A thin young man wearing a flimsy denim jacket stepped into the shop. He
walked with a limp. He wasn’t wearing gloves or a scarf. His brown hair had been shaved
short and he wasn’t wearing a hat. There was snow on his shoulders, two small sliver
hoops in each ear, and his angular face was red with windburn. He crossed to the back of
the store and placed a brown bag on Carl’s desk. Then he looked Carl directly in the eye
and said, “That will be nine dollars, sir.” His voice was deep and nasal. He turned his
head and coughed into his elbow.
Carl’s eyebrows went up and he stepped back. He didn’t want to catch a cold
from some stupid, grungy delivery boy.
The young guy cleared his throat and said, “I’m not contagious. This is just the
end of a month-long cold.”
Carl pulled a taped receipt off the bag, then removed the bag from the desk so it
wouldn’t ruin the expensive burl veneer. He placed the bag on the floor and stared down at the receipt. When he confirmed that it was nine dollars, he handed the young man the
ten-dollar bill Able had left him.
The young man stared at him for a moment without speaking. His face was
smooth and handsome, his chin strong and square. He couldn’t have been more than
fourteen or fifteen years old. He tilted his head and said, “Thanks,” and put the ten-dollar
bill into his back pocket.
As the boy walked back toward the front door, rubbing his wet nose and limping,
Carl stood up from his chair and shouted, “Hold on there. I didn’t get my change.”
The young guy stopped short in front of a Bombay chest that had a ten-thousand
dollar price tag and turned back to face Carl. “You want change?”
Carl furrowed his eyebrows and said, “If the bill was nine dollars, you owe me
one dollar back. Don’t you know how to count change? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if
you didn’t, from what I’m seeing with people your age these days.” He walked to where
the guy was standing, looked down at him, and frowned.
The young guy squared his shoulders and lifted his head. He looked into Carl’s
dark brown eyes with his own dark brown eyes and pulled one dollar bill out of his
pocket. He handed it to Carl and said, “I know how to count, Mister. I just thought you
were giving me a tip, is all.”
Carl hesitated. There was something about the expression on the guy’s face that
made his stomach jump. It wasn’t sexual and Carl would never have been interested in
anyone so young. Carl was cheap, his heart was the size of an English pea, and he
couldn’t care less about Christmas. But he wasn’t attracted to minors and he never would
have harmed a child. This reaction was more like he’d seen this guy somewhere before. There was something familiar about him, a connection of some kind that Carl couldn’t
pigeonhole.
But that didn’t stop Carl from taking the dollar bill. He ripped it out of the guy’s
hand and said, “Why should you get a tip for doing your job? Don’t they pay you where
you work? No one tips me for selling an antique. It’s my job.” The dollar bill felt soft and
wet, as if it had been in his pocket for a very long time.
The young guy took a deep breath and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,
man,” he said. “I guess you need that dollar a lot more than I do.” Then he turned his
back on Carl, opened the front door, and shouted, “Merry Christmas, buddy.”
“Keep your ‘
Merry Christmas’
to yourself,” Carl shouted back. “I’m over it, you
little smart ass.”
When the door was shut and the boy was gone, Carl shoved the dollar bill into his
back pocket and walked back to his desk. A half hour later, Able returned from the bank
and asked if his order form the deli had arrived. His shoulders were coated with snow, his
thick blond hair was soaked, and his face was red. Carl lifted the brown bag from the
floor and handed it to him. “It was nine dollars even,” he said, shaking his head.
Able took the bag and said, “Damn. If I’d known it was nine I would have left a
few extra bucks to tip the delivery guy.”
Carl was about to reach for the dollar bill in his pocket. But he stopped when Able
asked, “Did you give him a few extra bucks? I’ll pay you back.”
Carl’s hand dropped to his lap and he frowned. “Of course I didn’t give him any
of
my
money. I didn’t order the food.” “Well,” Able said. “At least he received a dollar tip. It’s better than nothing. I
would have given him more because it’s Christmas Eve and all.”
Carl reached for a polishing cloth on his desk and stood up. “I’m going to polish
that eighteenth-century game table. You’d better get back to work on that chair so it’s
finished before the day is over. And I don’t want to hear anything more about Christmas,
or homeless people, or giving large tips to nasty, germ-carrying delivery boys. I’ve had
enough. I’m over it.” Then he stormed past Able with the polishing cloth in his left hand.
With his right hand, he patted the dollar bill in his back pocket three times. If anyone had
walked into the shop and seen him smile, they would have thought he’d just sold a fifty
thousand-dollar bronze statue.
Chapter Two
A few minutes before eight o’clock, Able carried a large, ornately carved chair
into the showroom. He’d finished the restoration and he was ready to leave for the
homeless shelter. He placed it beside Carl’s desk and said, “Here it is, Mr. Smite. I
worked hard on this one, and it wasn’t easy. I just hope you don’t put this in the front
window. The other merchants might not like it.”
Carl raised his eyebrows and twisted his lips deliberately. He stood from his desk
and smoothed down his slacks. When he leaned over to examine the chair, he pressed his
index finger to his lips and said, “I’ve already made a space for the chair in the front
display window. Go put it there right now.” Then he tied a white tag around the arm of
the chair with a thin piece of white string. In bold red numbers, the tag read twenty
thousand dollars.
Able frowned. “The other merchants won’t like this. You’ll get phone calls and
nasty notes,” he said. “The last time you put that baby Giraffe skin in the window, that
nice woman who owns the tearoom across the street almost lost her mind. She’s a huge
animal rights activist. And everyone else in this neighborhood agrees with her about
animal skins. It’s just not done in Greenwich Village. People are too concerned about
animal welfare and the environment.”
Carl ran his palm across the back of the chair; he smiled at the twenty-thousand
dollar price tag and his penis moved in his pants. The chair had been upholstered in real
zebra skin, with the dead zebra’s mane at the bottom of the seat, up front, trailing down to the floor. “I don’t care about the other bleeding-heart, animal-loving merchants in
Greenwich Village,” he said. “This chair is more than one hundred and fifty years old,
and the zebra skin is even older. It’s not as if I went out and shot a zebra yesterday at the
Bronx Zoo. Now go put it in the front window under the spotlight and stop worrying
about the environmental loons of Greenwich Village.”
Able shrugged his shoulders and lifted the chair. As he crossed toward the front
window display, he repeated, “They aren’t going to like this at all, Mr. Smite.”
“I’m over it,” Carl said. “I don’t give a damn what
they
like. Besides, that little
moron across the street will be out of business soon enough anyway. You can’t make
money selling little bags of tea in this city. You need the big bucks, and the people who
have them.”
Carl followed him to the front of the store. He folded his arms across his chest
and watched Able arrange the chair in the window. Able placed it directly beneath the
spotlight on an angle so that everyone who passed by could see the dead zebra’s mane.
“The serious collectors want these old animal skins,” Carl said. “These are people who
love guns, who love to hunt, and who appreciate history. I’m going to sell that chair
within a month for full price, while that silly moron across the street will be lucky if she
sells twenty thousand dollars’ worth of herbs and teas in her entire lifetime.”
When the chair was in the window and they walked back to the desk, Carl turned
his back to Able and reached for his coat and gloves. While he was putting his coat on,
Able came up from behind and grabbed his arm. Carl stopped moving and turned to face
him. His heart started to race; his stomach jumped. He looked into Able’s eyes and said,
“What are you doing?” Then he pulled his arm away from Able’s hand. Able raised his hands and smiled. “Don’t get nervous. I’m only helping you with
your coat, Mr. Smite. I’m not going to steal it.” Then he patted the small of Carl’s back,
practically grabbing Carl’s ass.
Carl put his arm through the sleeve and pulled the coat up. He squared his
shoulders. “I can put my own coat on, thank you. I don’t need help getting dressed.” Then
he lowered his head and fastened the buttons.
While Carl buttoned his coat, Able mumbled something. Carl wasn’t sure what he
said, but it sounded like, “I’d like to help you get
undressed
, Mr. Smite.” Carl ignored
him. He was attracted to Able, but he was too smart to mix business with pleasure.
Besides, the longer he kept Able at bay, the more willing Able would be to do whatever
he asked.
When Carl looked up again, Able reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a
small box. He handed the box to Carl and said, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Smite.”
Carl stared at the box in Able’s hand and frowned. “What’s this?” He hadn’t
expected any gifts. The last time he’d received a Christmas gift from anyone had been the
worst night of his life. After that, all Christmas gifts reminded him of that night.
Able shrugged. “I bought you something small for Christmas, is all. It’s nothing
important or expensive, but I thought you’d like it.”
Carl rolled his eyes and said, “I didn’t get anything for you, and I don’t want
anything from you. You can either keep the gift yourself, or give it to someone else. I
don’t celebrate Christmas. I’m over it.” Then he reached for a pair of cracked leather
gloves with frayed seams and slipped them over his hands. “I’ll see you bright and early the day after tomorrow.” He hated closing the store for a full day. But even he knew that
opening on Christmas Day would have been a mistake.
Able lowered his arms slowly and put the small package back into his pocket. “I
guess I’ll be going then,” he said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come down with
me and help out tonight? They guy who runs the shelter is really great. I think you’d like
him. He’s very active in gay civil rights and he donates a lot of his time and money. He
just moved to New York from San Francisco a month ago.”
Carl rolled his eyes; he knew the type. The guy at the shelter probably walked
around in tight red shorts and heavy black boots, carrying a rainbow flag. Though Carl
had accepted his strong attraction to other men at an early age, he thought gay civil rights
was a complete waste of time and energy. Carl never talked about being gay. He wasn’t
for or against any LGBT issues. The only thing he’d ever cared about was making money,
because money gave him power. “I’m sure the man is a virtual saint,” Carl said,
condescending. “But I think I’ll pass.”
Able shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door. “Have a good night, Mr.
Smite.”
While Carl watched him amble out of the shop, he grumbled, “I’ll have the same
night I always have.” Then he pulled his keys out of his desk drawer and slammed the
drawer shut.
When Able was gone, Carl turned off all the interior lights and checked to make
sure the wall safe was securely locked. Then he went to the front door and pulled his
scarf up around his face. There was so much snow the door wouldn’t open all the way.
On his way outside, his arm brushed against a small Christmas wreath hanging on the front door. He’d only hung it there because he knew customers liked seeing tacky,
ridiculous decorations. When the bells on the wreath jingled, he shoved it hard with his
elbow and whispered, “Fuck Christmas. I’m so fucking over it,” and slammed the door
shut with such force a lamp on a table next to the door wobbled back and forth.
He locked the door and turned to face the front window. When he saw the antique
chair with the zebra upholstery beneath the single spotlight, he smiled and rubbed his
