Desmond walked into the artificial chill of the cavernous store and took off his sunglasses. Russell and Melanie were carrying a nondescript, vaguely industrial dining table to the back. Whenever he stopped in, the two of them were moving furniture from one end of the store to the other, trying to make the store seem less cluttered if they were overstocked or more cluttered if they were low on inventory. Presentation is everything, Russell had explained to Desmond, a statement Desmond wouldn’t argue with, since the goods themselves were clearly nothing: nondescript, mass-produced furniture, nondescript cotton clothes Russell had labeled “early’80s Gap,” Brooks Brothers suits representing the financial boom portion of the decade, lots of Tom Clancy novels. The store’s big sellers were the Reagan memorabilia they had tucked into every corner—magazine covers, plates, framed photos of Ron and Nancy, political pins, even little diorama-type shrines—and assorted clutter relating to a variety of the decade’s top television shows. Desmond was convinced that with the way things were going, American history courses would be using TV Guide as primary source material within a decade. Sooner or later, all cultural references seemed to circle back to Cheers or Dallas. Increasingly, students referred to television shows as the decisive factors in their spiritual and psychological development. They came to the store in droves buying up lunch boxes and dish sets and toys that reminded them of their very recent childhoods.

Russell and Melanie were about the same height and had similarly slight bodies. They were often mistaken for brother and sister, although at the moment, turning the table on end and maneuvering it into a sliver of empty space against a back wall, they looked more like husband and wife preparing their house for a natural disaster. They set down the table and Russell disappeared. Melanie—black work boots swimming around her skinny legs—clomped up to the front of the store, grabbed Desmond’s hand, and shook it with the robust enthusiasm of a politician. “Big day, huh?” She pulled up a metal folding chair, motioned toward it, and held it for Desmond until he was seated. “Russell’s all worked up about it, although suffering in silence.” She shook her head with concern for her friend, lit up a cigarette, and plopped down on a sofa with her big feet up on a coffee table. Melanie had the gestures and vocal inflections of a three-hundred-pound truck driver, a bizarre juxtaposition to her wiry body. “It’s going to be a rough few months.”

“Just remember,” Desmond said, “it is only a few months. Very few in the scheme of things.” He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “What’s Russell up to now?”