“Well, actually—” I said, but Gus, who, all at once I understood—who, all at once I was embarrassed not to have previously understood—sought not my camaraderie so much as my cliency, didn’t seem to hear me.
“If what you really want is silk,” he cheerily continued, “then double all the costs I just said and add five, and also, so you know, silk aint available in eggwhite white, but there’s something else they calling eggshell fallow that’s a kind of nifty shade of brown exclusive to the silks. You want to see the monogrammed silks, go on up and ask Chad-Kyle. I sold him a set just a couple weeks back. His monogram’s a little, uh, different though, little crowded maybe, since it has three letters instead of just two cause it turns out Chad-Kyle’s his whole first name. I mean, more like, I guess, it’s two first names. Like he’s got a middle name on top of the Chad-Kyle. Piers or something. No, wait a minute. Kent. That’s the one. Chad-Kyle Kent Baker. Anyway, they workmanship’s solid. They came out pretty. Ask him take a look if you want.”
“I believe you,” I said, “except—”
“Not a monogram man. Too flashy. I feel that. I think I would’ve guessed that, but it’s always good to offer. Did I get you right the first time, then? About the cottons, I mean?”
“I didn’t know you were selling handkerchiefs,” I said.
“You funny!” he said.
“No,” I said. “I really didn’t know til just now.”
“Just now? Just now when?”
“When you started quoting prices.”
“What’d you think this was about?”
“Social stuff?” I said. “A couple guys talking? Starting a friendship in the unlikeliest of places?”
“Well nothing saying it couldn’t be that, too.”
“Really?” I said.
“Supposing you buy some handkerchiefs, of course.”
“Ha!” I said.
“Yeah, ha,” said Gus.
“I would,” I said. “You gave such a good pitch. I mean, I didn’t even know you were pitching til the end. That’s how good it was. But I just can’t afford it. I’m sorry, Gus. I am.”
“That’s alright,” Gus said.
“Is it really?” I said.
“Look, man, what you want me to say?”
“That you’re not angry at me.”
“Okay then,” Gus said, by which he may have meant nearly anything except “I’m not angry at you.”
“You know, I really like your name,” I said, and that was absolutely true, though I knew that saying so made me sound foolish. In a way, I guess I was trying to sound foolish. Not so foolish that Gus would think himself foolish for not having recognized my foolishness earlier, but just foolish enough to encourage him to believe that I hadn’t wasted his time on purpose. “Gus,” I yammered on, like a fool. “It’s an old-timey name. A tough kind of name, but not like a bully, just straight-up tough. The name of a guy you’d never think to try to mug. A guy whose pretty sister never gets asked to dance. My dad’s got one of those. I don’t mean a pretty sister—like me, both my parents grew up only children. What I mean’s his name’s Clyde. Clyde Franklin Magnet.”
“No kidding?” Gus said, unsquinting his eyes a bit, straightening his neck. “You dad’s Clyde Magnet? Impeller at the plant?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I see,” he said. “I used to be his supervisor, fore I retired.”
“No way!” I said.
“Well, no, actually. Tell the truth, no. I mean I supervised your dad, but I didn’t retire from it—plant laid me off. No shame in it, but still, I guess it feels like there’s shame in it, so I called it ‘retired.’ Old reflex or something. Make no sense. Now I’m retired. As of just a couple months ago. From the mill, though, not the plant. Solid pension, good life. No shame whatsoever. I really don’t know why I said that—‘retired’—some twenty-some years later. Anyway, I guess you’re that boy, huh?”
“Probably?” I said.
“You know what I mean. That crazy stuff in the papers a bunch of years back. With the swingsets. And then your mom. Poor lady. I really liked her. Met her once at a picnic. You too, I guess. Fourth of July. You were in a stroller. My youngest, he was maybe four, maybe five at the time, all scared of the fireworks. I thought we’d have to leave the ballfield, but you mom, she calmed him down, convinced him the rockets only seemed like they was close. Or maybe he only pretended to be convinced. She was a very pretty woman, if you don’t mind my saying. I think little Israel may’ve just been charmed into faking up some bravery in order to impress her. I remember thinking that. I remember admiring the both of them that night. Anyway, she was a good lady. A real charming person, always seem to be interested in what someone had to say. And so you name’s, uh—it’s Cuff, right?”
“Belt,” I said.
“Yeah, you the one.”
“Thanks for telling me about the fireworks,” I said.
“Oh, I was just remembering. You doing better now than you was back when? Seem like you must be. You seem alright.”
“I wrote a book,” I said. “Did you hear about that?”
“I didn’t,” said Gus.
“A novel,” I said. “No Please Don’t. That’s the title.”
“That’s something. I never met a real author before. Can I buy it somewhere?”
“It’s out of print.”
“Oh.”
“I can bring you one, though,” I said.
“How much?”
“Free. I’ve got a box of them.”
“Signed?”
“Sure.”
“That’s not fair. I’ll trade you three hankies, cotton, no monograms.”
“Deal,” I said.
“Alright,” said Gus. “Say hi to your father for me, huh?”
“I will,” I said. “I’ll see you later, Gus.”
* * *
After having said goodbye, it would’ve been awkward to keep on standing there, so even though I saw, when I turned away from Gus, that Lotta was busy with yet another customer, I made my way farther into the bank. Chad-Kyle was manning the next station over, customer-free, elbows up on the counter, swinging his fob to and fro before his eyes. Three Curios dangled from its golden clasp by rubberband leashes affixed to their collars. Fighting strangulation, they tried to climb the air—pedaling their legs, reaching, grasping—and their knees caught repeatedly in one another’s crotches, their fingers in one another’s nostrils and mouths.