Page 50 of The Spirit of Love
He nods, but it feels flirty. To the point where I’m getting a little hot.
“I’d love that,” I say, and I think it sounds like I’m flirting back. I take a breath, try to find my way out of this flustering moment. “So you were a wild child?”
“I used to be. And I thought my mom was going to be furious that I couldn’t go to school the one week she made the most money. She was strict, you know, single mom, no patience for my shit. But that week, she let me spend every day in the shop with her. When it was slow, we’d talk. She’d ask me tough questions. Stuff I never wanted to talk about. But she made me answer her, dressed up in one ridiculous costume after the next. Something shifted. I started opening up. Neither of us could keep a straight face, even talked about my dad leaving, when I was dressed like Ace Ventura.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “about your dad, and that I’m picturing how ridiculous you would look as Ace Ventura.”
“When I moved here ten years ago,” he says, “I started working onBrujowith my friend Matt.”
I nod, putting it together that Matt is his DP, the ponytailed guy he brought on set with him today.
“That film came out of this nightmare I used to have as a kid. Matt and I were friends from high school, and he wasalways encouraging me to make something out of the idea. I didn’t know where to start. The brujo in my dream was invisible, so when Matt told me about this place, I thought I might begin to see what he’d look like, what he’d wear.”
“That’s how you started working on your film?”
“Groping in the dark my whole way through,” he says. “But this place”—he looks up at the racks of clothing triple-stacked to the high ceiling—“it became more than that for me. It reminded me of that week with my mom. I started coming here more often, when I was depressed.”
“Are you depressed?” I ask.
He tosses his head. “I mean, yeah, on and off, but earlier today, I thought that you might have been feeling low…” He trails off, looks around again, and I understand. He brought me here to try to cheer me up.
It’s strange and ironic and somewhat embarrassing. And at its heart, I think it also might be kind.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m moving through some feelings of—”
“Hold on.” Jude’s hand stop-signs me. He takes my shoulders gently in his hands. His hands that feel like Sam’s on my skin. And he moves me down the aisle, a few feet to the left, until I’m standing before a mirror. He grabs a stiff, broad-brimmed turquoise velvet hat with a giant feather plume and plops it on my head. It’s huge, sinking over my eyes so I can barely see my reflection.
“Say it with the hat on,” Jude instructs.
I straighten my spine, spread my arms, and enunciate like I’m on stage. “I’m moving through some feelings of indecisionand inadequacy due to—” It’s as far as I can get before I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and burst out laughing.
Jude’s already laughing, face in the clothing rack and shoulders shaking.
“Your turn, asshole,” I say, whipping off the hat. I grab another from the rack, this one a navy satin turban printed with golden stars and a heavy crystal ball wedged in the center front. I tug it down on Jude’s head, but it’s a little small, pinching his forehead, making his ears stick out. With his glasses askew, he looks absurd.
He softly shoulder-bumps me out of the way so he can stand before the mirror.
“So what’s your problem,genie-us?” I ask.
He looks at himself. Shakes his head at his reflection. “I think my dog hates me.”
I crack up.
“I’m serious,” he says, but he’s laughing, too. “It’s so awful. I’ve bought every toy for him, tried every trainer, but he treats me with such contempt.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Walter Matthau.”
“Because he’s a grumpy old man?”
He shakes his head.
I think a moment. “Because you’re turning overA New Leafby getting a dog?”
“You got it! I’ve never met anyone who knows that movie.”
“You aren’t so mysterious,” I say. “A little Wes Anderson, a little Japanese horror, and an industry that hasn’t seen any film pre–Home Alone.”
