Sons of the 613 by Michael Rubens

really much more all-purpose and without all those racist skinhead connotations.” This last was from the salesperson at one of the stores, a guy Lesley seemed to be friends with.
    It’s safe to say I’d prefer to drink a large glass of warm mucus rather than have to shop for clothes. But I would happily spend the rest of my life shopping if I could do it with Lesley.
    â€œI’m Lesley,” she announced as she was escorting me down the sidewalk, “and I’ll be your stylist today. How great is that?”
    â€œUm . . . pretty great?”
    â€œExactly. Are you mentally prepared to have your mind blown by sheer fun-ness?”
    â€œUm . . .”
    â€œSay, ‘I’m mentally prepared to have my mind blown by sheer fun-ness.’”
    â€œI’m mentally prepared to have my mind blown by sheer, uh . . .”
    â€œFun-ness.”
    â€œFun-ness.”
    â€œRight on. All right, here we are.”
    I won’t bore you with the play-by-play of the actual consumer experience. To me it all went by in a fuzzy, joyous blur. She led me into one store after another, laughing and joking as she loaded up my arms with clothes until they towered over my head. She was funny and wise and genuine and completely unintimidated by my brother, and she listened to what I said, as if it never dawned on her to notice how dumb and awkward and hideous and hopeless I am. And because she was somehow able to pretend that I’m actually worth talking to, I started to think that maybe I was, and I managed to put together real sentences with all the words in the right order and not make the usual fool of myself. The frog sang, or at least hummed quietly.
    She knew everyone at the stores. She’d walk in and announce some variation of “Hey, [name of gay hipster clothing salesperson], this is my BFF Isaac, and he’s supercool and needs the clothes to match his inner coolness.”
    The very first store we went into, she leaned into the dressing room when I had my pants half off. I nearly collapsed into the corner, desperately trying to cover myself up, but she didn’t apologize or cover her eyes or react at all, except to say, “Nice legs. How are those pants working for you?” By the end of the day, I was changing with her in the dressing room with me, as if it was completely natural that an attractive nineteen-year-old girl I’d just met that day was seeing me in my underwear.
    â€œTwo words for you,” she said at one point, looking at my white Hanes undies. “Boxer briefs.” So we got the boxer briefs.
    Things I learned about her: waitress right now, not going to college because she plans to move to Hollywood and become a stylist for movies and fashion shoots and TV. That’s the person who selects all the clothes for the stars to wear, and they have to have really good taste and know what they’re doing, and they can make really good money and it’s glamorous and cool.
    â€œAre you enjoying being my guinea pig?” she asked.
    â€œI love being your guinea pig.”
    Â 
    Josh hung back, content to observe and make the occasional comment or just roll his eyes. Sometimes he’d disappear entirely for a stretch, reappearing at checkout time to put the clothes on my parents’ credit card.
    â€œJosh,” I said as I watched him ring up the first sale, “you sure this is okay?”
    â€œNope,” he said, signing the receipt.
    A few times when I came out of the dressing room I saw Josh and Lesley talking quietly. Sometimes she seemed to be teasing him, or just listening intently. Once I saw her place her hand on his shoulder. Other times I’d catch her watching him, following him with her eyes, her expression wistful.
    I know, okay? I’m not an idiot. I might be in love with her, but she’s in love with him. But he’s not in love with her, and I don’t know why. Maybe he was at some time