he worst place on Earth was located at the end of the row of pants in the special boys' store that were labelled husky.

It was a small closet with a curtain that you tried to pull as shut as possible, with the furtive care of a compulsive masturbator:

The Fitting Room ­
where nothing fit.

When a pair of pants did fasten around my waist without causing visible self-mutilation, it was like that last-second phone call from the governor in prison movies ­ even if the fact that the pants had come from the husky section meant that they were as ugly as a 7-11 uniform from Pluto, usually brown, and aggressively lacking in any grace, style, or cool ­ as if any whimsical concession to fashion might somehow mysteriously shrink them to normal, unwearable, size.