Where Do the Freckles Go?

by Dee Artea

Sitting in the mall to get out of July’s heat wave. Too hot at home. Walked here to get into an air-conditioned place.

Yesterday, it was a movie, to avoid my sweltering apartment. Saw that new spectacular, Quo Vadis. Over three-hours with the intermission. The longer, the better, I thought, to get out of the heat. Boring. Nothing but talk talk talk between the gladiator and other action scenes. No matter; a good way to keep cool.

Today, I’m sitting in a soft arm chair in the foyer, with the intense summer sun streaming through the large window of the mall. A windy morning, too, with people holding their hats, if they wear hats. But mainly holding their cellphones. Sitting or strolling. All looking intensely at their little rectangular screens. But not me. I don’t have one, because—

Oh, a guy just walked into the potted plant right next to me. Drops his phone. Crashes on the tile floor. He flies off the handle, cursing the potted plant. What a numbskull.

I look across the vast open area and focus on a reflection of a guy in shorts who’s—

“Oh, hello, Iris. Haven’t seen you in ages. How goes it?”

I look up, a guy about my age is peering down at me. Who is he?

“Hey, I see you’re still wearing that Kelly-green dress with the boatneck from the 50s. Wow! Still looks great, a bit faded and not too ‘Kelly,’ if I may say so. Gee whiz, I got rid of my 50s stuff ages ago. But nice to see you. Yeah, so nice.”

He starts talking about people I don’t know and places I’ve never heard of. Don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Who is this guy? Why is he talking to me? Where is he going with all this chatter?

On he rambles. “I see that you survived the virus pandemic: Covid 19. That’s good! Real good.”

Before I get a chance to say anything, he babbles on about somebody, something Roman. What does he mean? That they live in Rome? Or that they descended from the ancient Romans, like in the movie? Nero or Cicero? Reminds me, I looked up Quo Vadis. The Latin means, “Where are you going?”

Where’s this guy going with this Roman thing? Oh, wait wait wait. Maybe he said Roma. That’s the inoffensive term for what we used to call Gypsies. Maybe?

He mentions music. Listening to records. My records. He says, “I liked your records of the guy with the weird name. Played guitar, with a missing finger, too.” What is he talking about, and who is he?

He stands with both hands gripping a tan leather satchel. Sort of looks like a large marbles pouch, the kind young boys carry. Holding it in his hands just below his stomach, the bag hangs between his legs like an enormous codpiece. Cripes, why am I thinking about that?

He says he has to excuse himself. He needs to go to the washroom. He drank a lot of tea this morning and, well, you know. He asks me to wait right here. Okay, I’m not going anywhere.

I watch him walk away. He’s wearing slim-fitting grey pants, with an untucked short-sleeved yellow shirt that falls partway down his hips. He’s nicely built. He has a nice little bum. Yeah, nice.

What was he talking about: the Romans, a virus, the number 19? Did he mean Iris is 19? But I’m older than that. What gives? Quo Vadis. Where was he going?

Suddenly I’m aware of my wallet in my dress pocket, pressing against my leg. I reach in, pull it out, and open it. Ha! My driver’s license: Iris Roman. That’s not right, is it?

Okay, I’m Iris... but Roman? Is that what he said? Or was he talking about Quo Vadis? Or maybe it was the Roma? Gee whiz! What did he mean by a pandemic? Did he mean polio? Gosh, we haven’t gone swimming in a long time. Worried about polio. I could use a cooling swim with this heat wave.

What did he mean by the guy with the weird name? Guitar player, oh... maybe a Gypsy, a Roma? Think. Bo-jag, Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles. Yes, that’s... no! That’s a different guy, a tap dancer. Dojag, Djang, Django something. Yeah, him, the guitar player. Yes, a Roma.

Oh, he’s back. Thanks me for staying. As if I had somewhere to go. And so he continues with the chattering about I don’t know what.

Oh, wait. He said something about a Ferris wheel. Yes, it was at West View Amusement Park, we got stuck on top. The motor broke or something. I was petrified and almost wet my pants. Actually, I think I did. How embarrassing was that? I’ve had fear of heights ever since. It happened last week. Was he the guy I was with? My boyfriend, I think. What’s his name? Begins with a... what?

Ah, my neck’s getting sore gazing up at him. Why doesn’t he sit down in the empty chair that’s right behind him?

I stand up, gesture to my chair. “Here, take a load off.” He immediately plops down. Without missing a beat, he rattles on about people I don’t know. I sit across from him in the once vacant chair and peer directly into his eyes. Blue eyes. Friendly eyes. Sexy eyes. Like Paul Newman in The Silver Chalice.

As he gabs on, he stares intently at me. My eyes can’t easily stray far from his face. I look him over, as best I can. Red hair. Long, but not too long. Looks freshly washed. Dried, no doubt, by today’s hot wind. Frizzy and curly, like a fiery halo over the top of his head. It makes me think of—

Don Larsen. Did he say Don Larsen? Yes, last week I watched the World Series between the Yankees and the Dodgers on TV. He was with me, he says? But that was when? Yeah, Larsen pitched a perfect game, and we saw the whole thing from start to finish. But I was with my boyfriend. How does this guy know? Who won that Series, New York or Brooklyn? Geez, who is this guy?

He’s not handsome or cute. His eyes are too far apart. It makes his face look — how should I say? — flat. As if someone accidentally sat on him, squishing his face. But he smells good. Smells clean, if there is such a thing. Like he just stepped out of a shower... shower, umm, his body.

No, he’s not what I would call attractive. But I find him ... inviting. The friendly way he expresses himself with those warm eyes. The slight tilt of the head as he makes a point. I like the sound of his voice even though he talks too much. Whoever he is, I’m glad he knows me. But how does he know me? I need to say something. What can I say? If he’d just stop talking maybe I can—

He sneezes and, as he reaches into his pocket for a tissue, I blurt out: “Say, I’ve been thinking, it’s been a while, and I forget how I know you.”

After wiping his nose, he says, “Well, we don’t know each other in the Biblical sense.” And he sort of snickers.

Dang, where did that come from! Good grief, now I don’t know what to say. I smile, an awkward smile. I’ll wait for him to say the next thing. My only comeback right now is this half-hearted Cheshire-cat grin.

Wait ... did he mean that we did? Did it? I would remember that, wouldn’t I? Aargh, did he think I was making a joke? I don’t know what to say.

Again, he has to excuse himself. Another trip to the washroom. The tea coming through, it seems. I’ll have to ask him his name. Maybe that will help. I don’t know what else to do. So I just stare off into space, as people with cellphones stream back and forth. Where are they all going, and what do they see on those little screens? Cripes, I have a large 12-inch TV at home. Lots bigger than those little—

Oh, he’s coming back. I have to ask him his name. What else can I do? Oh I’ll say that I forgot how to spell his name. That might work, yeah.

“Ya know, for some reason I’ve forgotten how to spell your name. Oh, silly me.”

“Iris, you’ve got to be kidding, no? I thought you were joking about how we know each other. Humm, maybe not? Well, it’s D-I-C-K M-C-C-L-O-U-D. Dick McCloud, does that ring a bell?

I don’t know how to answer him, as he sits and again stares at me, eye to eye. I just look at his red hair. And then I notice the freckles. Fitting with the red hair. Lots of freckles, across his nose, over his chin, even on his lips. Not very sensuous lips; too thin. Probably on his arms, but I can’t see them, for I must keep focused near his eyes, as he gazes intently at me.

I glance at his neck. The top two buttons on his shirt are open. I spot freckles on his chest. Is he Irish? Now, why do I think that? Maybe because I know an Irish person who has freckles and red hair. His clean smell makes me think of Irish Spring soap from TV commercials. Is that what I smell? I really don’t know, since I’ve never used that brand of soap.

He’s looking at me in what looks like disbelief. Doesn’t know what to say.

But my thoughts drift back to the codpiece and the freckles. Where else do guys have freckles? Do they even have freckles down there, on their—

Yes, that’s it. Freckles, boyfriend, blind date.

“Dick McCl... What was it?”

“McCloud. Dick McCloud. Like a cloud in the sky,” he says, with a wide smile.

“Yes, A blind date. My first, and I believe, my last. I was obsessed with your freckles. Wanted to see them all over your body, I even asked if you had them on your... do you remember?”

“How could I forget, Iris? I was shocked — and I must admit now — aroused by such a question from a girl, and at our age.”

“Did I ever find out? I can’t remember.”

“Iris, that was the 1950s, and good kids like us didn’t do such things.”

“I don’t care if it was the 1950s, I want to know. Hey, Dick, come over to my apartment and we’ll find out, now. I’ll find out where else you have freckles. I really need to know. Yeah, I really need to know where the freckles go. Okay, will you come? It’s not far. It’s not air-conditioned, but we can open a window. What do you say? Game? Oh, maybe there’s a ballgame on TV too. I’m a big Brooklyn fan, and—”

“Iris, I need to tell you—”

“I need to see what’s under that codpiece, Dick. Oh, and speaking of which, you can use my bathroom, if you have to pee some more.”