Читать книгу Someone Like You - Timothy James Beck - Страница 8

Derek Anderson had been sixteen years old before he had room service for the first time. His parents’ idea of a family vacation was visiting historic battlefields, homes, and monuments. They could never stay at a hotel. Their chosen vacation locations were invariably in close proximity to a campsite, where the nearest thing to room service was Derek’s mother poking her head inside the tent to tell him something charred over a campfire was done cooking.

Deprived of entertainment, Derek was forced to devise his own. His growing up was measured by the nature of his fantasies. To the young Derek, a muscular man at an adjoining campsite was a superhero in disguise. Derek would envision Muscular Man saving the world—or at least one very bored eight-year-old. A few years later, Muscular Man was all human, more Indiana Jones than Superman. Derek would imagine going on adventures with him as they searched for magical artifacts buried in a Civil War battlefield or hidden within a dead hero’s tomb.

Then Derek hit adolescence and his mental scenarios didn’t require props, costumes, locations, or complicated plots. Nor could he focus on only one man when there were so many men everywhere. Shirts off and sweating as they set up tents. Stripped to cutoffs, trunks, or Speedos as they dove into lakes. Tanned muscles on display as they stood in tourist lines wearing shorts and tank tops. Wherever he looked, Derek saw a tantalizing feast that he wasn’t allowed to taste. He was trapped in a world of scorched eggs and incinerated hot dogs.

Reuben, his best friend, took him away from all that. Reuben’s parents won a trip for four to New York City, and since Reuben was an only child, they asked Derek to go along. After much begging and pleading, the Andersons relented, and Derek got to stay in a real hotel. Reuben and Derek shared their own room. On their first morning, Reuben dialed room service and ordered Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. After Derek took his first bite, while sitting in bed and watching television, he swore he’d never spend another summer roughing it in the wilderness like a male version of pioneer girl Caddie Woodlawn.

After that, Belgian waffles became Derek’s comfort food. On his first day of employee orientation for Drayden’s department store, he sat at a table in the back of a conference room and promised himself a heaping plate of waffles if he didn’t run out the door before it was all over. A tall woman dressed in an eggplant-colored suit and brown high heels stood at the front of the room, droning on about the history of Drayden’s.

“Bjorn Henry Lvandsson founded Drayden’s in 1951. When Mr. Lvandsson’s farm was wiped out by a tornado, his wife, Greta, pawned her loom so the young couple could try their hand at retail. The original Drayden’s, which was named after Mr. Lvandsson’s first-born son, was a tiny shop in St. Paul, Minnesota, and sold denim clothing and boots to area farmers. Offering sturdy, no-frills work clothes at low prices paid off. Mr. Lvandsson was able to get his wife’s treasured loom out of hock and expand the business to include a line of hunting wear in 1954.”

It was the hokiest story Derek had ever heard. His eyes glazed over as boredom became exhaustion. He stared at the Human Resources associate, studying her tight-lipped, hatchet face and wondering if she ever smiled. To keep himself from giving in to monotony, he made up a second job for her. In his daydream, she led a secret life as a stripper by night. Her routine as Lydia the Librarian was a favorite among the blue-collar patrons, earning her hundreds of dollars, which she earnestly socked away so she could get out of Indiana in style.

Derek smiled, but his glee vanished when he opened his eyes and the bright lights, dollar bills, and stripper poles faded from his imagination. He was back in the windowless conference room with a dozen other new hires. Derek sighed resolutely and tried to concentrate as the HR associate continued.

“People from all over Minnesota flocked to Drayden’s in the late fifties, when the Lvandssons introduced a line of livestock blankets. Woven by Greta Lvandsson on the loom that started it all, they christened the livestock line Fruit of the Loom. Unfortunately, the underwear empire caught wind of the copyright-infringing horse blankets and threatened to sue Drayden’s. ‘We never hear of underwear from a loom,’ Mr. Lvandsson insisted. ‘We only wear Hanes,’ his wife declared. The publicity from the case brought more customers into the ‘Little Store That Could,’ and people everywhere snatched up the newly christened Cattle Cozy line to keep their livestock warm on those harsh winter nights.”

Derek didn’t know which was worse, the story or the bad Scandinavian accent the HR associate used while speaking as the idiotic Lvandssons. He thought about excusing himself to go to the bathroom and not returning, or faking a seizure. Instead, he reminded himself that he needed the job, the money it would provide, and the sense of independence it could give him.

A black woman with big, curly hair chose that moment to stride into the conference room and say, “Sorry I’m late. Is this orientation?”

“Yes, it is. We were going over the history of Drayden’s. If you’ll find a seat, we can continue.”

As the HR storyteller continued describing Bjorn Henry’s foray into hunting and camping gear, Derek watched as the hair that ate Terre Haute sat next to him at his table.

“My curling iron made me late. It wouldn’t heat up,” his seatmate whispered.

“Sounds like my boyfriend,” Derek said. When her eyes lit up, he added, “Sometimes it helps to plug it in.”

“Oh, I like you,” she said. “We’ll get along fine. I’m Vienna.”

“Derek,” he whispered, pointing at himself.

They stopped talking and listened to their Drayden’s history lesson, which became more palatable now that Derek had Vienna to alleviate his boredom. As Drayden’s expanded into new markets, Mr. Lvandsson tried to engage his children in the business. His eldest son, Drayden, ran off to Hollywood. Sven, the next in line, headed for New York City and went to work on Wall Street after he received his MBA. Lastly, Henrietta, the only daughter, not to mention the family’s bad seed, grabbed her automotive engineering certificate and raced off to join a pit crew at the Indianapolis 500. Other than Greta, who would greet Drayden’s visitors from her loom, which was positioned in front of the main doors of the original store, the only family member to actively join in the business was Gertrude, the family cow. When Greta accidentally mixed up her Christmas card list with the customer database, Drayden’s catalog business was born. The store was inundated with calls from people who had to have the festive sweater a perky Gertrude sported on the front of the Lvandsson family Christmas cards.

“Is this shit for real?” Vienna whispered.

Derek could empathize with the Lvandsson children. A career in the retail industry was not his ultimate goal in life, and he understood why they wanted to get as far away as possible from their parents’ dreams. Derek’s dream had been to be pampered and privileged. To eat Belgian waffles in bed. Maybe be famous for being famous. However, that sort of lifestyle was usually reserved for people with money. Or at the very least, for their children. Derek’s parents were not rich. They were comfortable and happy. But they assumed their son would want the life they lived and never bothered to show him that his life had possibilities. Instead of preparing him for a future, they immersed him in a past of on-this-spot battlefields and crumbling buildings.

Derek explained that to Vienna when they were allowed to leave for lunch.

“I hear you, Derek,” she said as they left Drayden’s and wandered into Mall of the Universe. “My parents were very old-fashioned. Even though I did well in school, they never dreamed that I’d want to go to college. They thought I’d turn out just like my mama, living and breathing for my man. I worked hard to go to college, and I got my education. On my own, thank you.”

“What’s your degree?”

Vienna mumbled something that Derek couldn’t understand. There were a lot of people in the mall, voices and footsteps echoing off the tile and glass interior of the corridors, so he asked her to repeat herself.

“Psychology. I got my B.S. at Indiana University,” she said.

“I get mine from my boyfriend,” Derek quipped. “I don’t get it. Why are you here with me, working at a mall, when you could rake in the dough from an office somewhere in the real world?”

“My license to practice was suspended,” she said. “Hey, let’s go visit my friend Davii.”

They pushed their way through throngs of people and crossed the main floor of the mall. When Derek was a boy, he’d seen a drawing of a space colony that might house thousands of people sometime in the future. It looked like a gigantic, high-tech wagon wheel floating through the galaxy. Mall of the Universe was similarly shaped, but firmly planted on the ground with a planetarium at its hub. The mall contained not only hundreds of stores, but also a nightclub, a roller rink, and a bowling alley, as well as a hotel and an apartment building on opposite sides of the mall, and a mid-rise condominium standing sentinel over all four mall levels, which were named Earth, Moon, Sun, and Stars.

Derek had assumed they would meet Davii in the food court, since there was one on the Earth level, but they walked past it, then Vienna pulled him into a hair salon. He was overcome by loud music and the acrid smell of perm solution, which almost made him yearn to return to Drayden’s and the insufferable Lvandsson legend. Vienna dragged him to the end of a row of chairs, where a handsome man dressed in black was cutting a client’s hair.

“Davii!” Vienna shrieked.

“Vienna!” Davii roared. He flung his arms around Vienna, and for a moment Derek was afraid Davii had plunged his scissors into her back. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Drayden’s without her.

“I missed you,” Vienna said. “This has been the longest day ever.”

“I know,” Davii commiserated. He resumed snipping his client’s hair as he said, “I’ve been slaving away here for hours. Ages!”

“It’s only noon,” Derek said, checking his watch to be sure. Davii looked at him with an unreadable expression. Derek immediately worried that Davii hated his hair.

“Davii, this is Derek,” Vienna said, putting her arm around Derek’s waist. “He’s been my saving grace today. We’re in training together, and he’s been so witty and clever, providing a much-needed stimulus in a dull setting. Very entertaining. He reminds me of you.”

“Really?” Davii said, looking skeptical. Derek felt dubious about her remark as well. Visually, he and Davii were polar opposites. Davii was tall and lithe; his face angular and striking, with deep blue eyes framed by long eyelashes. His black hair was cut in a trendy, spiky style. If Derek’s look was as American as apple pie, then Davii was a crème brulée or an Italian pastry. Something European and decadent; Derek couldn’t be sure exactly. Davii arched an eyebrow and said, “Oh, well, any friend of Vienna’s—”

“Should be isolated and studied in a controlled environment!” Vienna interjected, and the two of them burst out laughing. The client in Davii’s chair looked mildly annoyed, until he stopped laughing and turned her head sharply to the left so he could cut the back of her hair.

“I’ve got stories,” Davii stated.

“Who?” Vienna asked.

Though her chin was pushed down into her chest, Derek saw the client’s eyebrows perk up at the mention of gossip.

“Glenda, our manager, was fired,” Davii stage-whispered, though it was unnecessary because of the loud music.

“No. Really?” Vienna said. “What happened?”

“She was taking long lunch breaks,” he answered.

“That doesn’t seem like a reason to fire someone,” Derek said.

“It does when you spend your lunch breaks in the broom closet,” Davii said.

“Why would she eat her lunch in a broom closet?” Vienna asked. “Did she have an eating disorder? Sometimes bulimics binge in private.”

“Glenda was bingeing, but not on food,” Davii said. “And she wasn’t eating alone, either. Did I mention that Betty, the shampoo girl, was fired, too?”

Vienna’s perfectly lined eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, that’s—”

“Stupid, right? I mean, when I want a nooner, I’ll go to the top floor of the parking garage like a normal person!” Davii exclaimed.

“Are you going to try to get her position?” Vienna asked.

“I could,” Davii mused, “but I’m not that nimble. It’s an awfully small closet.”

Derek laughed, and Vienna admonished, “Don’t encourage him, Derek.”

“No. I don’t think so,” Davii answered. “I’m not nearly responsible enough to be a manager. Nor would I want to be. Too much time would be taken up organizing and running this place. I’d rather do hair and collect tips.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Vienna said.

“I’m always right,” Davii said emphatically. He surveyed his client’s hair and said, “Listen, you two had better run along. I don’t want you to be late getting back to work, and I’m fucking up Brenda’s hair.”

Davii’s client lifted her head in alarm and stared at herself in the mirror, looking for carnage.

“Okay. I’ll see you later,” Vienna said and kissed Davii’s cheek.

“It was nice to meet you, Davii,” Derek said.

“You, too. I’m sure I’ll see you soon. We’ll all go for drinks sometime. Ciao, bello! Ciao, bella!”

“He’s a trip,” Derek remarked once they’d left the salon.

“Davii? Yeah. You could say that,” Vienna said. “But outside the salon he’s not so—”

“Theatrical?” Derek suggested.

“I was going to say flaming, but that will do,” Vienna said. “It’s all a performance. He’s giving his clients what they expect of him. Playing up the stereotype. Oddly enough, they tip him more if he does.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s true. At home, Davii is really quiet and reserved. We share an apartment in the Galaxy Building.” She pointed toward the apartment tower at the end of the mall. “It’s a two-bedroom. Davii’s not my boyfriend or anything.”

“I figured as much,” Derek said. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Vienna said. “Listen to me, Derek. I’m giving you some free advice. You’re a gay man who’s about to begin a career in sales. You don’t think people will look at you and draw their own conclusions without knowing you? Get real. If you play it straight, they won’t listen to a word you say and you won’t sell anything. If you gay it up a notch, they’ll think you’re a genius. Think about the gay stereotype. Supposedly all gay men have amazing style and can make anything or anyone fabulous. Davii could give a woman a Mohawk and make her think she’s transformed for the better. Like my daddy always said, it takes a lot of manure to make a garden.”

“That sounds like Drayden’s propaganda to me,” Derek said.

Vienna grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the food court, saying, “Speaking of which, if we don’t get moving, we’ll be late.”

After a hurried lunch, they returned to the store for more History of Drayden’s 101. The Lvandsson family saga continued into the eighties, when Drayden Lvandsson finally returned from Hollywood to help his father run the company. Drayden had connections in the fashion industry and convinced many of them to sell their clothes and accessories in his stores. Business boomed, and Drayden’s opened stores all over the Midwest.

After the market crash of 1987, Sven Lvandsson returned to handle Drayden’s economic concerns. Henrietta retired from the racing circuit a few years later and secured a job as Director of Operations. Though she ran routine inspections of every store and made sure they functioned like a well-oiled race car, she spent the majority of her time managing the shipping and receiving warehouse.

Surprisingly, Derek enjoyed the rest of their orientation. Drayden’s was a respected department store chain, often recognized for enriching and giving back to the communities where its stores were located. The stores carried the finest quality merchandise and had beautifully inventive window displays. The atmosphere inside buzzed with creativity and excitement. The salespeople were all polite and well dressed. He wanted to be part of it.

But he still had training to get through. Not to mention scads of paperwork to fill out. While a different HR associate stood at the front of the conference room and discussed the employee handbook page by page, Vienna and Derek sat together and made up games to pass the time.

“If you had to have sex with one person in this room, who would it be?” she asked.

Derek scanned the room for someone attractive but couldn’t spot anyone who was his type. “Nobody,” he answered.

“Not even me?” Vienna asked, feigning hurt.

He bit his lip, pretending to mull it over as he looked her up and down. She had on black high heel pumps, a short skirt, a white shirt, and a fitted jacket. Her body was all curves, but very toned, and her makeup was minimal. She was attractive, and if Derek hadn’t had a boyfriend, he thought he might be persuaded to give heterosexuality another try. “Sorry. No,” he said.

“It’s okay. You’re not my type either.”

“Why? Because I’m white?”

“No, fool. Number one, you’re too young. I like my men a little older.”

“Really? How—”

“Don’t you even ask that,” Vienna whispered threateningly. “Number two, I like to make more money than the men I date.”

“That’s absurd. I’m going to be selling shoes. You’ll be selling cosmetics. We’ll be on equal financial footing.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Vienna explained. “I’m talking about independence. I don’t like to rely on other people for anything. You, on the other hand, have no problem in that respect, do you?”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

Vienna looked smug as she said, “I know all about you.”

“But we just met.”

“Trust me. I know everything that goes on in this mall.”

Derek eyed Vienna suspiciously while she secured her wild hair behind her head and began filling out an insurance form. Her self-confidence and insight made him nervous. He hardly knew her, so how could she know anything about him?

Vienna glanced over and saw him staring at her. “We’re supposed to be filling out these forms. You’d better get to work.”

“Are you playing mind games with me? What do you think you know about me?” he asked.

Vienna smiled and said, “I know you live in the hotel.” Then she added, “And I know you’re a kept boy.”

Suddenly Derek wanted Belgian waffles more than ever.