Free Stuffed Shirt by Barry Ergang Page A

did—never knew, for instance, that the disfiguring “accident” in high school chemistry which befell one of my classmates avenged an affront; never knew that during my first year at Danforth, the occupant of an apartment in the building next to mine died to prevent disclosure of what he saw when, upon arriving home from work one evening, I carelessly left the bedroom curtains open.
    My disregard of Claymore succeeded for a while, but inevitably, like the schoolyard bully who cannot bear to be ignored, he intruded onto my parcel of the playground. I was bent over the layout on my drawing table late one afternoon when he entered my cubicle and peered over my shoulder.
    “Which account is that for?” he asked.
    “Ardis Cosmetics,” I said, not looking up.
    “Oh, a biggie, huh?”
    “Mm-hmm.” I had been handling the Ardis artwork for over a year, though I did not tell him so.
    “Yeah, well, listen, man, a bunch of us are going out for a drink after work. What d’you say?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Why not?” A faint edge in his voice implied he was unaccustomed to having his invitations refused. “C’mon, we’re goin’ over to Gerrity’s, check out the action.”
    “Gerrity’s?”
    “Oh man, you never been to Gerrity’s?”
    I admitted I had not.
    “It’s just the best place in the city to meet babes. C’mon, we’ll have a good time. You might get lucky and score.”
    “Thanks just the same, I’d rather not.”
    He moved to the back of the table, facing me, and leaned forward confidentially. “Listen, if you’re worried about striking out, don’t. I know plenty of broads there I can set you up with. Guaranteed you score.” He smiled raptorially.
    The cavalier imprecision of his speech and the empty appetence it promised oppressed me. I had barely looked at him, keeping my gaze on the layout in the hope he would give up and leave. Glancing up now, I saw three artists, all of whom were single, standing just outside my cubicle. One of them frowned at Claymore and shook his head minutely, but Claymore winked and turned back to me, waiting for my answer.
    “For the last time, no thank you. I’ve no interest in what you call ‘scoring’.”
    “Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.” He grinned lasciviously, exaggerating an intake of breath. “After all, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
    “Then do it somewhere else if you please.”
    “What’re you—gay? You like guys?”
    In truth I adored women—their tastes and textures and smells. One in the Danforth sales department I found devastatingly attractive. But personal strictures forbidding intimate relationships which, in the event they fell apart, could lead to workplace disquietude, and the revelations I was unwilling to risk irrespective of success or failure, demanded that I maintain a chaste, professional attitude toward her.
    “I already have plans,” I answered.
    “I bet. Needlepoint? Or are you just gonna curl up with a book and some hot chocolate?” He laughed, dismissed me with a wave, and went off with the others.
    The next morning, they regaled one another with tales of their previous evening’s putative conquests.
    When I returned from lunch that afternoon, I found Claymore in my cubicle idly examining a series of layouts tacked to the bulletin board on the right-hand wall and others that sat on top of the supply cabinet beneath. “You got enough variations on this Ardis thing,” he said.
    “Fussy client,” I muttered. Some clients have specific ideas they want us to delineate, some almost prefer to be told what their advertisements should look like. Others, like Ardis, want to see multiple possibilities from which they can choose. Assembling their layouts, after consulting with the account executive, the copywriter, and Haskell, often required weeks or even months of work.
    “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked, removing my suit coat. I hung it up and slipped on the loose-fitting gray smock I