The North Face

by Erin Fitzgerald

The clothes. That’s the difference between this town and the last one we lived in. There, underwear fought outerwear all day long. Here, they cultivate henleys and capris and anoraks and clogs in their kitchen windows, and then bring them to fruition in custom-built greenhouses. Even the one fat man never has to adjust a hem.

Karl is the one fat man. He is the most depressed life coach in the country, possibly on the planet. Today when he took off his clothes at my house, he left his Polarfleece hanging inside out on the back of my desk chair. The whole time I was adjusting straps and pouring hot wax and making him lick hand tools and hoping he’d safeword out in time for me to clean up before Chloe came home from school, I wanted to check the label on that Polarfleece. Most people in town wear Polarfleece with a logo above the pocket, so you know who you are dealing with. If I could get a look at the label on Karl’s, it might explain. Why he was fat. Why he was depressed. Why he kept coming back. Why I keep opening the door on early Monday and Wednesday afternoons.

I took the insole out of my boot and I shoved it in his mouth. His eyes didn’t bug out. See what I mean? “Chew on that,” I said. “I’m going to go get the hood.”
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