Angie’s seen him adjust himself two times today; he doesn’t want to risk a third. Of all people, she would file a complaint. Garrett takes little steps, scampers into the furthest aisle between 1990 and the brick wall. There, he reaches down to fix himself again.
He pinches the bottom edge of the fabric between thumb and forefinger; tugs down the tiny, hiked-up leg of the contraption. Does the same to the other side and it feels like clothing again. Finally, he slides his hand into the center, liberating the half-cooked pancake batter of his scrotum from his thigh. Sticky skin resists, spreads like a bat wing. He pulls balls up next to his shaft and tucks the whole package under the waistband of his shorts. Relieved, convinced he’s solved his problem, he picks his pile of folders from the floor and walks back to the gaudy blue plastic of the current year’s stacks. He squats to replace case number 1147, stretches up for 216, and his comfort is compromised all over again.
A year ago, his half-brother Garrison was stoned and playing mind games in their mother’s basement. “Try this,” he said, pulling on his roach. Garrison held his breath, continued; words husky, hurried and staccato. “Whatever you do don’t think about elephants.” Garrett’s face drew towards its center, wringing itself out with concentrated confusion. His brother belched up a cloud of acrid smoke with each diaphragm spasm as he tried and failed to bridle his laughter. “I know,” cough cough, “crazy,” cough, “right, man?”
This is like that, Garrett realizes. Standing at the edge of the stacks, he places his legs in an inverted V and pushes his torso down towards them, far as it will go. Pant cuffs rise comically, past the tops of black socks. His experiment fails: genitals still feel like spread butter; undershorts slide up into the crack of his ass. Whatever you do, don’t think about your manhood, he reminds himself. The next three and a half minutes, he’s aware of little else. So he checks to see if he’s being watched, then scuttles away to the past to try and get comfortable again.
***
Here is the barroom he likes best. Dim red lighting serves to mask his appearance: hair thin even before his acne has completely receded. Here are the women he knows: in six chairs around the two squares of the table tops. Bar regulars within whose coven he has insinuated himself over time. These are his Fridays.
He watches their conversations mostly, rarely adding his own voice to the chorus. He’d heard of Reflective Listening (something women want), so he limits his contributions to inquiry and encouraging monosyllables: Mm; right; go on; what do you think? He sits and tries to look relaxed, taking long draughts from a pint of dark beer he doesn’t particularly enjoy.
Generally, the conversation is a litany of relationship complaints. “I bought some skimpy lingerie last week and got all done up for my husband,” said Tara. “And he told me I looked fat. Said, ‘I have a right to be upset: this is not what I bought.’ And I have put on weight, but…” “Pig,” said Heather, waving her hand dismissively. “All men are pigs. What were you wearing?” The topic changed to underwear.
Denise has sworn by thongs since stepping up to loan consultant at the bank. “I felt like my gran—panty lines all over my suit.” Heather pledged her allegiance to ‘boy shorts’ even though she sometimes worries they cause severe ‘camel toe.’ Garrett laughed as hard as everyone else, though he’s never fully understood what this condition entails. The attention on him, Sara said, “Something tells me you’re a tightie-whities sort of guy.” Cough syrup lighting of the barroom he likes best obscured the deep blush that comes with frequent, easy embarrassment. “You think?” he asked, then walked briskly to the bar for another round of drinks.
When he returned, Alexandra—Ander: with whom he fancies himself in love—explained her preference for boxer-briefs. “They’re just plain sexier. I like the way you can see all the details, but compressed.” She allowed a silence with its own gravity, drawing Garrett’s face closer to the table. “At bay. Restrained.” Ander widened her left eye into an almost O, closed the lid of her right into a tight, suspicious slit; lips pursed, turned only slightly at one corner. I know something you don’t know, the look said. Garrett has learned this look (Vamp; seductress) from the many women he has seen use it. I know more than you will ever know, it says.
The next morning, he bought a dozen pairs of ribbed boxer-briefs at a department store. He tried them on in front of his bathroom mirror; pulled his shoulders back, stood up straight as he was able—something he doesn’t often do anymore. His head nodded with emphatic agreement: Ander was right. He already felt sexier. He stripped them off; decided to enjoy one final weekend Commando-style—he’d spend it planning a casual way to bring up the change next Friday night.
***
Miss Stender, a woman whose job title changes more often than Garrett can keep track of, delivered his official admonishment. The Little Talk, as she called it, took place in her corner office that Friday morning. With a witness: “Bobbi’s just here…for the record, so to speak. The company frowns on closed door interactions involving both men and women,” she said. “You understand.” Not a question. “God knows what some guys are capable of.” Bobbi clucked and both women broke into a cackle.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” said Garrett, struggling to smile good-naturedly.
“That’s actually what we’re here to discuss.” Miss Stender asked him if he’d read the employee handbook when he signed on; Garrett said he had and admitted to glossing over a few sections. “Here,” she said, arm extended and a Xeroxed copy of the manuscript clutched in French manicured claws. “Refresh your memory. Page thirty-eight. Second paragraph.”
Bobbi filled the quiet with the grating of an emery board and the clap-pop of a single pump: dangling from the toes of her crossed over leg, slapping the sole of her stocking foot. He could smell it across the room: the sour parmesan scent of that foot.
Skirts or dresses worn two inches above the knee must be worn with hosiery. No see through or sheer clothing will be allowed, and no skin shall be visible between trousers, skirts and shirts or blouses in any position. Proper undergarments must be worn at all times. The waistband of all clothing shall be located on the natural waistline and shall be sized appropriately.
The women sighed four times between them, impatient with his slow reading. His face flushed; he looked up with an idle stare; face a screen-saver. “Proper undergarments, Mr. Koro. You don’t wear underwear. Ever. And your female contemporaries are uncomfortable with that.” He shifted anxiously in the faux leather of the chair as he felt the focused attention of the room on his pelvis. The seat belched comically with his movement; nobody laughed; he flushed further.
He asked questions: Do I have Plumber’s Crack? Who’s been staring at my crotch long enough to feel uncomfortable? Does this mean Erin in accounting has to start wearing a bra? But out loud, he only apologized. Profusely.
