covering.
Tom stops, mouth hanging open. “That’s just . . . wrong,” he says finally, and his face flushes red. “What . . . what are these things called?”
“Geoducks,” I say. I can’t stop from giggling a little. It’s nice to not be the one blushing for once.
“Gooey-ducks.” He’s still staring at the clams.
I nod.
“Thanks, Maggie. Payback. Now you’ve given me an image I won’t be able to get out of my head.” He stares a minute more. “Okay.” He claps his hands together, prying his eyes away from the tank. “Where to now?”
“We have to buy some fortune cookies to take back to Nash,” I say. “A consolation prize.”
“The Tiger likes cookies, huh?”
“Actually he hates the cookies, but he loves to read the fortunes,” I say. “He saves them and tapes the ones he likes around the mirror in his bedroom. He even saves mine when he likes them, although he says technically they’re not transferable.”
We make our way back to the car, and I sit for a minute trying to think of what else to show Tom.
“Troll or gum wall?” I ask, suddenly inspired.
Tom’s face splits into a wide grin. “Both!” He bounces up and down like a giddy ten-year-old.
I shake my head and wonder if Nash has seen this side of Tom. Nash doesn’t fit into the American high school male ideal, but he does his not-fitting-in with a definite sense of style. I have never known him to be particularly attracted to any member of the nerd herd. Tom, in spite of having shoulders like a battleship and eyes that could melt chocolate, is, if not a part of the herd himself, deep in nerd territory.
By some miracle we find parking in the lots below Pike Place Market and climb to the top level. We pass tables full of silver jewelry, organic honey, smoked meats, leather bags, and Nepalese sweaters knitted by refugees who, the sign assures us, will receive most of the proceeds directly from the man selling the sweaters. I lead Tom through the crowded market to the south end.
“Watch out.” I pull Tom out of the way as a guy in waders catches a large salmon thrown from behind the fish counter. The crowd cheers, and the guy tosses the fish to another guy standing by the Dungeness crabs.
“We are not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Tom says, but I can see he’s enjoying it.
I’m sad Nash is missing this, but I’m glad to be the one showing Tom a different side of the city. We wind through the crowd and around a few corners.
“Close your eyes,” I say.
Tom looks at me. “Why are you always making me close my eyes before you show me stuff? How do I know this isn’t some sort of unpleasant Seattle hazing ritual?”
“Close them, or I won’t show you!”
“No tricks?”
I shake my head.
Tom sighs, holds out his hand, and closes his eyes.
I grab his hand; it’s rough, and his fingers are longer than I expect. I lead him around the last corner, and I’m glad to see there’s nobody else in the alley. I position Tom in front of the wall, with his nose about six inches away.
“Ready?” I say. “Open!”
Tom squints at the wall, trying to get his bearings. He takes a step back, and another, and then spreads his arms wide as he backs all the way to the other side of the alley so he can take in the whole wall. The brick on the east side of the alley is a huge textured Pollock painting of chewed, discarded pieces of gum. The colors range from the grayish white of Doublemint to the fluorescent greens and purples of Bubblicious.
“Stellar,” Tom says, with what I consider to be an appropriate amount of reverence.
I dig in my purse and fish out some Bazooka bubble gum.
“Can we?” he asks.
I nod.
“Well then, at the risk of offending, I have my own.” He pulls a pack of clove gum out of his pocket. He offers me some, but I hold up my Bazooka and shake my head.
We unwrap and start to chew. Over the sugary bubble gum smell of Bazooka, I catch whiffs of clove. We work our respective gums in silence
Tom stops, mouth hanging open. “That’s just . . . wrong,” he says finally, and his face flushes red. “What . . . what are these things called?”
“Geoducks,” I say. I can’t stop from giggling a little. It’s nice to not be the one blushing for once.
“Gooey-ducks.” He’s still staring at the clams.
I nod.
“Thanks, Maggie. Payback. Now you’ve given me an image I won’t be able to get out of my head.” He stares a minute more. “Okay.” He claps his hands together, prying his eyes away from the tank. “Where to now?”
“We have to buy some fortune cookies to take back to Nash,” I say. “A consolation prize.”
“The Tiger likes cookies, huh?”
“Actually he hates the cookies, but he loves to read the fortunes,” I say. “He saves them and tapes the ones he likes around the mirror in his bedroom. He even saves mine when he likes them, although he says technically they’re not transferable.”
We make our way back to the car, and I sit for a minute trying to think of what else to show Tom.
“Troll or gum wall?” I ask, suddenly inspired.
Tom’s face splits into a wide grin. “Both!” He bounces up and down like a giddy ten-year-old.
I shake my head and wonder if Nash has seen this side of Tom. Nash doesn’t fit into the American high school male ideal, but he does his not-fitting-in with a definite sense of style. I have never known him to be particularly attracted to any member of the nerd herd. Tom, in spite of having shoulders like a battleship and eyes that could melt chocolate, is, if not a part of the herd himself, deep in nerd territory.
By some miracle we find parking in the lots below Pike Place Market and climb to the top level. We pass tables full of silver jewelry, organic honey, smoked meats, leather bags, and Nepalese sweaters knitted by refugees who, the sign assures us, will receive most of the proceeds directly from the man selling the sweaters. I lead Tom through the crowded market to the south end.
“Watch out.” I pull Tom out of the way as a guy in waders catches a large salmon thrown from behind the fish counter. The crowd cheers, and the guy tosses the fish to another guy standing by the Dungeness crabs.
“We are not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Tom says, but I can see he’s enjoying it.
I’m sad Nash is missing this, but I’m glad to be the one showing Tom a different side of the city. We wind through the crowd and around a few corners.
“Close your eyes,” I say.
Tom looks at me. “Why are you always making me close my eyes before you show me stuff? How do I know this isn’t some sort of unpleasant Seattle hazing ritual?”
“Close them, or I won’t show you!”
“No tricks?”
I shake my head.
Tom sighs, holds out his hand, and closes his eyes.
I grab his hand; it’s rough, and his fingers are longer than I expect. I lead him around the last corner, and I’m glad to see there’s nobody else in the alley. I position Tom in front of the wall, with his nose about six inches away.
“Ready?” I say. “Open!”
Tom squints at the wall, trying to get his bearings. He takes a step back, and another, and then spreads his arms wide as he backs all the way to the other side of the alley so he can take in the whole wall. The brick on the east side of the alley is a huge textured Pollock painting of chewed, discarded pieces of gum. The colors range from the grayish white of Doublemint to the fluorescent greens and purples of Bubblicious.
“Stellar,” Tom says, with what I consider to be an appropriate amount of reverence.
I dig in my purse and fish out some Bazooka bubble gum.
“Can we?” he asks.
I nod.
“Well then, at the risk of offending, I have my own.” He pulls a pack of clove gum out of his pocket. He offers me some, but I hold up my Bazooka and shake my head.
We unwrap and start to chew. Over the sugary bubble gum smell of Bazooka, I catch whiffs of clove. We work our respective gums in silence
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