Chapter Six
“This is going to sound weird.” I have Martin on speakerphone. I’m trying to put together something for dinner and figure I’ll be better at pulling this situation together if I am multitasking.
“Okay. Go for it. No judgment.” Martin’s voice echoes from the phone, along with some road sounds. He must be driving.
“I have a date with my secret person. And I want you to come.”
There is a pause long enough that I think I’ve lost connection.
“Are you there?” I lean closer to the phone, spoon in hand.
“You have a date. But you want me to be there? That doesn’t sound like a date.”
“I told you it would sound weird. We are doing something together, but separately, and I really want you to come with me.”
“Together. Separately.” It’s a statement, not a question. Or rather, two statements.
“Okay, here’s the situation: My secret person and I are going on a thrift store challenge. The task is to visit a second-hand store and go crazy putting together an outfit that’s totally out of character for us both. We’re doing it separately, but together.”
“Are you supposed to…” Martin’s voice trails off.
“Take pictures?” I can’t tell if I’m finishing Martin’s sentence, or discovering ideas of my own. It had never occurred to me that we would take pictures. “I don’t actually have a way to send pictures.” The thought presses in: I can only receive messages or respond in the journal.
“So no pictures.” I can’t tell if he sounds disappointed or encouraged.
“I’m beginning to think that my secret person is just enjoying that I’m out there doing this, having fun, trying new things.
” How can I possibly explain this to Martin?
“I think the goal is to live life, not to share pictures. It actually means a lot to me that I’ve been invited on this together-separately date.
It makes me feel good that this person is out there having fun with this too. What kind of person does that?”
Martin seems to be thinking about this as much as I am. He says nothing for a moment. “You don’t think I’ll be a third wheel?”
I think about this briefly. “I want you there. I really feel like in the spirit of together-separate dates, it is only natural to bring a friend!”
There is a pause.
“Martin,” I say. “Do you know what my friend, Martin, would say?”
More silence.
“He’s a great, wise man and he always says…”
I hear the phone whispering a few words in Japanese. I smile.
“My date is tomorrow. I’ll meet you at 10am and then we can get some lunch after. You’re the best.”
I click the ‘end call’ button.
We arrive at the Angel House Thrift Store just after they open, and I fling open the double glass doors with a flourish. I think I might just be giddy. High fashion awaits. I step aside, holding one door, and usher Martin through the grand entrance with a slight bow. He side-eyes me as we enter.
“This is right up your alley,” he says.
I don’t respond. I just smile and waggle my eyebrows. No time for entryway chatter, there are treasures to be found. We head for the men’s section and get oriented.
One of the truest things about thrift stores is that at first glance, it looks like junk.
It has a musty polyester smell. A cast-off, unwanted vibe.
In order to fully appreciate what a thrift store can be, you have to be able to see things out of context.
That one designer shirt looks like laundry on the rack, so you need a keen eye to see it for its true value.
That’s what’s great about thrifting: learning to see things for their potential rather than their current context!
I share my thinking with Martin, maybe with a tad too much giddiness, and he chuckles.
I head straight for the shirt rack and start to sling hangers. Luckily, they are sorted by size. I’m immediately drawn to a black dress shirt. It’s heavily embroidered with gold roses and reminds me of a mariachi band.
“Check this out!” I hold it up to show Martin.
“Nice.” He’s holding a pair of bright pink denim jeans, and smiles back. “How’s this for out-of-character?”
“You should definitely try those on!” I throw my golden find over my shoulder. “Find something to go with it.”
“Are we actually buying anything today?” he asks, tucking the pink pants under his arm.
“Not a chance!” I say, grabbing a shirt from the rack and holding it up for Martin to see. This one is maroon satin with glossy pinstripes running vertically.
“That needs some chest hair and a heavy gold chain to go with it.” Martin laughs.
“I’m definitely trying it on! This is so not me!” I dig back into the rack of treasures.
Before we know it, our arms are overflowing with the most absurd collection of things, mostly fabrics that I would never own, and I think I see a pair of vinyl pants peeking out of Martin’s pile. We head to the fitting rooms, hangers clanking.
I never thought about this being awkward, and suddenly I’m unprepared.
The whole purpose of this together-separate date is to try on all this crazy stuff.
The whole reason I asked Martin to come is so we can do this together.
The changing rooms are small cubicles with a door.
Three of them in a row. We’re not going to share a room, so the only way to show what we’ve found is to change and then have a big reveal moment by stepping out of the tiny cubicle.
At least, that’s the only way I can see it roll out.
We stand at the changing rooms with loaded arms for a moment, avoiding eye contact.
I decide to lay it out: “You go first,” I say, “try something on, then show me, then I’ll take a turn.”
Martin disappears into the dressing room and shuts the door behind him, while I hang up my collection on the outside hook of the adjoining room and wait.
I see his feet shuffling under the door panel and hear the sound of hooks and hangers, and then laughter. Then more laughter. This must be great.
“Okay, ready,” he says and I see a hand appear at the top of the door panel, pushing it open slowly. “Don’t laugh too hard.”
I am fully prepared to be hysterical by the way he’s been carrying on, but when he steps out, my jaw drops.
Despite his collection of pink and/or vinyl pants and his pile of gaudy shirts, the first thing he tries on is sporting wear.
He struts through the door wearing a skin-tight long-sleeve compression shirt in light blue and a pair of low-slung board shorts that graduate from black to navy.
The white shoelace at the waist is tied in a tidy bow.
He’s laughing, and swaggering and then begins to flex and pose. It’s stunning.
And ripply.
And smooth.
I try to laugh along, but can’t make a sound.
The sleeves stretch from bicep bulge to tricep indentation as he strikes pose after pose.
He rotates and the bulges of his back feel like they should be counted, but then he turns and his two massive pecs count themselves.
The outline of his gold chain presses through the fabric, the small pendant outlining itself on his chest. He looks up at me and curls both legs up into a sideways bodybuilding pose and flexes both arms.
“Me Hanz.” He’s using a dark, low, mocking voice. “Have big muscles, yes?” Then he relaxes his posture and begins to laugh, flipping his arms around to look at the sleeves of his shirt, pulling on the cuffs.
I smile.
And stare.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I retreat into my head. These clothes look like the most natural, in-character thing he would ever wear and here he is, risking them as if they were out-of-character.
I can’t fit these contradicting facts into my world view.
He is so beautiful. This realization, also, will not compute, and I must have let it show on my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I look up from the v-taper at his waist to his eyes, which seem to match the blue of the Lycra. “You look,” my brain struggles to land on an appropriate word, “great.”
Neither of us are laughing now.
“You think?” He flips his arms around, as if trying to look at his elbows.
“Why did you pick that as an out-of-character outfit?”
He stops hunting for his elbows. “What do you mean?”
“We were supposed to find clothes that didn’t fit our, you know, usual, um, style.”
“Are you kidding?” he says. “I would never wear this out in public! I feel absurd.”
I don’t know what to make of his confession.
I run our life history through my brain file, and sure enough, I’ve never seen him dress this way before.
But it makes no sense because it feels so natural.
I can’t return from this place in my head.
My eyes wander to his thighs where the board shorts wrap so snuggly.
“Okay,” he blurts, “Your turn. I’ve got to get these off!” He jumps back into the dressing room, and I flip through my hanging collection cautiously, then close the door behind me.
By the time I hear him outside of his cubicle, I’m looking mighty dapper.
I’ve got a black A-shirt under a black satin pin-striped dress shirt, unbuttoned enough to pretend the exposed undershirt makes up for my lack of chest hair, silky black slacks and the black leather belt with a gold buckle.
The shirt, fitting snugly over my chest, is supposed to have cuff-links, which are missing, so the sleeves hang slightly open at the ends.
I tuck my hands in my pockets and pose in the full-length mirror.
“Okay let’s see,” I hear from outside. It immediately causes me to laugh and I can’t stop.
I open the door and attempt to parade into the room, but my awkward laughter just ruins the illusion. I step out, place one hand, fingertips only, in my pocket and hold my other fist to my chest like I’m on a magazine cover. I can’t hold still from laughing.
Martin is not laughing. He’s mouth-breathing. His eyes flick from my open shirt collar to my gold buckle and back again, still mouth-breathing. I find that I’m not laughing either.