C. Kay Cummings. This is where it happened. C. Kay Cummings. But the story starts in my bathroom, around noon, as we readied ourselves to face the day.
Vanessa had gone to the gym and then to work while I read and then took a shower. It’s fall break. I’ve spent the entire week not showering until the PM, reading comic books, and not playing with Sully, the cat, who seems to like me, but only because it’s been thus far convenient for him to do so. He may have fleas; however, they are discreet, keep mostly to him, and have therefore avoided notice except for some scabbing around Sul’s neck. I’ve asked him, repeatedly, why he doesn’t take care of this problem, to which he replies, every time, “Step off my nuts, Henriksen, you’re out of touch.” Although I’m trying, I cannot help but be offended by his cavalier disregard for civility.
Vanessa was putting on some makeup. In her “work clothes” she doesn’t even think about putting makeup on, but when she’s wearing what she wants to wear, she can’t not do it. It’s compulsive, and we’ve often been late as a result of it. I walked into the tiny bathroom and waited for her to notice my “skinny jeans.” The legs were so tight the seams of my underwear were clearly visible underneath the denim. Vanessa had been wanting to see me in them for weeks, but on account of their constrictive nature in certain regards, I had been reluctant to indulge her. Now, I was forced to make a move:
“Do you like my jeans?”
It was a little petty to direct her attention so boldly, but I was impatient. She laughed, but I could see what she was thinking, and a moment later she said it right out loud:
“I couldn’t even fit into those things.”
She could.
Of course she could, but this is how Vanessa works, and, in my experience, most other women as well: they’re never slim enough if they could conceivably be slimmer. The vast majority of them are wrong, perhaps, and it’s annoying either way, but there it is.
She was looking at the mirror again, applying mascara. I pushed my body up against hers, rested my head on her shoulder, and watched her.
“You want some?” she asked, gesturing with the wand.
“Sure,” I replied.
Never ask a David Bowie fan if he wants to try mascara, even in jest.
She told me to open my eyes and look at the ceiling and then slowly moved the wand toward me, waiting for me to tell her I was only kidding. I wasn’t. She began to apply it to my left eye lashes.
“I haven’t done this to someone else in years,” she said; “it’s weird.”
I looked at the mirror as she finished that eye. It was truly unsettling to behold such a strange change to my own regular features. The black lashes were weird and freakish, drawing attention and somehow darkening the left side of my face entirely. It was unnatural next to my red beard and blondish hair. My eyebrows are white. The mascara threatened to take over the entire scene.
“What about the right eye?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. This is weird.”
So I guess that means I won.
***
With my glasses on it was perhaps less obvious. Perhaps.
We went to 9th and 9th so that she could return the bracelet I bought her for her birthday. I’m clueless about that sort of thing, but I try. I always try.
The one I had purchased was a bunch of beads—blues and greens and black—, haphazardly stacked, one on top of the other, and overflowing with spontaneity. She exchanged it for a pink thing that my grandmother would wear.
I told her this.
After, we drove over to C. Kay Cummings. C. Kay Cummings is a chocolate store. We live nearby and had talked about going several times. The storefront is very small and packed with all kinds of chocolates and sweets. Vanessa busied herself with finding chocolate bees for Barb, the Queen Bee of Boston, while I walked over to the large windows looking in on the factory portion which took up most of the building. One woman near the glass was busily adding tiny chocolate swirls with nothing but a gloved finger to the tops of little truffles of some kind as they came out from under a falling drape of molten chocolate. Each one received her personal attention.
“How tedious!” Vanessa said suddenly. She had been standing by my side, unbeknownst to me.
“Ready?”
“Almost,” she said, and we walked over to the counter. A girl had begun to package and weigh the few things we had picked—chocolate covered peanut butter cream, chocolate covered grapes, chocolate covered strawberries; the chocolate bees—when a man in a suit walked into the store and stood beside us in line.
At first I only glanced at him. He was slightly taller than average, shaped rather like a pear, and old. He was standing in such a way that all of his energy seemed to project forward and out; as he looked ahead, he took in the whole room; when he spoke, he spoke to the whole room.
It was him.
Vanessa had gone to the gym and then to work while I read and then took a shower. It’s fall break. I’ve spent the entire week not showering until the PM, reading comic books, and not playing with Sully, the cat, who seems to like me, but only because it’s been thus far convenient for him to do so. He may have fleas; however, they are discreet, keep mostly to him, and have therefore avoided notice except for some scabbing around Sul’s neck. I’ve asked him, repeatedly, why he doesn’t take care of this problem, to which he replies, every time, “Step off my nuts, Henriksen, you’re out of touch.” Although I’m trying, I cannot help but be offended by his cavalier disregard for civility.
Vanessa was putting on some makeup. In her “work clothes” she doesn’t even think about putting makeup on, but when she’s wearing what she wants to wear, she can’t not do it. It’s compulsive, and we’ve often been late as a result of it. I walked into the tiny bathroom and waited for her to notice my “skinny jeans.” The legs were so tight the seams of my underwear were clearly visible underneath the denim. Vanessa had been wanting to see me in them for weeks, but on account of their constrictive nature in certain regards, I had been reluctant to indulge her. Now, I was forced to make a move:
“Do you like my jeans?”
It was a little petty to direct her attention so boldly, but I was impatient. She laughed, but I could see what she was thinking, and a moment later she said it right out loud:
“I couldn’t even fit into those things.”
She could.
Of course she could, but this is how Vanessa works, and, in my experience, most other women as well: they’re never slim enough if they could conceivably be slimmer. The vast majority of them are wrong, perhaps, and it’s annoying either way, but there it is.
She was looking at the mirror again, applying mascara. I pushed my body up against hers, rested my head on her shoulder, and watched her.
“You want some?” she asked, gesturing with the wand.
“Sure,” I replied.
Never ask a David Bowie fan if he wants to try mascara, even in jest.
She told me to open my eyes and look at the ceiling and then slowly moved the wand toward me, waiting for me to tell her I was only kidding. I wasn’t. She began to apply it to my left eye lashes.
“I haven’t done this to someone else in years,” she said; “it’s weird.”
I looked at the mirror as she finished that eye. It was truly unsettling to behold such a strange change to my own regular features. The black lashes were weird and freakish, drawing attention and somehow darkening the left side of my face entirely. It was unnatural next to my red beard and blondish hair. My eyebrows are white. The mascara threatened to take over the entire scene.
“What about the right eye?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. This is weird.”
So I guess that means I won.
***
With my glasses on it was perhaps less obvious. Perhaps.
We went to 9th and 9th so that she could return the bracelet I bought her for her birthday. I’m clueless about that sort of thing, but I try. I always try.
The one I had purchased was a bunch of beads—blues and greens and black—, haphazardly stacked, one on top of the other, and overflowing with spontaneity. She exchanged it for a pink thing that my grandmother would wear.
I told her this.
After, we drove over to C. Kay Cummings. C. Kay Cummings is a chocolate store. We live nearby and had talked about going several times. The storefront is very small and packed with all kinds of chocolates and sweets. Vanessa busied herself with finding chocolate bees for Barb, the Queen Bee of Boston, while I walked over to the large windows looking in on the factory portion which took up most of the building. One woman near the glass was busily adding tiny chocolate swirls with nothing but a gloved finger to the tops of little truffles of some kind as they came out from under a falling drape of molten chocolate. Each one received her personal attention.
“How tedious!” Vanessa said suddenly. She had been standing by my side, unbeknownst to me.
“Ready?”
“Almost,” she said, and we walked over to the counter. A girl had begun to package and weigh the few things we had picked—chocolate covered peanut butter cream, chocolate covered grapes, chocolate covered strawberries; the chocolate bees—when a man in a suit walked into the store and stood beside us in line.
At first I only glanced at him. He was slightly taller than average, shaped rather like a pear, and old. He was standing in such a way that all of his energy seemed to project forward and out; as he looked ahead, he took in the whole room; when he spoke, he spoke to the whole room.
It was him.
A few women had come in after us and before him, accompanied by a handful of young children. One of the women walked between the man and me, stopped, and extending her hand said, “Hello, President Monson, how are you?”
It was him.
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. We just got my wife out of the hospital; she’s in the car. I thought we’d stop and get her something nice.”
Everyone mumbled congratulations and awkwardly decided how to best comport themselves. I decided against any action whatsoever and continued to lean against the counter. Vanessa continued to talk to the girl helping us behind the counter, periodically glancing at him and then at me as her eyebrows attempted to reach her hairline. One of the women asked President Monson for a picture with her children, to which he acquiesced. He glanced once or twice at every one in the room, pleasantly, confident.
As we were leaving, President Monson turned to one of the children. The boy didn’t notice at first; he was four or five and unaware of the significance—if any can be attributed to it—of the interaction.
“Blondie!” President Monson said; the boy was very fair. “Hey! Blondie!”
The boy slowly looked up at the older man.
“Look what I can do,” President Monson said, and his great ears began to quiver and wiggle of their own accord. “Can you do that?”
Intently, all the while staring at President Monson, the little boy raised and lowered his eyebrows several times and then, embarrassed, turned toward his mother.
“Well, said President Monson, “You’ve got your eyebrows moving.”
And we were outside, walking to the car. In the parking lot, there were one or two well-dressed men who I assume were body guards paying absolute attention to everything that occurred within the small store. We got into my car and I happened to see my reflection in the rearview mirror.
With my glasses on it was perhaps less obvious. Perhaps. But there was no getting around the fact that the Vicar of Christ—the Moses of our time to tens of millions of people around the world—had seen my mascaraed eye (not to mention my conspicuously tight jeans) in the chocolate shop.
There was a lesson in this.
I was sure of it.
