Faivish the Imbecile – Robert Bagnall

“There’s a stack of dockets in the shop. Repairs and alterations. What do you want me to do about them?” I asked.

“You manage the shop now. You’re old enough. You know more about cutting suits than you think you do.”

“What about Faivish?”

“Faivish can decide for himself. What’s it to be Faivish, suits or t-shirts? The past or the future?”

“Craftsmanship or salesmanship,” I cut in without thinking. And I suddenly realized that I wanted to protect Faivish, poor imbecilic Faivish, the amalgamation of body parts reanimated by fifty thousand volts with his twelve-month parts and labor guarantee long since expired, from all this. We looked at each other. I suspect there was fear in my eyes, but there was only blank incomprehension in his.

“Do you know what hubris is?” I asked softly.

“Does he sell t-shirts too?” Faivish responded, baffled.

What none of us had realized was that whilst we were arguing Stern had gained its first potential customer. He had his back to us as he browsed through the rails. Little more than a boy with a bag slung over one shoulder. Blue jeans and a navy blue peacoat, the sort worn by sailors.

“We’ll have many, many more t-shirts tomorrow. Different colors,” my father called cheerily.

“Different prices,” Faivish followed up helpfully.

The boy turned around.

Underneath the unbuttoned peacoat was a t-shirt.

A white t-shirt.

A white t-shirt with numbers on the front.

The boy put his hands in his pockets pushing back the peacoat, revealing more of what he wore below it. A white t-shirt with black numbers on the front. Curling, curving, flowing numbers. Not my father’s bold, boxy, robotic numerals. This was more like handwriting than imitation hot metal. Handwriting that signed off with a flourish.

Handwriting that said ‘99c’.

“Thanks,” the boy said flatly and drifted out of the shop, pausing to glance at one last item in what I knew was merely his way of not appearing to leave too quickly.

I ran out onto the street, after him, almost spun him round. “Where did you get that?” I must have come across as a mad girl, panting, probably spitting as I spoke.

“They’re selling them on the steps of NYU,” he said, backing away.

I ran there.

There were rails of them. Each and every one with ‘99c’ printed on the front in that flowing hand in every color under the sun. Dollar bills and tees and pennies changing hands faster than I could watch. Almost everybody seemed to be wearing one or carrying one away.

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