The Red Vest

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A stolen red vest turns a lonely pathetic man into a lover.
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Chester suddenly stopped sweeping. He leaned the broom against the bin of sheetrock screws, hung the dust pan on the hook by the paint brushes and turpentine, leaving the pile of dust and debris in the middle of the wooden floor and without a word to his boss, Norman, walked out of Nichols and Son's Hardware Store where he had worked for the last five years. The bell over the door jingled when Chester opened it and jangled even louder when he slammed it behind him.

The urge to quit his job had been building for months, but he would shove the thought aside and mutter to himself, "How can I quit? What would I do? I'm stuck!" He heard how bad the economy was from the six o'clock news, people losing their jobs, their homes, the worst recession since the crash in twenty-nine they said, but Chester didn't care anymore. He had to get away. He was fed up with his life, the boring job, the emptiness, the loneliness. He wanted to feel alive and most of all he wanted to be in love; he wanted a girl friend but felt helpless and had no way to make that happen. Most days, it was all he could do to get up and go to work. Before leaving home that morning he almost called Norman to say he wasn't coming in but came anyway, hating his reluctance to do something daring. He knew he was trapped in a rut and wouldn't be able to take this much longer. He was desperate.

Several times he started to tell Norman he was quitting and giving two weeks notice but lost his nerve. He needed the job. His mother's disability check and his eight-fifty an hour was all they had to pay the $500.00 a month rent for their tiny, shabby apartment above Dominic's Pizza Shop. Then there was the electric and telephone bills, his mother's prescriptions for depression, the monthly payment to the dentist for the root canal he had, leaving barely enough to buy the simple meals they ate--even with the food stamps his mother received.

Chester wished he didn't have to live with his mother. "Damn, I'm thirty-five. I should have my own place, a family, a car," he'd say to himself while taking the bus to work or lying in bed at night looking up at the ceiling. He didn't want to spend the next twenty years working in a hardware store, but he saw no way out.

Norman was Mr. Nichol's son and with the way business was, there was no chance for advancement. Norman was a year older than Chester and graduated from Thomas Edison High School the year before Chester. Mr. Nichols, now in his seventies, came in once a day to check how things were going, count the money in the register, shaking his head in disgust then leave, hardly paying attention to Chester. Norman was lazy, except when his dad came in. He'd read the newspaper at the counter, tell Chester what do, wait on the occasional customer that came in and usually took a long lunch break.

The hardware store had been there for forty-five years and was barely making ends meet because of the Home Depot that had opened just outside of town.

This was a dead-end and the one year of community college didn't qualify Chester to do much more than maybe work at the super market or at one of the gas stations which were all self-serve now--though some had convenience stores. He could be a cashier, he guessed--not much of an improvement over the hardware store. He thought about joining the army but hated that idea--especially with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and then what would happen to his mother. Though she was fifty five, she was depressed and took a variety of pills that kept her in daze.

Over the years, she had several part-time jobs that didn't last long because of her mental condition. The last job she had was a year ago working for a florist but again she got fired for being chronically late or not showing up. She divorced his father when Chester was ten. He was an alcoholic, rarely home and when he was around he went off on tirades, throwing chairs and turning over the kitchen table. The last he heard, his father was in Las Vegas working as a black jack dealer. Chester never even got a birthday card from him and his mother rarely spoke of him and when she did, she'd get upset and start calling him that son of a bitch, or something like that.

Chester was chubby, his brown hair was thinning and he had a bald spot in the back of his head. He rarely smiled except when he waited on customers and said, "Have a nice day," as he handed them their change and a receipt. He'd then sigh and go back to dusting the top of paint cans or counting the screws or doing whatever Norman put on the list for Chester to do.

"Why don't I have a girl friend," he's say to himself while sweeping. "Even Donald Evans has a girlfriend. What's wrong with me?" He thought about women a lot, wishing one would smile at him or look at him. He had a crush on Rita, the cashier at Larry's Bakery where he stopped for a doughnut and coffee before going to work. She always wore tight t-shirts and jeans or a mini skirt and she'd always say, "Hi Chester" and smile but he was too shy to say what he wanted to say which was, "Hey Rita how about you and me having a date?" He liked looking at her body while she reached for the chocolate covered doughnut he liked or sometimes the blueberry muffin and fantasized making love to her. Often he would go in the bathroom in the back of the store, soapy up his hand and masturbate thinking about Rita. But on this day, he had it and suddenly in a burst of nerve walked out, leaving the dirt in the middle of the floor.

After storming out of the hardware store, Chester walked the three blocks to the Greyhound Bus Station and bought a ticket to New York City. The bus would be leaving in ten minutes so Chester went into the men's room to relieve himself. He looked in the mirror while he washed his hands and hated the way he looked. "I'm fat," he muttered, looking at his belly hanging over his wrinkled khaki pants. He moved his face closer and could see the beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes. His skin was pale and looked worse in the florescent light. He unbuckled his belt and tucked in his long sleeved red and green plaid flannel shirt. He took a deep breath, tightening his stomach muscles so that his belly looked flat. He turned sideways wishing he could always look that trim. He remembered the look of men in the Playboy ads or on CSI, his favorite TV show and on Dancing with the Stars--his mother's favorite. He let out his breath and saw his stomach bulge forward, rolling slightly over his belt.

Chester had fantasized many times about coming to New York, going into a bar and picking up a chick and having a night of romance and mad, passionate sex like in some of the stories he read in the Playboy magazines he kept under his bed. He imagined a gorgeous blond with a tight slinky dress, looking into his eyes, playing with his hair, her leg touching his leg, her hand on his thigh then whispering in his ear that she'd like to take him home with her. Sometimes the woman had blond hair, sometimes black, sometimes it was Rita, but always they were all over him, looking deep into his eyes. He'd place two cigarettes in his mouth and light them, handing one to the woman then he'd blow smoke rings at the ceiling and snap his finger at the bartender for another bourbon on the rocks and a martini for the lady. There was one Playboy girl of the month named Vanessa that he'd jerk off to and dream about, but Chester at thirty-five was still a virgin. He thought about the prostitutes he'd see in tight hot pants or short mini skirts on State Street when he borrowed his cousin, Walter's car but chickened out. Anyway, where would he get the fifty bucks he heard they charged for a blow job in an alley?

The bus ride from Bayonne to New York took a little over an hour. This was his third time in New York and he didn't know his way around. He got off at Port Authority and walked outside into the crowded, noisy street and humid air. Now that he was here, he didn't know what he was going to do. He couldn't just walk around all day.

Chester walked down the street. People rushed by him in both directions and he noticed every other person was talking into a cell phone. He saw women carrying shopping bags, a man standing on the curb with a brief case, his hand waving for a cab, people waiting for the bus at the corner, a fat woman pushing a shopping cart with a plastic bag filled with soda cans and plastic water bottles. He noticed her going through a trash receptacle by the curb. It was noisy and everyone seemed pre-occupied as they walked by not looking at him. "Why should they look at me?" Chester thought as he weaved in and out of people on the crowded street. "I'm nobody," he muttered. "I might as well be invisible." Everyone seemed to know where they were going. "Where should I go now that I'm here?" he asked and continued walking, noticing his chubby shadow on the sidewalk or in one of the department store windows.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked into the window of a men's clothing store and saw a red vest on the plastic torso of a mannequin. It had three gold buttons and Chester imagined what he would look like in it. He looked up at the sign above the door, "Garfield's Clothing--for Men of Distinction." He couldn't take his eyes off of the red vest and wished he could afford one. "I bet it's really expensive," Chester thought, staring at it. He then felt the urge to go into the store and try it on and find out how much it cost. "Why not?" he asked himself, putting his hand on the door handle, glancing back at the red vest then took a deep breath and walked into the store.

Inside, he looked around at a neat pile of colorful sweaters. He walked past a table with white dress shirts and another with wool flannel shirts. He noticed a glass counter with a dark velvet lining and an assortment of cuff links and another display of neck ties with knots as if they were being worn. Along one side was a long rack of suits and in the middle of the floor was a tall mannequin of a man wearing a pin striped blue suit. The mannequin had slick black hair, a sharp chin and red lips painted into a smile. Then he saw the red vest on a hanger towards the rear of the store.

A salesman wearing a blue blazer with a handkerchief in the pocket came up to Chester and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

"No, thanks, I'm just looking," Chester responded, noticing the thin neatly trimmed mustache. "Just looking," he repeated wondering what he would look like with a mustache.

"Well, if you need any help, I'd be glad to help you," the salesman said, smiling, "I'll be over there if you need my assistance," he added, pointing to the counter with a sleek computer register, unlike the large clunky silver plated register he used at the hardware store. "Just ask," he smiled and walked away.

Chester nodded and walked towards the rear of the store to look at the red vest. He glanced at the price tag and gulped, "Fifty-two ninety five." He stared at the number, "Holy mackerel--that's expensive," he said out loud, glad that no one was around to hear him.

Chester looked at the red vest wanting to put it on. He turned and saw the salesman walking over to a customer then looked back at the vest. He swallowed, closing his eyes trying to muster up the nerve then taking a deep breath, took the vest off the hanger, unbuttoning the gold buttons and put the vest on. It was snug and Chester had difficulty with the three gold buttons but took a breath, pulling in his stomach, making it fit perfectly and walked over to the three way mirror. He could see that it clashed with his plaid flannel shirt and strained at the buttons when he let his belly out. "Man, what a great vest," he said staring at himself, cocking his head slightly. "It's not perfect with this shirt but it's not that bad either," he said, cocking his head to the other side then turned to face the other direction, admiring how he looked. "I just have to have this vest," he said, tugging at the bottom and noticing the bald spot on the back of his head reflected in the mirror. "I'm really getting bald," he muttered, wincing at the sight, realizing he never saw the back of his head.

He looked at the price tag again, knowing he only had thirty-five dollars and didn't have a credit card but the more he looked at himself with the red vest, the more convinced he became that he looked handsome--"I look dapper," he said narrowing his eyes looking into his eyes in the mirror and knew he had to have the vest.

He started to think of a way he could steal it. Chester had never stolen anything in his life and the thought of getting caught terrified him. "I can't do this. This is crazy," he said and started to take the vest off but then looking at him self in the mirror, hesitated. "I just know I'll catch the eye of some chick and she'll fall in love with me in this vest," he said to himself, his fingers on one of the gold buttons.

Chester looked towards the front of the store and saw the salesman waiting on an older man wearing a tan trench coat. They were talking and nodding. Just then the salesman lifted up his finger as if to say, "Just a minute" and disappeared into the back room.

"This is my chance," Chester said, then without hesitation, took a deep breath and rushed towards the front of the store, passing the man in the trench coat, opened the front door and left, wearing the red vest. He quickly ripped off the price tag, wrinkled it up and placed it in his pant pocket and rushed breathlessly down the street, zig-zagging past people, expecting to hear the salesman yelling at him or police sirens wailing, but he kept his head down and walked as fast as he could and didn't slow down until he had crossed the street and was halfway down the next block.

Chester loved the way the red vest made him feel even though it was a little snug. He felt handsome, classy and bold. He felt women were looking at him as he walked. He could feel them turn to admire him as he walked past, even though they didn't. He whistled. He put his hands in his pocket. He kicked a Starbucks paper cup that was on the sidewalk. He patted the head of a little boy and smiled at the mother, "Nice lad you have there," he said. He leap-frogged over a fire hydrant and started to do the same to a parking meter, but changed his mind. "I love this vest," he said to himself as he walked, somehow feeling transformed.

After crossing another street, he stopped in front of a bar called the Kit-Kat Club. He looked up at the sign then at the solid black door and brass handle. He looked at the small window next to the door with a blinking neon light that said Kit Kat Club. Chester tugged on his vest and decided to go in. It was dark and empty except for two men watching the ball game on a TV over the bar.

He then noticed a woman sitting by herself at the other end of the bar and decided to sit down on the red leather stool three stools away from her. The bartender came up to him and wiped the bar in front of him, "What can I get you?" he asked, glancing at the red vest and plaid flannel shirt then back at Chester.

"Bourbon on the rocks," Chester said, remembering he hadn't had bourbon since he went to his friend Eddie Kozinki's wedding four years ago at the Polish American Club. He noticed the bartender had a small black goatee, a thin mustache, long sideburns and a gold stud in one ear. He had a black vest over his white shirt and a narrow black tie.

Chester glanced over at the woman and she looked up at him then quickly turned away. "She's not exactly the girl of my dreams," Chester thought, wondering if he should speak to her or wait for someone more beautiful to come in.

When his drink came, placed on a small square napkin, Chester nodded thanks to the bartender then glanced over at the woman again. She had dry straw-like reddish orange hair that came down to her shoulders and curled up slightly in the back. She wore rouge, heavy mascara, bright red lipstick and had bags under her eyes. Her black dress was low cut and even in the dim light he could see her bare shoulders and arms were heavily freckled. She had dangling earrings and a thick gold necklace on her neck. Her tiny black purse was on the bar.

She looked over at Chester then took a sip of her drink. Their eyes met then both looked away. "She's not that bad," Chester thought, lifting his glass, watching the ice cubes swirling before taking his first sip, wincing at the harsh taste. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall in back of the two rows of bottles watching himself sipping his drink, looking at the red vest, then glanced over at the woman again. She looked back at him, a smile flickering on her very red lips then took a sip of her drink. Chester cleared his throat and somehow found the nerve to ask, "Mind if I join you?" He was surprised at his boldness but thought, what the hell and brushed some imaginary lint from his red vest.

"Sure. Why not?" she answered flickering another smile, nodding.

"So, you gotta name?" Chester asked as he settled on the stool next to her.

"Wilma," she said, taking sip of her drink."

"Wilma, huh," Chester repeated. "Nice name." He paused before giving her his name. He looked at her. "Mine's Charles," he lied, surprised that he gave her that name. "I'm in New York on business--trying to wrap up a big deal."

"Oh, I see," Wilma responded, nodding. "What's your line of business Charles?" Wilma asked, taking a sip from her drink, looking at him over the rim.

"Real estate. Buying and selling. Selling and buying--you know what I mean."

"Sounds important," Wilma said, nodding. "I mean you must be keeping busy selling houses."

"I also sell yachts. You know...to rich people. So what do you do?"

"Well, I'm between gigs now, but I'm a singer--a jazz singer."

"Really. Wow! A singer. Do you sing in night clubs?"

"Yeah and I'm working on getting a recording deal--a CD. Almost got one but they was crooks."

"I know what you mean," Chester said, nodding. "The world is full of them. Crooks. You gotta be careful or you'll get creamed. But I am always one step ahead," Chester said, noticing Wilma finishing her drink. "Say, can I buy you another drink or something, Wilma?"

"Yes, that would be very nice of you, Charles," Wilma said, smiling and looking into Chester's eyes.

Chester looked up and swirled his finger to the bartender to bring Wilma another drink, pointing to her glass. At the same time he again glanced into the mirror and saw himself and the red vest, ignoring the plaid flannel shirt. "Well, isn't this something," he thought, admiring the way he looked in the red vest sitting at the bar with a woman next to him. "Man, this is the life," he said to himself.

"So, Wilma, what kind of songs do you sing?" Chester asked, lifting his glass to his lips.

"Well, you know, jazz, love songs--Irving Berlin and Cole Porter mostly, stuff like that."

"Nice," Chester said. "Yeah, Berlin's great. Didn't he write, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game?"

"Maybe," Wilma said, "Maybe that's one of his tunes. My favorite is, 'My Love is Here to Stay'--not sure who wrote it though--but it's so beautiful and it makes me think how great love is, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," Chester said. "I really do know what you mean," Chester nodded. "Love's great. So have you ever been in love, Wilma?"

The bartender placed a Bloody Mary in front of Wilma and nodded to Chester, "I'll keep a tab, okay," he said as he picked up Wilma's empty glass.

"Great," Chester responded, nodding to the bartender. "And don't worry I'll take good care of you at the end. I'm a big tipper."

The bartender nodded in return, glanced at Wilma then went back to the other end of the bar where he was washing glasses.

"So, Wilma, have you ever been in love? What about your love life?" he asked. "Any special guy in your life?"