Monsters | Page 7

had what she wanted. Henry pulled a pair of gray pinstripes off the
rail and ignored her.
"Don't be such a gentleman. The answer is thirty-six, same age as you.
Or at least that's how old Jerry said you were. Unless he was making it
up."
"No."
"So how come you never opened a store of your own?"
He stepped on the compressor pedal; steam billowed through the pants.
His own shop? That's what his dad used to say. But the thought had
never appealed to Henry; he had enough to worry about.
"After all," said Celeste, "you know the business."
"Twenty-five pounder is the smallest rig they make." He nodded at the
drycleaning machine. "Cost Kaplan thirty grand." He took his foot off
the steam pedal and the pants deflated. "You've got to be smart to play
for those stakes."
"So? You're smart. All you need is a rich uncle. Or else hit the lottery. I
play my birthday and Madonna's every week. 7/28/56 and 8/16/58 .
Tell you what: when I win, I'll stake you. Only you have to name the
store after me. Sloboda's Cleaners."
Brown gabardines were next on the rail. He said nothing.
"Because it's nice work," she said, "drycleaning. I mean, it's fun
because there's progress. You can see what you've done at the end of
the day, not like bagging groceries or stitching shoes. You start with
something ugly and it ends up pretty. How many jobs are there where
you try to make the world a more beautiful place?"
Henry had no idea; he cared zero for the world. He liked the iron tang
of steam hissing from the presses, the furriness of wet wool, the

backbeat of the spinning drum, the way silk clung like caterpillars to
his rough skin, the perfect chemical luster of nylon, the attic smell of
shirt cardboards, leather jackets as heavy as raw steak, the airiness of
rayon, the delicate crinkling of plastic bags fresh off the roll and
especially the intoxicating palette of chemicals at the spotting table. He
liked sweating through his tank top in the numbing heat of July and
basking in the cozy humidity of the back room at Christmas. What
mattered to Henry was that the job filled his senses and kept away the
bad thoughts. Mostly.
"Yeah," she was saying, "I like it here just fine even though it's not
exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life." She waved her finger
at him. "Don't you dare tell Kaplan I said that. I'm trusting you."
A pair of tan suit pants.
"No, what I really want to be someday is a travel agent. That way I'll
get to go all over so I can tell people where the best times are. You
know, like a librarian has to read all those books? Because I'd love to
see the pyramids and China and San Francisco and the Disneys -- all
the Disneys. I read where they have one in France now. And learn to
ski. And I'm going to try all those warm places where you just lay
around on the beach in your bikini and waiters bring you drinks with
cherries in them."
The idea of Celeste in a bikini made him laugh. She'd need to buy a
third piece to cover her hump.
"Yeah, what's so funny?" She was suddenly brittle, as if a cruel word
might shatter her. "You don't think I could do it?"
He had never seen her fold up like this; maybe she had never told him
anything that mattered before. He sensed that if he said what he really
thought, she might never speak to him again. A couple hours ago he
would've killed for this chance. Now he let it pass. "Don't you have to
go to school for that?" He waved vaguely toward downtown.
"Probably. I don't know. Never mind." She picked an armful off the rail

of hanging clothes and carried them over to the big press. "It's just
something I've been thinking about."
She didn't speak, sing, or hum for fifteen minutes. She just hurled
clothes around like curses: yanked them onto the press, jerked down the
cover, threw them onto hangers when they were done. Kaplan wheeled
in a basket filled with dirty clothes from up front and parked it by the
spotting bench. He beamed when he saw the long line of finished
orders ready for bagging.
"I should've gotten you two together weeks ago." He rubbed his hands.
"This is great; I really mean it. Look, it's been a tough day. Go ahead
and finish up the shirts and you can knock off a half hour early."
Olive twills.
"Thanks Louis," said Celeste. She watched him go with a lemon
expression on her face. "Half