Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Well, we’ll just have to hope we have enough food for everyone,” Mrs. Cho says with a sniff, shooting another critical look up and down my frame. “And that Samuel fits in the Mini. If I’d known we were going to have another tall person to fit in the car, I would have brought Daddy’s van. Or rented a moving truck.”
“Mom, please,” Jess starts, but I interrupt her with a smile.
“Actually, I need to run a few errands downtown before I join you guys.” I give Jess’s upper arm a gentle squeeze as I motion toward the shops with my other hand. “I’ll take care of those and grab an Uber to your place. No problem.”
“And I’ll come with you,” Jess says, earning a heat-seeking missile of a glare from her mother. “You don’t need me at home right away, do you, Mom? Knowing you, I bet you had everything prepped to cook three days ago.”
“No, go with your family,” I say, hurrying to get a word in before Mrs. Cho explodes. “Have some alone time and enjoy catching up. I’ll be there soon.”
Jess sighs, but takes a step back, falling into line with the other women. “Okay. Shop safe. Don’t talk to strangers or buy any torn jeans. You’re too old for torn jeans.”
“And too tall,” Mrs. Cho agrees, earning a surprised look from Jess. “What?” her mother asks, lifting her hands at her sides. “Torn jeans are bad enough on short men, when there isn’t so much furry leg to show through the holes. For a tall, hairy man, it would be an embarrassment.”
Jess locks eyes with me over her mother’s head, mouthing an apology or maybe, “help me” or “shoot me.” I can’t tell for certain, but the horror in her expression is so over-the-top I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Lifting a hand in farewell and promising to see them soon, I start up the sidewalk toward the transformed downtown. I grab another tea at a new English tea shop, relishing the smoky flavor as I hunt for a place that sells conservative, Mrs. Cho-approved clothing.
But Jess was right, the stuffy, stuck-in-the-1950s downtown of our childhood is gone. The drugstore is now a CBD shop, the fabric place is a microbrewery, and the suit shop is a wood-fired pizza place. I pass several trendy clothing stores with loud music blaring from inside, but a glance in the display windows is all it takes to assure me I won’t find what I’m looking for inside. All the jeans are torn, the t-shirts are clingy in a way I’m sure Jess’s mom won’t approve of, and there isn’t a nicely folded collar in sight.
I’m beginning to think I might have to grab a car to the mall on the other side of town and take my chances there, when I turn a corner and see Frank’s Fine Family Clothing still in the same place it was when I was a kid. The display window reveals Frank’s has made an effort to keep up with the times—there are graphic t-shirts mixed in with the polo and dress shirts on the mannequins, and jeans on offer as well as neatly pressed slacks—but they’ll absolutely have what I’m looking for.
Inside, I quickly locate a lightweight black button-down shirt and khakis and change into them in the dressing room. I take the tags from the items, as well as a package of boxer briefs, a pair of pajama pants, a spare button-down in blue, socks, and a pair of khaki shorts to the counter and settle up with the clerk, who looks vaguely familiar. I suspect we went to high school together on the “bad” side of town, but we’ve both changed enough to be strangers to each other now.
Outside, I wander toward the edge of downtown, thinking about how much things have changed since Jess and I were kids, but how many things are also still exactly the same—like Mrs. Cho, and her rabid disapproval of wrinkles, surprises, and men over five foot ten.
On impulse, I duck into a gourmet cheese shop, where a friendly guy in a “Have You Accepted Cheeses Into Your Life?” t-shirt sets me up with a gourmet cheese board, a freshly baked baguette, and several packages of spiced pecans, one of Jess’s favorite guilty pleasures. Armed with appropriate clothing and edible offerings that will hopefully offset any worries about having enough food to go around, I call a car and head toward Jess’s neighborhood.
Here, things have changed, too. Giant new houses have sprung up on what once were empty lots and most of the 1960s bungalows on Jess’s block have gotten fresh paint, new roofs, and swanky landscaping. But when the driver pulls into Jess’s driveway, I can see the Cho place is exactly the same, which isn’t really surprising. The Chos both work hard, but there’s no way they’re keeping up with the Joneses when all their new neighbors are probably refugees from Manhattan making six or seven figures a year.