Gustave, “The Moveable Feast,” stood over six feet tall, a simultaneous monolith and iconoclast. He dressed well—perhaps lavishly would be a better term—with a wardrobe appropriate and commodious to his stature. Standing behind Foster, The Moveable Feast wore a sepia-tinged houndstooth jacket, wide shouldered on his barrel-like rotundity. A pine-green handkerchief, redolent of balsam, was tucked in his left breast pocket. Foster could smell it even over the smell of vegan pastrami disintegrating upward. He wore no tie; instead he wore a turtleneck whose hue matched the handkerchief. He wore black dress pants and polished leather shoes to complete the ensemble.
“I see you left the hat at home,” Foster said, looking at The Feast’s bald brown pate.
He grinned. “’S too lovely a day for it.” The Moveable Feast sat with a crinkle at an adjacent table.
At attention, Foster asked, “What’s the spoils this time?”
The Moveable Feast removed a baggie weighed with squiggly green crisps, well-oiled. “Kale chips, fried this morning. Home seasoned too.” He offered the bag to Foster.
Foster inhaled. A heady profusion of herbs—a commingling of rosemary, tarragon—and a subtle pinch of spices—cumin and coriander—with some black pepper, swelled in his nostrils. He took a chip, and chewing, looked down at his plate feeling a sense of forlornness.
“Why’d you have to do that to me?” he said, gesturing to the pastrami.
The Feast laughed and cached the bag of kale chips inside his voluminous coat. At a glimpse, Foster saw an array of bottles and baggies all along the dark umber interior of the coat.
Gustave had earned his nickname in no small part as a gourmand, but also for his idiosyncrasies. On personality alone, he was a moveable feast—a moving one, rather, pleasantly peregrinating—but in practice, with his tailored suitcoats nested with niches for his gustatory treasures, he was consummate.
It had begun in middle school, alongside the other adolescent metamorphoses from children into punks, gossips and has-beens. It was all rather sudden: Gustave, previously a big, quiet boy who lived with his haberdasher uncle, transmogrified into The Moveable Feast somewhere between seventh and eighth grade.
The other children, under the sway of illimitable fantasy novels, anime and late night news (the forbidden fruit of yon adolescence) believed he had been struck by magic or paranormally possessed. Some, more inclined to mysticism, believed he began sucking on rocks to discern their flavor.
In reality, it had begun with the clothes his haberdasher uncle donated to him. The food came later, once he moved past the sublime art of grilled cheese. Nonetheless, the extent of The Moveable Feast’s transformation held a lot of traction with people. He began wearing large clothes and caching delicacies in the lining, which he prompted his uncle to fashion after much reluctance.
He shared these delicacies with everyone but mortal enemies and former bullies. Foster, on his part, had not made friends with The Feast until Klasper introduced them junior year of high school. And even then, Foster felt a certain distance from him, as if Klasper’s friendship with The Feast hung as a specter between them. To be more blunt, he felt like Klasper’s plus one with The Moveable Feast. Nonetheless.
“You seen Klasp?” The Feast asked. “He was gonna get me a few pounds of pastrami.”
“Pounds? What’s the occasion?”
The Moveable Feast looked at Foster askance. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“I mean, he said we were picking up you and Thile—”
“—Thile Knitwool? She’s coming?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Klasp hasn’t mentioned her, not since we started planning this a week ago anyway.”
Foster mulled an instant—over Klasper’s sudden interruption, his scarified visage, his tense quotation of Milton—and a small sentiment sparked in his mind. Before he could air it, he saw a few heavy bags of pastrami fly into The Moveable Feast’s anticipatory arms.
“Morrow, gentlemen. Let’s go,” Klasper said.
Slightly aghast, The Moveable Feast took a long look at his deliverer’s face.
“Christ, Klasp. What happened to your face?”
“No time, gents. Need to make a run to the ATM.”
He was unceasing. By the time Foster and The Feast rose, Klasper was out the door. They trailed him to an ATM in the wall on the side of Lewis Street.
“Keep an eye out,” Klasper said.
“An eye out for what?” Foster asked, as he and The Moveable Feast looked around, behind them, back to their car Lycidas.
The answer presented itself swiftly. As soon as Klasper slid his debit card into the machine, he felt hard metal pressing against his back head.
“Hello Klasper,” the man in gray said.
The adventures of Foster will resume next year.
