Junk of the Heart

chapter five - the shirt

Like vultures, C.S. and Brodie watched their first customer in an hour tiptoe about. They had craned their necks when he picked up the mystery novel, leaned expectantly forward when he sheepishly prodded at the bra, and were now inching off the edge of their seats as he scrutinized a mix CD. He was an odd, nebbish man - a walking ball of nerves who spoke soft nothings to himself and blinked too often. Every so often he rose his voice beyond aimless muttering to explain that he needed a gift for his wife. He seemed to be naturally dislikable.

“Come on,” growled Brodie. With balled fists and grinding teeth, he was quickly reaching the boundaries of his patience. “Fucking buy something.”

Even C.S. had folded, leaving his courteous nature behind and leered at their fumbling company… It was like watching paint dry.

After an eternity, the man turned to them with the CD in hand. C.S. and Brodie sat bolt-right up, prepared to cinch the deal and count out their change.

“Uhhhm,” started the man. “Do you know what kind of music is on this?”

Brodie nearly burst with false anticipation. He rolled his shoulders in a weak shrug. “Just your… standard jams. For riding in cars or for long afternoons. Good stuff, I promise.” He turned to C.S. and lightly shook his head, mouthing ‘I have no idea’.

The man wasn’t sold, regardless. “I don’t know…” he mumbled, perhaps to himself. “My wife has very particular taste… It’s her I’m shopping for. I need a --”

“A gift for your anniversary,” Brodie interrupted sharply, deflating immediately and slumping back into his chair. “You’ve said so, what, five times already?”

C.S. outstretched a hand, gesturing to cut him off, but the man was unaffected by the outburst, caught up in his stream-of-consciousness again as he bent down to put the CD back. “Hmm… I wonder if this is a woman’s shirt…” he droned, moving along to defile the next sale item with his dreadfully awkward touch. “Is this a woman’s shirt?” he asked, but was already stuffing his arms through the sleeves.

Brodie massaged his temple and let out a long breath.

“It fits like a woman’s shirt…” He pulled it around his slim frame and smoothed out the fabric with sweaty palms. C.S. winced. “It buttons to the left… Is this a woman’s shirt?”

“Yeah, man,” said Brodie, flatly. “It is.”

He wrestled it from his torso, balling it up and tucking it under his arm. “Great, I’ll take it,” stated the man.

Brodie made a noise - a strangled chuckle of disbelief - and motioned him over to C.S. to exchange his ten dollar bill.

“He must have had a tough time in high school,” noted C.S., once they were alone again.

Scoffing, Brodie shook his head. “What kind of a man buys his wife clothes at a garage sale?”

C.S. raised a brow. “What kind of a man sells his ex’s clothes at a garage sale?” he shot back. And momentarily, Brodie was silenced by his own hypocrisy. “This…” he stalled. C.S. smirked; it was rare that Brodie came up empty-handed for comebacks and excuses, and as the poor soul who was near constantly subjected to them, C.S. liked to savor these moments. “This is meant to be an act of depravity and shamelessness. I’ve come to terms with this.” But as always, Brodie landed on his feet. “That,” he jutted a finger after the man. “Is internalized depravity; it’s instinctual for him to underachieve by social standards. And besides…” He tilted his head back, measuring the rays of the sun. “That wasn’t Rene’s shirt… it was her sister’s.”