Decameron: Grooming (III/2)
When Della first texted Gary to say that her boyfriend had found a certain, ehem, compromising picture of him on her phone, she was remarkably calm and reassuring.
“There’s no way he can know it was you,” she promised. “I don’t keep your messages anywhere on my phone.”
The three dots of her typing indicator continued.
Ding. “I told him you were just some random dude who DMed me, and the picture got saved by accident.”
Ding. “Your face isn’t even in it.”
Which was true, of course, but Gary felt that glossed over something somewhat important.
Ding. “We should still have the Zoom happy hour with your house tomorrow. Otherwise, he’ll be suspicious.”
Of course.
Gary stared morosely at his phone, and barely even noticed as Ted, one of the six band mates he lived with, stuck his head in the door.
“Hey man, what’s the—” Ted paused. “Hey… are you OK?”
Gary felt Ted’s weight shift the mattress as he sat down on the other side of the bed, and tried to come up with a concise, non-humiliating way to explain the current situation. Before he could, Ted spoke up, softly:
“Yo, is this something about work?”
An idea bloomed in Gary’s mind. He turned to Ted, and put on his weariest, unhappiest smile.
“It’s nothing important.”
“C’mon, dude,” Ted said gently, earnestly. “You can tell me.”
“It’s just,” Gary blinked a few times for effect, “the hospital. They’ve got this new rule.” At Ted’s encouraging look, he continued. “Anyone who delivers food to them has to shave their beard. You know, for hygiene.”
He gestured in an off-hand way at his own, epic, dwarf-like beard. The one that extended halfway down his chest, majestically adorned with braids. The one that was 100% definitely visible in every picture he’d ever sent Della.
All of his band mates had similar beards, it was true. It was basically a requirement in their corner of Tampa’s death metal scene. But none of his band mates had beards that were bright orange like Gary’s.
Ted gasped in real horror and drew back a little reflexively.
“I guess I gotta do it,” Gary went on. “Part of being an essential worker and everything.” He made a show of stroking his beard a few times and sighing heavily. “It’ll be lonely without this guy, though.” He could hear the gears turning in Ted’s head. “I’ll feel lonely, being the only one of us like this.”
“No,” said Ted, determinedly. “You won’t.”
The next night, at the Zoom happy hour, Della’s boyfriend grimaced slightly. His eyes scoured every chin in the grid of faces. That beard had been a death metal beard, he knew. But every face on the call was clean-shaven.
He’d been outplayed, but he wouldn’t stay totally silent. Right before the call ended, he spoke aloud to no one in particular: “You know who you are.” Then, cryptically: “Don’t do it again.”
“That was weird,” Hans observed after they’d hung up. “Who was he talking to?”
“He sounded tense and kind of bitter,” Herman agreed.
“Be nice,” said Gary. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to quarantine with the kinds of friends I’ve got.” Who’d stock by his side, through thick and thin. Who’d shave in solidarity, without asking for a shred of proof that the hospital hygiene requirement he’d made up was real.
Gary smiled to himself. It still felt weird, without the weight of his beard, but he was coming to sort of like it. Maybe, he thought, as he went to text her, Della would too.
Decameron is a newsletter recounting the 14th Century set of quarantine tales for 2020. Read the original story.
Tell your friends!