FALSE FRONT

FALSE FRONT

Ry Eph

To
Beverly Sue,

You’ve always believed in me more
than I’ve believed in myself.

“Man is not what he
thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

-Andre Malraux

“Deceiving others. That is what
the world calls a romance.”

-Oscar Wilde

Pointing
fingers, narrowing stares, leaning sneers, questioning whispers, and denouncing
chuckles trail behind a gaunt man disguised in skinny dark matte shades from
eye to foot. Black pomade-glazed hair and a smooth creamy forehead are his only
evident features. Many customers overlook the offbeat man as they carry about
their tasks at the Vivacity, Washington Costco. It’s an unusual town known for
its outlandish beatnik culture, so bypassing idiosyncratic characters becomes a
common habit.

The
man turns the red wholesale handle as he shifts the cart down an aisle with
heaps of books.

“Not
that one,” says the man with a clear brisk voice, strolling by a squinting
woman who’s scanning a back cover.

“What?”

“I’ll
take that,” he says, snatching the novel from her hands as the last word leaves
his mouth.

“Hey.”

He
peers over his page-thin shoulder through a pair of designer sunglasses at the
appalled woman. Her mouth a gaping, damp, somber cave and her eyes stark full
moons.

“Hello.”

“You
can’t do tha—”

“But
I did.”

A
black bandana masks the lower half of his acute face, deadening his voice. He
tosses the book he stole back onto a stack and stops the cart in front of a
high mound of new releases, plucking a copy from the heap. A golden sticker on
the cover reads, Local Author. He spins around on the heel of his black
wingtips and drifts back toward the stunned woman, forcing the book into her
hand.

She
gazes at the novel and says, “What is thi—”  

Her
words cut short as he presses his index finger over her lips.

“You’re
welcome,” he says, reaching into her cart.

She
goes cross-eyed, staring at the finger pressing against her mouth.

“Trust
me. You won’t be able to put it down,” he says while plucking a banana from her
cart. Removing his hand from her mouth, he peels the banana, lifts his
disguise, and takes a few bites. He grins at her between nibbles and a flashy
silver cap shows to the right of his mouth.

They
stare at one another in silence. Customers pass them by, going about their
business.

“Not
bad,” he says, tossing what’s left of the banana over his shoulder. She watches
it slide away against the signature polished floor. “Still a little green for
me.”

“You
je—”

He
taps on her nose and seesaws his finger across her face. Her eyes follow the
hypnotic movement.  

“Really?
Name calling?”

She
collapses her cavernous mouth. Exhaling hard through her rumpled nose, she
glares at the man.

“Name
calling leads to violence, in my opinion. The old story our elders taught us about
sticks and stones breaking bones, but words never hurting is only half true.
Words lead to the sticks and stones breaking someone’s bones.”

She
stomps away.

“Enjoy
the book.”

“Fuck
off. I’m getting an employee,” she says.

He
chuckles, dashing back toward his parked cart to find a wiry, grey-haired man
reaching out to grab a copy of a book. The troublemaker glides over to him and
whacks his age-spotted hand.

“Son
of a bitch,” says the senior, drawing his hand back and clutching it.

The
masked man feints at him, and the old timer flinches, shuffling back and
raising his hands in a classical Irish boxer stance. They size each other up.
The older man grumbles from his lined mouth.

“If
I was thirty years younger, I’d knock you on your ass,” he says, rolling fists
out in front of him.

The
younger man swipes at the air, knocking at the old timer’s reminiscent
statement.

“You’ll
be sorry one day, son. I’m getting someone over here to deal with you.”

The
young man laughs and turns his attention to the cart near the books, picking up
another copy. Two ladies stand on the other side of the pallet talking about
some tasty sample back by the refrigerators.

“Think
that’s funny? Do you?”

He
flips a copy of the book at the elder, and it slices through the air like a
ninja dart. The hard corner punctures into the center of the old man’s chest, and
his tired reflexes react after the book makes contact.

“Read
that instead of whatever else you were reaching for, grandpa.”

“I
hate your generation,” he says, pressing his fingers into his chest where the
book stabbed him.”

“Your
creation.”

“Damn
shame.”

He
lunges, and the wrinkled fellow jolts before his feet move, toppling him onto
his drooping ass.

“Damn
you.”

The
dapper younger man raises his arm and points a finger in the direction the
fallen old man should go and says, “Beat it, obsolete.”

The elder
lifts his rabbit-tail eyebrows on his melting face while shaking his head at
the vibrant youthfulness standing over him. He grunts as he gathers himself to
his feet and scuffles down the aisle, mumbling to himself.  

He
goes back to attending the books and gathers stacks of the novel he gave to the
lady and elderly in his arms.

“You’re
a mean asshole,” says a small, sweet-potato-haired girl in a blinding green
dress. She furrows her brow and crinkles her freckled nose, as she holds a lime
sucker inches from her mouth.  

He
spins around on his heel, nudging his shades down the thin bridge of his nose.
He slides his nickel eyes up the girl, interrogating her. His eyes stop on her
face and he raises one of his dark slanted eyebrows, which are higher and thicker
at the center.

“You
really shouldn’t be an ass to people. My mom tells my daddy all the time it
will come back to bite you in your own butt.”

“I
don’t buy into karma.”

“What?”

“Nothing.
Does your mom know you curse?”

“No.”

He
snags the sucker from her hand before she can get another lick, her tongue
sticking out of her mouth.

“Give
it back.”

“Go
away.”

“I’ll
scream.”

“Go
away and I’ll give it back.”

She
hops up and down and swipes at the stolen candy.

He
flings it over the pallet of books and it lands in a passerby’s cart.

She
stops jumping, folds her hands over her chest, exhales loudly from her button
nose, and frowns.

“I’m
going to tell my mom.”

“Your
mom’s stupid.”

“Your
tattoos are stupid.”

He
places his hand inside his low-cut v-neck and tickles at the ink decorating his
collar and neck. A colorful tattooed heart with metallic wings at the center of
his throat wraps up and around his neck and travels toward his spine.

“No
they are not.”

“Yes
they are,” she says.

He
folds all his fingers down except for one, so his fist lies below the bright
heart and his middle finger stands between the wings, giving her the bird.

She
tilts her head back and forth in confusion.

“Get
it?”

She
shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s
my middle finger with wings.”

“So?”

“It’s
a bird.”

“Okay,”
she says.

“Middle
finger? The bird? Wings around a middle finger? Fuck you?”

She
stares at him.

“Never
mind.”

“Do
you have a cough?”

“What?”

“The
weird thing wrapped on your face,” she says, pointing at the cloth hiding his
identity.

He
reaches up and pinches at the bandana.

“Are
you sick?”

“We’re
all sick.”

“I’m
not.”

“You
just don’t know it yet.”

She
reaches up and feels her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Get
lost, ginger.”

“My
name’s not ginger.”

“But
the top of your head looks like a fading camp fire.”

Her
hands climb to her hair, fingers scrunching at the untamed flames.

He chuckles,
goes back to ignoring her, and faces the white and gold hardcover books again.
Reaching around as many of them as he can, he bear hugs the stack and pulls
them into the cart. A few books fall, sliding across the slick grey floor. One
of them bumps up against the girl’s shoe.

She
toes at it with her white polka-dot sneaker, watching the man grab a few of the
spilled books that didn’t make it into the cart. She eyes him as he notices the
copy at her foot.

“You’re
still here.”

She
giggles.

“What?”

“I
get it.”

“Get
what?”

“Fuck
you,” she says, pointing at his neck with her teeny middle finger. “A fuck you
bird.”

He chuckles.

She
picks up the copy by her foot, holds it out to him, and says, “You’re kind of a
weirdo.”

He
snatches the book from her, but stares at the cover for a minute.

    “And
you’re kind of annoying,” he says.

“My
dad says that a lot.”

“Asshole
of a dad.”

“Yeah,”
she says, looking down at floor.

“I
get it, girl. Most dads are assholes.”

“Oh.”

He
watches the inner-wounded girl for a moment and then opens the cover of the
book she passed to him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chrome pen,
signing, Air Hunt, on the inside cover. He hands it back to her.

“Keep
this, maybe it will be worth something someday.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.
Well, it’s been fun, girl. But I have shit to do.”

She
waves goodbye, and walks down a candy aisle staring at the signature on the
inside cover.

A
few greased hairs fall over the skin-faded sides of his head. He glides his hands,
in black leather gloves, over the dangling pieces, grooming them back.
Clutching the red plastic handle of the Costco cart, he presses forward,
leaving behind an empty block of space on the book pallet.

“Excuse
me, sir,” someone says from a crowd of Costco employees speed walking towards
him.

“That’s
the jerk,” says the woman he tapped on the nose.

“Stop.
Sir, stop right there.”

“Block
him off,” says another employee.

He
scans the pursuers over his shoulder before turning out of an aisle, the cart
going up on two wheels and almost rolling over. He halts and plucks a meaty
sample from a display table.

“Thank
you,” he says, pulling his cover up and sliding the meat off the toothpick into
his mouth with his two front teeth. He flicks the pick back at the chasers,
chuckling as he pushes onward.

He barrels
through the warehouse. As he nears the exit he comes to a squealing standstill.
A line of Costco employees blocks his escape, standing their ground and staring
him down.

“This
is the end,” says the manager.

The
man sighs through his nostrils in boredom, blowing the mask away from his face.

“Where
do you think you’re going with all those books?”

“You’ll
see.”

“I
don’t think so,” says a different employee.

“The
police are already on their way,” says a woman, pointing at him.

“Then
I do have to get going.”

“You’re
not going anywhere,” says a woman in a red employee vest.

He
pushes the cart forward, and they tense up and jolt back, compacting their
line.

He
snickers at their reaction. In the background, a lineup of Curved LED LCD TVs play
a Straight Outta Compton trailer. The trailer says over a tick-tocking type of beat,
“If you had a chance to change the situation would you take it?”

“Great
line,” he says, charging their defense.

“Now
wait just a minute,” says another employee, reaching out to grab the oncoming
cart.

“I
wouldn’t do that,” he says.

A
customer off to the side, dressed in thigh-high cotton gym shorts wet with
sweat, says, “It’s just a book, guy.” He folds his earthworm-vein-covered
bodybuilder arms across a moist tank top, a size too small.

The
man dressed in all black comes to a jarring stop, focusing his attention on the
cart full of books for a long time.

“Just
a book?”

“That’s
what I said.”