He looked confused about being asked out on a date by a secondary character while the primary target remained mute. “Hi. I’m Nick,” he said, never looking at Alana, who was not accustomed to being ignored. She walked away to tend to the store, as I gave him my full attention. He was a little older than I originally thought. His skin was slightly tanned from the August sun and pockmarked from adolescent acne that gave him an edgy look. He had beautiful green eyes and a really nice smile. He raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture and I relaxed, finally smiling back. “Is the invitation from your friend or from you?” “For the movie? Oh sure. You can come,” I said. I usually avoided musicians romantically but he intrigued me. I felt like I knew him through our non-verbal contact but now I had to find something to say. I’d never dated a White guy before yet the thought of getting to know him better was appealing. He gave me a brief hug, which startled me, after agreeing to meet at the Charles at 7:00. Alana smiled from across the room, giving her approval. Ernie and his wife had come from the backroom and they had Danny with them, the clerk who had left to tour with his band. Danny came over to me and said, ”See, I told you, you would fit in here. And you look great.” I was wearing some combination
of punk and 50’s retro, as usual. The Saturday crowd died down early that day and I was seated in my regular spot, while Alana stood in the doorway. I was surprised that Ernie had stayed all day. He usually left after lunch. He had taken his break with Danny and then come back. I couldn’t tell if Alana was surprised or not. Normally, she kept facial expressions to a minimum. She was the poster girl of indifference, when she left a little early. We had plans to meet at her apartment on Read Street before the movie, along with her eyeliner-wearing husband. I vacuumed the carpet and hung a late shipment of brocade jackets on a rack up front, as Ernie counted the cash drawer. It was the end of the day and Saratoga Street had quickly become deserted. Ernie waited until we were leaving out together, when he turned to me and said, “I don’t think we’ll need you anymore after today. Danny’s coming back next week.” I turned up the volume on my Walkman, Pet Shop Boys sang about “West End Girls” and I rejected the prickle of tears behind my shades. I walked off into the stillness that Baltimore’s downtown becomes in the evening, an unsteady mixture of dark shadows and electricity. It was the perfect soundtrack for my exit.
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