, removing winter coats and talking about concerns of the day.
The waitress walked over to Jacky’s table eventually. “What’ll it be today, honey?” she asked, appearing somewhat bored. Jacky puffed on the cigarette and ordered an open steak sandwich, onion rings and coffee enthusiastically. He glanced at the dark-haired little man who was the cashier of the day.
It seemed like a very long time before his meal arrived. The waitress planted it down on the table with a slovenly flourish. “Enjoy the food,” she said without emotion. She could have been speaking to a nephew who had disappointed her, or so it seemed to Jacky.
He emptied two packets of sugar and two tiny creamers into the steaming cup of coffee. The food in front of him didn’t seem as appetizing as the picture in the menu had promised.
It was five minutes later when Jacky tried to maneuver a slice of tomato onto his fork. “Let It Be” by the Beatles was the song that was playing at that moment. How Jacky loved that song! It always made him feel melancholy, but he loved feeling that way.
He stopped eating as he pondered the lyrics and the crisp, clean sound of Paul McCartney’s piano-playing. Jacky’s thoughts were far-removed from the concerns of the moment. He was almost hypnotized by the music.
The song touched a chord deep within him. He daydreamed about lying in his coffin in an all-too-familiar funeral parlor, surrounded by family and friend. “Let It Be” was playing over and over. Someone in a black veil sobbed, “How Jacky loved that song!” and wiped away a tear. Whenever those very same people would hear that song in the future, they would think of him fondly and remember. The daydream was sheer melodrama.
Jacky paid his check and left a healthy tip. He lit another cigarette as he walked casually through the mall, letting his mind wander. His thoughts would plunge whenever he heard that song.
When he walked back into Gimbel’s, Bill immediately got his attention and spoke sternly. “You’ll be working in the men’s department this afternoon. Get over there now. Come on! Look alive!” Jacky sensed that Eleanor and Doris were looking at him expectantly.
He walked briskly in the direction of the men’s department, hoping he could get through the afternoon with no major blunders. Lenny, a security guard from the mall, walked towards him. He wore a faded green army jacket and an especially lewd expression. His wavy brown hair had grown considerably since the last time Jacky ran into him.
Lenny’s voice was hushed yet sinister-sounding. “Dig Candy over there at the sweater counter. She ain’t wearing a thing under that dress.” Hid green-eyed leer seemed to bore right through Jacky’s skull. Jacky’s heart skipped a beat.
For a split second, Jacky looked in the direction of the sweater counter. Candy, a pretty brown-haired girl in wire-rim glasses and a flowery yellow dress, stood behind the display case. She looked at Jacky with a silent boldness. The word “candy” kept coming back to him.
As soon as he got the men’s department, a tall, officious man named Abe told him to run upstairs to Alterations to retrieve a suit for a Mr. Brownstein. Jacky, feeling very nervous, took a deep breath.
He pulled open the shuttered door and walked up the dark stairway, clutching a numbered receipt. Once in Alterations, it took him quite some time to locate the suit covered in plastic. He walked down the stairs in a panic. He had taken too long.
Downstairs, Mr. Brownstein, a middle-aged man with a hardened look, spotted Jacky instantly. He spoke from his heart. “What were you doing up there, taking so long? Playing with yourself? Let me have my suit.” All eyes were fixed on Jacky, who stood motionless. He appeared to be nearly catatonic. His face turned a bright crimson.
For no apparent reason, he recalled being on vacation with his family in New York City two years earlier. Wearing a tacky gold medallion with a green stone in its center, Jacky was riding the hotel elevator with his father. Medallions were very fashionable in the ‘60’s, but nobody really knew why. Big ones, small ones, gaudy ones, tacky ones. A sign of the times. At least Jacky wasn’t wearing a Nehru jacket.
The elevator doors slid open on the fifth floor and a tall, distinguished black man entered, followed by his female companion. He made a point of staring at Jacky’s swinging medallion before he commented on it. “Tell me, young man,” he said in a deep baritone voice. “That medallion you are wearing. Does it signify something?”
Embarrassed, Jacky managed to shake his head and mutter, “No, not really.” When the elevator reached the main floor, the man and his companion exited quickly. Jacky’s father turned to him. “You should’ve told him you wore it because you were in a band!”
Jacky nodded absent-mindedly, feeling a bit hesitant about what to do next. The hotel lobby was filled with many kinds of people, stuck in their own private dramas. He peered down at the gaudy medallion, searching for a reason as to why he was wearing it. He didn’t look up for a very long time.
