drag me along for that, too. So before you write me off …”
“Okay, okay, you’re hired.” I’m startled by Len’s outpouring of information. I’m also intrigued by his burst of enthusiasm. Plus, the truth is, I do need some help or I’m never going to dig myself out. “But look: up here, I run the show. So you’ve gotta do what I say.”
Len nods. I take a long draw from my smoothie and survey the situation.
“Okay, start with that bag over there.” I point. “Dump it out on the floor. Then pick up an item and hold it up. I’ll tell you what to do with it.”
Len hitches up his jeans, braces one foot against my desk, and hoists the first bag. His upper body is stronger than I would’ve thought, but his legs shake and look ready to buckle. I make a mental note not to assign him any more heavy lifting. He tips the bag and a cascade of fabric rolls out. A musty cloud of dust fills the air.
“P.U.! Attic,” I say, waving the mothball scent away.
Len selects a plaid pair of pants.
“Dep,” I order. Obligingly, he tosses them at the chute, missing by a mile.
“No problem, we’ll get it later. Keep going,” I say.
Next up: a stained tan polo shirt. “Dep.” A skirt with a broken zipper. “Dep.” A T-shirt with armpit rings and the words KEEP AMERICA GREEN over a big pot leaf on the front. “Bill will love that. Definitely dep.”
“Definitely dep,” agrees Len. This time, swoosh, down the chute. He grins.
“Two points,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Two points? Hello? Jesus, were you never forced to watch basketball?”
“Basketball, no. Hockey. My grandma’s a Bruins fanatic.”
“Ooh.” I cringe. “Brutal.”
“Hey,” says Len brightly. “Check this out.”
He holds up what appears to be a tuxedo jacket.
“Nice,” I say, going over to inspect it. “That’s a keeper.”
The lining is shot, but otherwise it looks fairly decent. I tell Len, “Good eye,” and wander off to drag another bag over.
“What do you think?” Len says.
I look up and see that he’s slipped the jacket on over his T-shirt and is puffing out his usually sunken chest. The effect is startling. The jacket sits squarely on his shoulders, which makes me realize that he actually has shoulders.
“What?” he says self-consciously, letting out his breath. For a second, he sounds like me.
“Nothing. I—you look good,” I say, flustered.
“Shut up,” he says. He takes the jacket off and throws it at me. But he’s smiling.
I throw it back at him.
“You should keep it,” I say. Which I mean, because it did look great on him. But as soon as it comes out, I realize that I’m also fishing for the Secret Spy Girls.
“Nah,” he says, throwing it at me again. “I’ve already got ten of them.”
My heart lurches for a second before I get that he’s kidding. “Right, and cummerbunds in every color of the rainbow,” I say, throwing the jacket back at him again.
“Cummerwhuh?”
“You know. Those fancy wide waistbands that go with tuxedos?”
“Right, right. Yup, I’ve got a million of those.”
We go on sorting for a while, falling into a comfortable rhythm of dumping bags and churning through them piece by piece. It’s hot, I’m sweaty, and I’m running on fumes, seeing as I’ve had too much caffeine and too little food.
And yet it’s like the fleas, only better. I look up at one point and realize that it is later than I thought. The fans are still cranking, but the sewing machines are not—at some point, the Lunch Ladies must have gone home.
“Okay, last bag,” I tell Len. “The rest can wait.” He nods solemnly and dumps it. The item on top of the heap is sort of fuzzy-looking, and butterscotch-colored.
Len picks it up and lets out a low whistle.
“Whoa,” I say. It’s a pair of men’s suede fringed pants.
“Dep?” asks Len hopefully.
“Nooo …,” I say, starting to feel a little light-headed. “I think you need to try those on.”
“What?!”
“Hey,
“Okay, okay, you’re hired.” I’m startled by Len’s outpouring of information. I’m also intrigued by his burst of enthusiasm. Plus, the truth is, I do need some help or I’m never going to dig myself out. “But look: up here, I run the show. So you’ve gotta do what I say.”
Len nods. I take a long draw from my smoothie and survey the situation.
“Okay, start with that bag over there.” I point. “Dump it out on the floor. Then pick up an item and hold it up. I’ll tell you what to do with it.”
Len hitches up his jeans, braces one foot against my desk, and hoists the first bag. His upper body is stronger than I would’ve thought, but his legs shake and look ready to buckle. I make a mental note not to assign him any more heavy lifting. He tips the bag and a cascade of fabric rolls out. A musty cloud of dust fills the air.
“P.U.! Attic,” I say, waving the mothball scent away.
Len selects a plaid pair of pants.
“Dep,” I order. Obligingly, he tosses them at the chute, missing by a mile.
“No problem, we’ll get it later. Keep going,” I say.
Next up: a stained tan polo shirt. “Dep.” A skirt with a broken zipper. “Dep.” A T-shirt with armpit rings and the words KEEP AMERICA GREEN over a big pot leaf on the front. “Bill will love that. Definitely dep.”
“Definitely dep,” agrees Len. This time, swoosh, down the chute. He grins.
“Two points,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Two points? Hello? Jesus, were you never forced to watch basketball?”
“Basketball, no. Hockey. My grandma’s a Bruins fanatic.”
“Ooh.” I cringe. “Brutal.”
“Hey,” says Len brightly. “Check this out.”
He holds up what appears to be a tuxedo jacket.
“Nice,” I say, going over to inspect it. “That’s a keeper.”
The lining is shot, but otherwise it looks fairly decent. I tell Len, “Good eye,” and wander off to drag another bag over.
“What do you think?” Len says.
I look up and see that he’s slipped the jacket on over his T-shirt and is puffing out his usually sunken chest. The effect is startling. The jacket sits squarely on his shoulders, which makes me realize that he actually has shoulders.
“What?” he says self-consciously, letting out his breath. For a second, he sounds like me.
“Nothing. I—you look good,” I say, flustered.
“Shut up,” he says. He takes the jacket off and throws it at me. But he’s smiling.
I throw it back at him.
“You should keep it,” I say. Which I mean, because it did look great on him. But as soon as it comes out, I realize that I’m also fishing for the Secret Spy Girls.
“Nah,” he says, throwing it at me again. “I’ve already got ten of them.”
My heart lurches for a second before I get that he’s kidding. “Right, and cummerbunds in every color of the rainbow,” I say, throwing the jacket back at him again.
“Cummerwhuh?”
“You know. Those fancy wide waistbands that go with tuxedos?”
“Right, right. Yup, I’ve got a million of those.”
We go on sorting for a while, falling into a comfortable rhythm of dumping bags and churning through them piece by piece. It’s hot, I’m sweaty, and I’m running on fumes, seeing as I’ve had too much caffeine and too little food.
And yet it’s like the fleas, only better. I look up at one point and realize that it is later than I thought. The fans are still cranking, but the sewing machines are not—at some point, the Lunch Ladies must have gone home.
“Okay, last bag,” I tell Len. “The rest can wait.” He nods solemnly and dumps it. The item on top of the heap is sort of fuzzy-looking, and butterscotch-colored.
Len picks it up and lets out a low whistle.
“Whoa,” I say. It’s a pair of men’s suede fringed pants.
“Dep?” asks Len hopefully.
“Nooo …,” I say, starting to feel a little light-headed. “I think you need to try those on.”
“What?!”
“Hey,
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