The door banged open and closed with a whoosh.

The
frigid blast of January air passed through Zooey’s faux angora
sweater like guppies through a tuna net. Zooey could only see
the top of his head above the deli counter, but she could tell
from his mop of rusty hair it was Mason. He padded across the
rickety wood floor, the broken buckles on his rubber boots
tinkling like distant sleigh bells, and took his place behind
the customer, whose sandwich Zooey was currently making.
Around these parts he was simply Mason, not the moppet, who
once famously quipped that Underwood Devil’s Ham tasted like a
“borgasmord!” Zooey liked him, and it had nothing to do with
his former child-star status either. He calmed her, and this
wasn’t hyperbole. His presence actually had a physiological
affect on her. Maybe it was his kind face. Or maybe it was
that his doughy frame unconsciously reminded her of the
concrete cherub that long ago stood sentinel over her
grandfather’s flower garden. He once offhandedly told her
that he wanted to take her to Disney World, an offer Zooey
still chalked up as maybe the most romantic thing anyone had
ever said to her. But the truth was, she liked a man with a
little meat on his bones, and at four foot eight inches tall
and three hundred and sixty pounds, Mason definitely fit the
bill. During the quieter moments -- the lulls between
customers -- she would even find herself daydreaming about him
-- riding Splash Mountain, protectively nestled between his
stubby legs, as they road the waterfall together straight
down, down, down.
But lately, Mason’s presence had become increasingly
irritating. He had been coming here almost daily for three
years and had never so much as asked her out for a drink -- an
oversight Zooey now found impossible to ignore. What Zooey
didn’t know -- had no way of knowing -- was that Mason,
although a loquacious and precocious child, had morphed into
an insecure and awkward adult, who was now almost paralyzing
shy, a trait many mistook for being stuck up.
But why did he come here? It certainly wasn’t for the
liverwurst, which tasted like ass and which he’d carefully
scrape off and feed to the cats in the alley behind the Rite
Aid. All Mason knew was that for the better part of two years
now he had found himself increasingly drawn to this brown-eyed
beauty by forces he couldn’t rationally explain…or maybe he
could explain them. First of all, there was the obvious. She
was smart. Confident. Beautiful. In fact, there were so
many things Mason liked about her, he could easily run out of
superlatives. Then, of course, there was the physical
attraction. When it came to Zooey, Mason -- who had never
even kissed a girl on the lips -- had to confess that certain
 2.

prurient impulses where holding sway over him. When her back
was turned, Mason would find his eyes hypnotically tracing her
curves, and imagine he was riding a Ninja, helmetless and bare
assed through the treacherous, hairpin turns of the Kancamagus
Highway. But beyond this, Mason found it almost unbearably
sad that she had never been to Disney World, an entitlement
Mason felt was the birthright of every American child. He
wanted to share with Zooey the thrills of his childhood -- Big
Thunder Mountain Railroad -- The Pirates of the Caribbean --
Peter Pan’s Flight. But most of all he wanted to take her
away from here, get in his 1975 AMC Pacer and drive south to a
place where there was nothing but azure sky and ocean and warm
sandy beaches. A place where it was summer all year round.
But times were tough, and while Mason bravely presented an air
of nobility, he was in reality nearly destitute. There were
the occasional autograph signings at comic book and horror
conventions, but the royalties from the Devil’s Ham and Dunkin
Munchkin commercials had all but dried up. He wasn’t adverse
to menial labor and there were odd jobs over the years --
grocery store bag boy -- security guard. Even a short stint
as a lifeguard, but each job had always brought the
predictable jerky adolescent comments and unwanted attention.
He had even passed the state Deputy Sherriff Trainee written
test, but his diminutive size prevented him from achieving
this dream. Yes, life sucks when you’re a forty-four year old
former child actor.
He waddled up to the counter. His tattered down parka
did nothing to hide his girth. He looked like the Michelin
Man’s degenerate little brother, the one who lived in the
refrigerator box under the overpass and who you’d occasionally
see holding the cardboard sign and begging for change along
the interstate off ramp. Even standing on tiptoes his eyes
and nose were just visible over the edge of the deli display
case. If he orders liverwurst again today I’m going to smash
his face into the freakin’ meat slicer, Zooey thought to
herself.
“Hi,” he said, cheerfully, his cheeks shiny and red like
two Macoun apples. “Liverwurst on rye.”
Zooey smiled politely, and gritted her back molars. The
sudden flash of pain unhappily reminded her that she still had
to have her wisdom teeth pulled.
“Onions?” Zooey asked. Of course she knew the answer,
but she was feeling puckish and even mildly passive
aggressive.
“Please,” Mason said, his breath steaming up the glass on
the deli case window.
The ancient heater kicked on, rasping and clanking like a
 3.

geriatric tin man. Zooey and Mason were immediately enveloped

in a plume of warm, stale air that smelled vaguely of old
pickle juice.
“Mason, can I ask you a question?” Zooey said, plopping a
generous mound of stiff liverwurst dead center on a slice of
day-old rye bread.
“Why, certainly,” Mason said, doing his best to sound
debonair and worldly.
“Why do you come here?”
Mason was taken aback. What an odd question. He had
already noticed she was not her usual buoyant self today, but
her tone was foreign and scary to him.
“I mean, why do you come here?” she asked again. “I see
you day after day after day after day.”
Mason felt a wave of unease rise in the pit of his
stomach. Or maybe it was just gas.
“Do you want me to stop?” he burped.
Zooey could see him visibly deflate, like a leak in the
Underdog float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
“No,” Zooey said, turning down her harsh tone a few
notches. “I just want you to answer the question.”
“I like the liverwurst,” Mason said, innocently.
“Bullshit!” Zooey hissed. “We make horrible liverwurst.
Last week I put Comet in it to see what you’d do and you
didn’t even say an effing word!”
“Oh, I thought it was Romano cheese,” Mason blushed.
“Answer the question!”
“The question?” Mason giggled uncomfortably.
“Why do you come here?” She said it slowly, enunciating
each word.
Mason raised a provocative eyebrow.
“Why do you think I come here?”
Zooey could see he was sweating like an overstuffed
burrito.
“Will you stop answering my questions with freakin’
questions?” she snapped. She had an uncontrollable urge to
feed his tongue into the meat grinder.
Mason looked down at his toes, or rather the approximate
region where his toes would be if the crescent of his
ponderous belly weren’t completely obscuring them from view.
His face was flushed and ruddy.
“I come here….” Mason hesitated. Then, he cleared his
throat and began again. “I come here because these few
moments with you are the one thing I look forward to.”
Zooey stared at him, her face now soft, her eyes blinking
question marks. A lifetime passed between them.
“Why can’t you say it?” Zooey asked. Her tone was almost
 4.

gentle.
“Say what?”
Zooey huffed in exasperation.
“How you feel about me.”
Mason looked up. He felt a burst of inner strength and
confidence that he hadn’t felt since childhood.
“I can say it,” he said, now as solid and immovable as
Michelangelo’s David. “But are you ready to hear it?”
She could feel her heart fluttering through her chest
wall like the stroke of a hummingbird’s wing.
“Are you?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Zooey said, weakly. She could feel the ceiling
and the walls start to elongate.
Mason giggled and smiled demurely, like a geisha in a
room filled with American sailors.
“Um…I think I’m falling in love with you.”