W7: Weak or "Too Weak for Her"

From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

A step toward the sales floor and another customer's books slammed onto the counter, stopping him. He swiped the books' black bar codes in a sudden fury, ignoring the chatter of the decked-out baseball enthusiast he was ringing up. With one eye, he watched the old lady nimbly pick her way through the Saturday browsers toward the back of the store. The crinkly fabric of her track suit sparkled the harsh overhead lights.

I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.


******

An interruption on behalf of "W"

Why
Where
Whippersnapper
What-not
Wallaby
West
Weak
Week
Water
Wanton
Wave
Went
Warrant
Wax
Wattle
Wind
Wedgewood
Whiff
Whine
Worry
Wig
Wane
Waft
Woman
Wrought
Woof
...26....
Wend
Wattage
Wedding
Whistle
Wed
Work
Worst
Written
I can't believe I'm only getting to this now, but...
Write
...35...
Wallop
Wagamama
Whore
Wraith
Western
Weep
Wyvern
...42... (I'm out of practice. "W" should be easy!)
Waterford
We
Wallow
Wade
Widget
Whippet
Waterfall
What

There we go. "Ws" for days!

W7: There is no W

From V7:
"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

Since there is no "W", tomorrow, I'll do 26 "w"s and Friday, W7, as planned.

V7: Voice or "Even Old People Call Danny Fat"

From T7:
Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.

"So you're a walker?" He kept his eyes on the screen. Unicorn. Unitard.

"Clearly." Her voice was low and gritty, twisted with leftover yiddish or hebrew or something.

"Unitarian!" He announced. "Looks like we don't have much." He looked her over, noticed how fit she was, feeling a bit jealous. "You can try the 'Spirituality' section, I guess." He pointed over her head at the back corner of the store.

"Thanks... Danny," she read over her glasses. "I'm guessing you're not a walker," she winked. "I'll see if I can't find it myself."

U7: Unitarian or "Danny Makes a Friend"

From T7:
"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."


*****


Back from his break, Danny was behind the register for the afternoon, the taste of cinnamon and sugar dancing on his lips. He loved it there, the stillness masked as focus, the neat rows of twee gift books and book lights that he could arrange, and rearrange, without leaving his small stool. He could doodle on the Houghton Mifflin note pad. His mornings shelving and re-shelving exhausted him more and more.

Danny's heart was still racing from the meeting with Marina. He'd barely managed to push her into Crate & Barrel before dashing for the cinnamon roll and soda that were his only, best reward. He was still finding sticky spots on the sides of his fingers, but knew he couldn't ask for a break, again, so soon, to wash his hands, so he surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans.

As he looked up from his grooming, a short, gray-haired woman with large glasses and a larger nose stepped up to the counter, peering closely into his eyes.

"Do you have any Unitarian books?" She asked. "I've been all over the Religion section and a I can't find a thing. My daughter's 'converting' or something, she says, and I need to figure this out." Her hands toured the knick-knacks constantly as she spoke. She was wearing a track-suit and the "3 Circuits" button pinned to her chest.

Danny began punching "unitarian" into the key word search on his computer. He was tempted to send her to the information kiosk, but with the economy, they were short-staffed, and he was better off keeping customers happy from his perch. If he looked too idle, Solange might make him wander the store like a predator on the hunt. "Unitarian..." he said aloud as he typed, so she would know he was working on her issue even though he wasn't meeting her eyes. She was one of those mall walkers he saw every morning. "3 Circuits," he was pretty sure, meant she was in really good shape.

T7: Turtle or "Danny Can't Do It"

From S7:
And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.

"But Danny, you can't hide away like a turtle in this... mall!" They looked around together - at the faux-wood kiosks selling spinning colored toys and translation software, at the abstract-but-comforting "sculpture" hanging from the sky-lit ceiling 100 feet above. Danny was hurt, again. He actually loved this mall. It's shell was solid and inside there was food and warmth.

"Marina," he started, catching the time above him, still avoiding the look on her face. Two minutes to go. He still wanted a Cinnabon and a Coke, and he wasn't going to let her see him scarf it down. "I do love you, but my break's over. I have to go."

S7: Slippery or "Danny Can't Explain"

From R7:
"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"


He felt slippery on the glossy marble floor of the mall, the waves of geriatric walkers huffing cheerily past. He felt unmoored; from Marina, from his family, from his life before Roddy died.

And he also felt foolish. They had, essentially, broken up the night Roddy died on the wet road back to Richmond. Danny had, essentially, decided he didn't want to be with Roddy anymore. So Roddy was gone - isn't that what he'd secretly, deep below the surface in the cold tanks inside, wanted? Thank God he hadn't told anyone what he'd been thinking before he got the news. And now, he never would. He shifted his stance. He wanted a Coke. He couldn't look Marina in the eye.

R7: Repetitive or "Danny Gets a Talking To"

From Q7:

She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. A heavy woman balked at the little shoal Marina and Danny were creating, and muttered, loudly, “rude.” That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.

"Seriously, Danny?"

He feels like a stupid adolescent pig. "Yeah?"

"Can you even see how repetitive you're being? How fucking stubborn? She began to tear up and Danny shrunk a little bit. The mall air parched his throat. He badly wanted a Coke. "I mean, I don't come to this fucking mall in suburbia because I like soft pretzels and the Gap." Marina was jabbing her finger at him and her voice was tight like air from a punctured tire. "I come here for you, you asshole, and every time - every time -" she repeated when he started to protest, "you act like I'm the biggest pain in the world."

"Marina...."

"No. No, Danny. Talk to me. You lost Roddy, who you weren't happy with anyway. You quit your job." Here it comes, he thought, "and you've gained- I don't even know how much weight." She actually started laughing when she said that. Through tears. At her audacity, he guessed. "What the hell's going on?"

Q7: Quotation or "Danny says 'Oh fuck off'"

From Q7:
In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.

Flushed, he noted the clock - he'd managed to kill four of his 15 minutes. He'd only have to talk to Marina for 10.

She was in Reference, flipping through a thick book.

"Listen to this," she commanded when he walked up. "'As only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.'" She stared him down. "Dorothy Parker. So, advice from a soused literati. Maybe you'll listen to her since you won't talk to me."

"Marina..."

"Nope. Stupid quotations aside, Danny, I've had enough." She put her arm through his and jerked him into the mall. A Muzak version of Madonna's "Holiday" eked through the air. "Listen, this whole... thing of yours.. quitting your job, moving out here to the suburbs..." he waited, but she specifically did not mention his weight, "I get it, I guess. You lost Roddy. You feel- You're dealing with a lot. But it's been months, Danny. You know this isn't your life."

"Not 'my life'?" Danny took back his arm. According to the faux-Victorian clock at the mall's central rotunda, he had only six minutes until he could head back. "Marina, you don't know 'my life' at all."

She stopped, creating a ripple in the stream of shoppers, disrupting the carefully calibrated flow. That's what life is like, he thought. Interruptions. Obstruction. Being dislodged.

P7: Pest or "Danny....

From O7: And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.

Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.

....


"Hey Pest!"

He didn't need to look up. Marina. It must be Saturday.

Danny hated Saturdays. At the mall. In his life. Not only was it the day when, after a week of recycled-air anonymity at the mall, the crowds returned. It was the day, each week, when his friends and family remembered he was alive. Marina now meant a late-afternoon call from Mom.

"Hi Marina," he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice into a groan. Looking over the register, he gave Solange the thumbs up to confirm he could take his break. "Give me a minute, Mar."

In the breakroom, he re-tucked his shirt and adjusted his sweater, arranging and rearranging the cloth so it wouldn't cling so stubbornly to his fat. It defeated him, the greenish lighting in the mall's bowels. His pants, pinching tight at his waist, barely reached his shoes - none of this cute skinny jeans made it past the bulb of his belly anymore. He couldn't help envisioning his useless mouse of a penis, cowering in fat beneath his (shudder) pleated khakis. He's never realized that they were designed to hide the fat.

O7: Oleander or "Danny remembers what happened"

From N7:
"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grishams stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.

As he stacked the books, he remembered the days immediately after Roddy died. First, he'd called Marina to tell her, his mouth wet like raw oysters and his voice nearly illegible. She'd sent him home and told their boss he was sick. The walk home had been collapsed and extended in time; he remembered the gray streets sighing into lame prisms from the tears in his eyes, the confusion over what it meant that Roddy was dead, the guilt and - he had to admit it - relief that their two year tug-of-war was over.

It wasn't that they'd been so happy together. He'd been remembering a fight over Danny's choice of cocktail, "another fruity drink," as Roddy put it, when Danny had detoured into the corner store on his block for two pints of ice cream, a canister of potato chips, and a large bottle of wine. He remembers cradling the red sleeve of chips against his chest as he watched Michelle Pfeiffer overact in "White Oleander" on the couch as he finished the merlot and avoided the incessantly ringing phone. It had been one of his favorite things about the apartment - something he missed terribly in his reduced, group-house circumstances now: the fact that no one could get close enough to barge in through the door.

That weekend he'd rented a car for the drive down to Richmond and made the journey alone to the strains of the "Garden State" soundtrack. He had given up on answering the phone or going back to work. He'd scrolled through their pictures on his camera, crying as much for his lack of reaction as for the false, sunny picture the images conveyed. For four days he had subsisted on delivered pizza and Chinese food, and when he'd emerged to the parking lot at the funeral home, it was only his darkest sunglasses that kept the low winter sun at bay. Becca had hugged him and sobbed. Roddy's parents had nodded and -briefly - taken his hand.

And he'd left the cold funeral the way he'd entered it - alone.

Danny ran his hand along the spine of the last book, keeping to his squat, hoping to escape notice. Hoping no one would need him, or realize that he was done.

N7: No or "Danny Shouldn't Bother Any More"

From M7:
The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.

"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.

"Hey Sol." He knew she was looking at his fat ass, probably smirking, probably wondering why he was such a mess. Twice now, she'd found him crying in the storeroom during his break. And the one time they'd gone upstairs for drinks at Ruby Tuesday's, he'd poured back three sweet daiquiris and she'd had to walk him to the Metro in order to get him home. "Did you get the chance to read my idea about those new storefront displays?"

He was trying; that much he could tell himself. He might have killed his ex-boyfriend, quit his job, moved into a group house, and gone from chubby to pitifully close to obese - he tugged at his jeans - but he still had ideas. For a new arrangement of impulse-sale crap, admittedly, but... ideas.

She was focused on her shelving. Jotting each book down on an unnecessary ledger, and gazing at each spine thoughtfully before sliding it into it's place.

"Solange? My idea for the displays?" He'd worked hard on them. Actually opened his design software for the first time in months. "What'd you think?"

"I thought," she turned, slowly and fixed her eyes on his over the half-glasses she wore to show she was smarter than her age and tight-fitting wardrobe implied, "that I didn't want to tell you 'no'." She smiled as if at a dog. "Corporate doesn't like store-staff to create their own designs. I'm pretty sure I told you that when you brought me the idea."

Danny focused on the hardbacks in front of him, on the clotted dust that shrouded the base of every shelf . "No, you told me. I just thought -"

"Danny." She came over. "I love you. You're great. But what I need is one hundred and forty Grisham's stacked before your break." She actually patted his shoulder, and turned back to her shelf. He could hear the starched music of the Galleria laughing in his ears.

M7: Misgivings or "Four months later, Danny's gotten fat"

From L7:
Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?


Chapter 2

Danny had misgivings about the stack of John Grisham's on the floor. He squat-crouched low, working around his new Santa belly to get a better view, until a cold draft from the mall's concourse whipped the small of his back. He'd been showing his behind to the entire mall, he realized, and scooted back to standing. As assistant manager of the bookstore, he need to show some class. Four months had passed since Roddy died, and Danny had gained almost 30 pounds.

The weight gain, he knew, should be the least of it.

"Hi Danny," chirped Solange as she passed by with a tower of romance novels. Solange - the manager - was twenty-two years old.

L7: Listen or "Danny Is a Chicken Shit"

From K7...

With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.

"Listen, Becca," he started, and then followed along, incredulous, as he spoke the words. "We weren't fighting. Everything was," he choked, "fine." Tears felt like ice on his eyelashes and cheeks. What was he doing? Why lie? Why this lie?? "Maybe he was, I know he was, worried about work?"

Becca sighed into the phone. "You're right. I know." He didn't say anything, exactly, but he just sounded so blue." She took a huge, shuddering breath. "And now he's gone." Her voice swooped and shook. "Danny, Roddy's gone."

And I'm a chicken-shit, Danny thought. He felt like his heart was swollen and chapped. Like his something was scratching inside his chest trying to find its way out. "Becca. Listen, Becca, I - I'm at work. When's the - what are the plans? I can't talk right now. I have to go."

"Um, we don't know the details yet, I'll-"

"Just call me when you know something," he squeaked into the phone. "I really really have to go."

Danny pressed the off button on his phone until the power went off, and then he stared at the black, empty screen for a while. Roddy was dead. A car accident. Roddy was gone. A freezing gust of wind hit his neck and ears, and he hunched himself against the side of the building, twisting his neck to look up and down the street. What am I doing here, he wondered? Why am I even alive?

K7: Killer, or "The Mixing Bowl Guilt Creeps In"

From J7...
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"

"Oh, Danny, Roddy's dead."

"Becca... What? How?" Another thunk to his chest. He tik-tocked an awkward pirouette, staring up at the sky.

"He was driving home last night, on that stretch of 95 where all the roads get all twisted up, you know, just before D.C., where the -"

"The mixing bowl," Danny supplied, feeling a folding in his chest. The mixing bowl was a killer - the junction of multiple highways, and Roddy had been drinking yesterday afternoon. Danny knew that much about his boyfr- his now-dead boyfriend, at least. He felt ashamed, flushed with guilt. He yanked at his scarf.

"Yeah, the mixing bowl." She sniffed and he heard her move her lips very close to the phone. "Danny, were you guys fighting this weekend?" Her whisper reminded Danny how young she was. "He just seemed really upset when I talked to him last night."

With the words "last night," she tripped into sobbing again, and Danny leaned into the glass front of his cold building and listened as she cried. He was grateful she was crying so hard so he wouldn't have to answer her. Yes, he'd sent a broken-hearted Roddy away.

J7: Jester, or "Danny talks to Becca"

...from I7:

"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.

Danny had always felt a bit like the court jester with Roddy's family - the chubby, gay appendage that most of the Bakers could easily have done without. In the six months since he'd first met them, Danny had never managed to move beyond small talk with any of them: except Becca.

Rebecca Baker was a pistol. As tall as Roddy or her father, Becca towered over Danny and most of the wiry boys she coveted at the few arts-and-disaffection joints she frequented downtown. She wore her hair in a classic bob that she'd had sheared off like a terraced cliff in the back, and was as likely to steal "Daddy's" truck or come home drunk as any of her brothers. She was the youngest, the only girl, and Roddy's absolute best friend in the world.

Standing in the cold outside his office, his nose and hand freezing, Danny paced back and forth, watching his new black boots hold their shine against the grit of the sidewalk. He walked and waited, heart pounding, as he listened to her cry.

"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"

I7: If or "Danny and Roddy's Family"

...from H7:
That was all he heard the first time. It took him two full replays to get through the rest of the details, zombie out of his office and down to the street outside, and dial Becca's number on his phone.

"Becca? It's Dan."

Even now, it stung. Roddy had introduced Danny as "Dan" when they'd all met for the first time. Even though Danny had coughed out a nervous correction, in Roddy's family's eyes, "Dan" had stuck. More appropriate, he was sure.

"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.