Henry of the boathouse at Fox Run where they jockeyed for the newer, less-smelly, life jackets before sailing class.
Henry knows Mr. Beardsley will unravel when he arrives so he hurries over to the phone.
“This better be an emergency,” Tom Geigan says in lieu of “hello.”
Geigan has worked at the local hardware store for as long as Henry could remember. His specialty is cutting keys. There is a sign reading Key Korner above his tiny nook toward the back of the store. Henry at first thought him much older but in fact only two years separate them—Geigan dropped out of high school and Henry assumed this adds to the division.
They met soon after Henry began working at Baxter’s in his senior year of high school, but both seemed to sense his impermanence so, while they were cordial to each other (no smiles, just respectful head nods and the occasional “How you doing?”), they more or less kept to themselves. It wasn’t until Henry was full-time at Baxter’s and found himself sitting on the bar stool next to Geigan that they both spoke to each other in complete sentences and the friendship took flight. Still—Henry being completely honest here—he had the itch of a thought that the friendship was temporary. The feeling that it would not be the sort of friendship to withstand a geographical move or a major life change. There was something that kept them off kilter. Fox Run? Henry was not sure.
“You don’t even know who this is,” Henry says.
“I don’t care who it is. If you’re calling at this hour, it better be an emergency,” Tom says. “There’s a construction site banging away in my head.”
“Yeah, well, get up, it’s an emergency,” Henry says. “You’ve got to come down here.”
“What is it?” Henry can tell Tom’s eyes are now open with yawning curiosity.
“How fast can you get here? Seriously.”
“Seriously, you better tell me what the fuck is so damn important and then I’ll tell you how fast I’ll be,” he says. Another 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.
