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The door banged open and closed with a whoosh. The

frigid blast of January air passed through Zooeys 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 Devils 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

wasnt 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

grandfathers 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, Masons presence had become increasingly

irritating. He had been coming here almost daily for threeyears and had never so much as asked her out for a drink -- an

oversight Zooey now found impossible to ignore. What Zooey

didnt 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 wasnt for the

liverwurst, which tasted like ass and which hed 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-eyedbeauty by forces he couldnt rationally explainor 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

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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 Pans 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 Devils Ham and Dunkin

Munchkin commercials had all but dried up. He wasnt 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 youre 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

Mans degenerate little brother, the one who lived in therefrigerator box under the overpass and who youd 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 Im 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 hadto 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

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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 Macys 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 youd do and you

didnt 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, enunciatingeach 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 werent 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 cant you say it? Zooey asked. Her tone was almost

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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 hadnt felt since childhood.

I can say it, he said, now as solid and immovable as

Michelangelos David. But are you ready to hear it?

She could feel her heart fluttering through her chest

wall like the stroke of a hummingbirds 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.

UmI think Im falling in love with you.