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It’s a grocery store at midnight, somewhere in the deep south. Nick has a cart and he’s just picking up a few things, the necessary things. Lots of aspirin, Tylenol, and copious amounts of anything else that dulls pain. Alcohol. Trail mix. Just looking down at the cart makes him feel guilty and unhealthy. What would his mother think?
So on impulse he does a three-point turn with the cart, away from the dull eyed late night employee who looks one wrong question away from losing all grip on her sanity, and finds the produce section. He’s bent over the little open refrigerators that hold rows and rows of healthy little greens, trying to decide if he should spring for both a fruit and a vegetable when he hears a short, impatient cough from behind him.
“Oh, sorry,” he says without looking up. He presses his cart out of the strangers way and continues to contemplate the apples and asparagus. The person’s cart has a loose wheel and they rattle by without another word. He’s pretty sure his mom has a recipe for fried asparagus that he didn’t hate as a kid, but then again frying might go against the whole healthy thing. Then again, not frying it is probably against the law down here.
He chuckles a little to himself, before remembering he’s not alone and covering it with a cough. There’s something about a small town grocery store at midnight, maybe any grocery store at midnight, that makes him feel alone in the universe. As a matter of fact, that’s why he schedules his grocery runs at midnight in the first place.
It’s this thought that causes him to take a curious second glance at his fellow late night shopper. This person--this boy-- is a few yards ahead of him. He’s critically judging the bright rows of oranges, tangerines, clementines, grapefruit...He has a swoop of peroxide blonde hair coming off of his forehead in a ski jump motion. He’s wearing tight, faded blue jeans and a long sleeved thin white Henley under a forest green flannel that looks like it could swallow him.
Nick can tell instantly that he has not yet perfected the uniform. Nick did, years ago. The thin white undershirt or tank top under a red patterned flannel that has to look faded, manly, and not at all fashionable. The jeans can’t accentuate the frame in any way, and they must be of a dark wash variety. Work boots or ratty sneakers complete.
This boy is wearing a pristine pair of converse.
Anywhere else this would be boring. Here, Nick knows this boy has had the word queer spray painted on at least one of his possessions, seen people doing exaggerated imitations of the way his hands sit on his wrists. The boy looks tired beyond the fact that it’s midnight, and eventually chooses one of each of the fruits he’s been surveying.
He loads up his cart and starts to walk away.
Nick doesn’t even realize he’s following until it’s already happening.
“Hey,” he says. The boys back stiffens, and it’s then that Nick realizes he might be wearing the uniform a little too well. He tries to look non threatening as he wheels up next to him. “Do you know anything about eating healthy?” he asks. It seems a legitimate a question as any, especially considering his cart is the opposite of Nick’s. Nothing in there to make a mother feel ashamed.
“A little.” The boy says without looking up from surveying the bags of salad mix.
Nick decides to try one more time before taking the hint and getting out of this stranger’s hair. “I’m Nick,” he says as he holds out his hand “I was hoping you could help me out.”
Finally, the stranger turns and looks him in the eye. He gives Nick a quick up and down glance and cautiously takes his hand. “I’m Justin,” he says. “I’ll try my best.”
Justin hasn’t had a real friend since he flopped in Atlanta. All the people that were there on his radio tour across America, the people that toasted to his success when he signed his record deal, they had all disappeared when the spotlight moved on.
He had to get out of that town, with its reminders of his failure everywhere he went.
The fancy neighborhoods he didn’t have the gate code for, the clubs he could no longer get into, the stacks and stacks of his unsold records sitting patiently on the store shelves. He had thought nowhere could be worse, anywhere else would be better.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
This moment was a perfect example. This could just be a harmless stranger that didn’t understand basic nutrition, or it could be some asshole hick trying to trick him into saying something gay-bash worthy.
He decided to keep his options open and lead Nick through the vegetable and fruit selection process with as little commentary as possible. Insisting he get more than one of each was as much as he spoke. Nick didn’t seem discouraged by this.
As they rolled their carts to the one open lane he asked “So what do you do?”
“I’m a temp,” he said. That felt dishonest though, a betrayal of who he really was, so he added “Used to be a singer but I, uh, didn’t make it.” Beside him Nick’s cart came to an abrupt stop and he closed his eyes in silent prayer that he hadn’t just been recognized. He might have to abandon the cart and make a run for it.
But Nick just said “Really? Same here.” he smiled at Justin’s surprise. “Where?”
“Atlanta.”
A nod of understanding. “I was out near LA,” he said “Doing like, Disney shit.”
“Holy shit,” recognition lit up his eyes. “You’re Nick Jonas?” then the implications of what that really meant hit him, and he grimaced. “Sorry about all that, dude.”
Nick shrugged, flashing him an easy smile. “Water under the bridge. You?”
Justin’s smile wasn’t as easy. “Nothing big happened, just turns out I’m not such hot shit.” he said.
“It can be an unpredictable business.” Nick said with empathy. They both thought on that for a second before Justin did his best to shrug it off.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I mean, who could have predicted Lady Gaga, right?” The cashier cut him a look and he froze. He once again found himself in silent prayer.
“It’s okay,” Nick was quick to reassure him. He noted the cashier’ apparent indifference after that one moment of curiosity and cautiously continued. “I don’t really have room to judge.”
It took a moment for Justin to absorb what he was saying. “Oh," he said, relief evident in his tone.“Wait, could you tell before?” his voice dropped a little although there was no real point.
Nick nodded. “It’s your jeans,” he said apologetically.
“My jeans?”
“Yeah, they don’t fit the uniform. To light, too tight.”
Justin cast an inquiring glance at the cashier, now ringing up his items. After a hesitation, she gave him a short nod.
“Fuck,” he said. “I thought I was fitting in.”
“Nah,” Nick gathered the bags while Justin paid and loaded up his cart for him. “It’s cool though,” he said as they reached the doors. “I’m starting to think some people aren’t worth changing for.”
He tore off the bottom of his receipt and handed it over with one last smile before heading out across the desolate parking lot.
Justin looked down at the ten numbers written neatly and felt his heart lift a little.
Maybe there was something out here for him after all.