“Excuse me sir, you can’t come in here with those,” a tall, thinly-mustached man with a snobby accent approached Marcus wagging a finger bossily at his shoes.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“We have a dress code,” the bossy finger now struck at the wall. Marcus squinted at a gilded plaque which read:
DRESS CODE IN EFFECT
NO HOODS
NO ATHLETIC WEAR
NO CAPS
NO SNEAKERS
ALL GUESTS MUST BE DRESSED TO OUR STANDARDS IN ORDER TO PRESERVE THE BEST AND MOST COMFORTABLE ENVIRONMENT TO OUR PATRONS. WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO MAKE ANY CHANGES WE DEEM NECESSARY IF WE OBSERVE OTHERWISE.
Marcus scratched his head and audibly re-read, “make any changes...” as his eyes circled back over the warning. But just as he began to inquire the meaning of this, the tall man threw him a strange wide-eyed smile, thrust down a hefty lever next to the plaque, and Marcus was plummeting before he could comprehend the existence of the trap door directly beneath him.
The fall was too short for even a proper shout to escape his lips, and he landed with an “Oof,” in a bunch of spongy cushions. Quickly surveying his surroundings, he noted he was in a large workroom with fabric, cushions, wood, and sewing tools littered about. He stood up to run for the only door when it swung open and a wide, frizzy-haired woman wearing a sturdy apron bustled in.
Without saying a word of greeting, she rushed toward Marcus, produced a tape measurer, and began to measure him.
“Woah, hey, look, I just need to use the bathroom, I’m not trying to—”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted him without stopping her work, “You can go once you are properly dressed.”
She then stuffed a big wad of cotton in his mouth preventing further speech (mostly from bewilderment,) and through a process happening too quickly for Marcus to make sense of, the woman whirled busily around him—poking him with needles, tying his limbs with string, and draping bits of heavy lavish fabric over his shoulders. All the time she was muttering things like, “Hmmm, this might do,” and “We have been needing a new one of these for a while now,” and “Right, now. THAT’S smart!”
She stopped just as abruptly as she began, stood back rather pleased with herself and said, “Why yes, I think we’ve got it!”
At these words, Marcus was horrified to come out of a dizzy fog that had sneakily commandeered his brain only to find he no longer had any sense of feeling in his body. And when he tried to cry out, he was left with the distinct impression that he no longer had vocal cords.
“We’ll get you up to the lobby in no time,” she continued, then scurried out.
Before Marcus could fully re-assemble his dismembered sense of consciousness, two burly men lumbered through the door.
“That must be it,” the one with enormous feet pointed.
“Heh-heh,” the one with enormous ears chuckled, “Lucky dude. The last one was a foot stool.”
“What’s wrong with a foot stool?” Big-Feet replied. Big-Ears made no answer. The two of them reached down toward Marcus.
“I must be lying down,” Marcus barely had time to think before the men hoisted him into the air.
Out the door they went—down a few dark hallways and up into an elevator where Big-Ears temporarily set Marcus down to press “L”.
“Right over here—” as soon as the doors opened the bossy finger was at it again, and Marcus was brought down to a halt and pushed up against a wall. Across the room an ornate mirror hung in view, and Marcus could now catch a glimpse of his appearance.
“I’m a couch,” he thought, “I’m a FANCY LOBBY COUCH.” But before the despair could saunter in past his blinding mystification, Big-Feet cut in by asking Snobby-Accent,
“What should we do with the old one?”
“Toss it out, I suppose. It’s a shame, but one should really know better than to always be dressing for one’s own benefit and comfort rather than that of others,” he sighed. “Now excuse me gentlemen, but I believe some proper guests are arriving. Would you please make yourselves scarce before their eyes are accosted by the sight of you?”
He then glided to welcome an elegant couple entering by the same revolving door off the street Marcus passed through when he first arrived.
Marcus-the-couch—trying to think clearly through what he now instinctively discerned was stuffing—only caught the last of the welcome that came out of the thin-mustached lips:
“Won’t you please make yourselves comfortable while you wait?” they snooted, while his hands (fingers now politely held together) finished with a flourish towards Marcus and his new attire.
Animals don't wear clothes.
But humans? Humans are different. They have an outfit for school and an outfit for work and an outfit for the beach and an outfit for serious life events. Like getting married or getting departed.
Humans even have outfits that go under their outfits. Weird.
I would rather be a dolphin
but I am a monkey.
Dale stared at the email, his mind working to catch up as the body heat from the initial shock radiated from his skin. His eyes latched onto the one offhand line: a tonal misfit amidst all of the straight-laced instructions about safety and health screenings and deskmate manners. “No sweatpants, but no evening gowns either ;)”
The stray informality threw him into doubt. He stared through the sentence, into a tableau of potential scenarios he had not considered. He made up his mind weeks ago, but it was abstract then. Now, the choice couldn't stay in his imagination. Now, the return date shadowed his daydreams.
Until this moment, he pictured only best-case scenarios. He would step off the elevator whistling "Sh-Boom" like a songbird. Heads would turn to find the source of that beautiful vibrato (he'd been practicing), and even the expectations of those artsy types in the graphic design department would be blown away by the true source: Dale Kowalcyzk, strutting along, bedecked from head to toe in his Rococo-era raiment. Mitch, the office bully, noticing that attention had escaped him, would attempt to recapture it with an ignorant wisecrack about Dale’s “bib.” But Dale, Marquis de Nonchalance, keeping stride in his silver-buckled monks, would say through a pitying smile, “It’s a jabot, Mitchell.” And the onlookers would know immediately that Mitch was ousted: a new figurehead took the social throne. A benevolent leader, one who didn’t oppress through ridicule, but led by example—with kindness, with optimism, and with a persuasive embrace of mid-18th century menswear.
But now, the vision was different. The plot holes in his fantasy were obvious. He never could whistle under pressure, for one. It just comes out a pitiful wisp. And the midsummer heat did a number on his pits even when he wore T-shirts. How could he expect to trek from his parking space at the far end of the lot without soaking his pastel brocade waistcoat? And in those miserable shoes! He bought the straights for their authenticity, failing to respect how groundbreaking the introduction of “left” and “right” was to the shoe industry. Dismayed, Dale now pictured himself limping in, wheezing through uselessly puckered lips, looking like a swampy antique clown. Mitch would have a field day.
Why did he have to be so infatuated by the style? He cursed the day he first saw Plunkett & Macleane. From there it was a marathon of period pieces: Dangerous Liaisons, Baron Munchausen, Amadeus. And meanwhile, a slow compiling of apparel—a cravat here, lace cuffs there, his prized sequined coat—until he had a complete habit à la française.
He wore it occasionally at first, just while watching the films: to be Gulliver’s companion on his trip to Lilliput; to pal around with Mozart. But as time passed, he grew more attached to the sensory experience of the ensemble: the silk stockings petting his calves, the numerous embroideries pressing gently against his arms and torso. And of course, he looked magnificent.
Inevitably, Rococo took over Dale’s wardrobe. He curated a lineup to rival the Duc de Choiseul: knee-length breeches, wide-collared frock coats, banyans of linen and cotton and silk. He débuted them gradually, going for walks around the block or short trips to the supermarket. Before long, he barely noticed the stares. And once, an elderly lady at the dentist’s office even called him "dashing."
His parents, initially flustered out of their dungareed modesty, were nonetheless unfazed by the time of his third or fourth visit. If anything, he was a positive influence: his mother started using the china for Sunday dinners, and his father began tucking in his shirt.
The office was the dénouement. The final stop of his coming out tour. Though he had by now worn his banyans through countless Zoom calls, the video quality degraded them to ordinary bathrobes. And forget about it doing any justice to the intricate patterns of his droguet waistcoats. He doubted any of his coworkers even noticed his grand remaking.
Dale sat for several moments, angry at their inattentiveness. But then, he saw the blessing in it: a plot hole in his anti-fantasy of lime-lit humiliation. He strove to calm himself. A few deep breaths, and a consciousness of the silk stockings, the waistcoat swaddling him securely. His anxiety waned, and his imagination came to rest between the two extremes.
The choice was right: he would go through with it. There would be chuckles, murmurs, even a dig or two from Mitch. But he could endure all that. He had to. This is him now. This is who he is.
Dale stood and deserted his laptop. He hobbled to the living room and turned on the television, hoping to draw courage from one of his dapper companions.
Bill! Scott Smalls’ stepdad
Your beige / khaki jumps out on the screen
NO - it actually doesn’t at all.
But, despite its brown blend,
Volumes are filled
Compilations are recorded
Of BILL’S CHARACTER
Smalls needed a father figure.
His whole world revolved
Recoiled
Revived
By your judgment, OH BILL
Thank you (and your beige / khaki)
For accepting Smalls’ sacrifice
He braved THE BEAST for you
For your favor. For your acceptance.
For your
love.
Bill, your favor
(and slight yet appropriate punishment)
Built Scott Smalls’ future.
Beige Bill / Khaki Bill
O! Bill!
Your pointed nose and sharp teeth
With a heart for baseball
And just enough space for Smalls
Are the building blocks of a generation.
The bell rang for 4th hour and I didn’t even finish rinsing out the abandoned cups that were in the filthy paint splattered sink. Note: address the mess that was left to 3rd hour students.
“Can we have a free day?” A student whined the moment he stepped in the room. Ignoring him I moved all the cups into a pile, and pulled out my attendance clipboard.
“Miss, what are we doing today?” I gestured to the front smart board that displays the agenda in red 100 pt font everyday. I let out a big loud breath and looked at my seating chart to see who is absent. Note: Fatima is absent for the third time this week. I hope everything is okay.
Backpacks hit the floor and the skids of sliding chair legs fill the room like an orchestra of one hundred screeching violins.
I quickly turn to the diminishing ice cube trays that hold the variety of paint colors for the student’s painting projects that day. Examining each one I notice that the yellow is very low. I still have to gather the other paintbrushes from the supply closet. Then there are the projects that need to be returned. But wait; did they already complete the line drawing? I forgot to pack my lunch. Suddenly, the phone rings.
“Miss, your phone is ringing! Miss! The phone is ringing!” says the same obnoxious boy that knows he is obnoxious. The roaring of laughter and the thirty-two conversations that were all happening at once was making my head spin. I grab the yellow paint jug quickly.
“Miss! The phone is ringing! Do you want me to get it?”
“Can we please have a free day?”
“Miss, I don’t have a pencil. Can I just sleep?”
“Do I have to do the bell work?”
“Do I still have an A?”
“What are we doing today?”
“I got the phone, Miss!”
The voices surround me like an uncomfortable itchy blanket. Note: class discussion about the start of class.
Before pouring the paint into their trays, I shook the paint jug because the yellow paint liked to separate. As I shook the jug vigorously I felt something wet on my neck and felt something land on my hand. Within a matter of seconds I realized what just happened.
“Hey Miss, sorry I’m lat-
Oh shit…Miss you got…” Evan, the same kid who once threw a pen at me, I could tell was shocked.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them I could see the streams of yellow paint gliding down my grey cardigan. Yellow paint decorated my black skirt. Yellow paint droplets from what looked like a yellow paint rainstorm sprinkled my white striped shirt. And I reached to touch the back of my neck to find yellow paint in my hair.
I laughed.
“Miss, are you okay? You got paint all over your shirt.”
I laughed and threw my hands up and put them on my hips.
“Don’t you know? This is just how an art teacher dresses. All my clothes have paint on them. It is required for the job. Paint stained clothes.”
Note: bring a change of clothes next time.
The shadows grow longer and my joy deepens to meet them,
Crisp and crackling, the air gives me an excuse to cover up,
Seasons are my strict code of dress and Fall is my favorite adherence,
Driving me deeper into the cedar chest,
Re-discovering knitted comfort,
Bundled in scarf and jumper I breathe frost,
Watch it catch fire in the golden field,
Ears red and stinging to match my nose,
And I am content.
Immodest: lacking humility or decency; bold, indecorous.
Aubrie would never dream of wearing shorts that rest higher than above her fingertips when she is standing up straight. She rolls her eyes at her friends when they show up for the theme park ready to show off their upper thighs, thinking, "They're just trying to get attention. There's no other reason for that."
Aubrie takes meticulous care that all her shirts are not so tight that they could even ever-so-slightly accentuate two certain members of her body—but also not so loose that when she bends over the same members make an unwanted appearance. She informs her sister, "You need help shopping. That shirt is basically a peep show," to help her reach this delicate balance.
Aubrie considers it her duty to take every chance she can at humiliating people when their tops ride up enough to show their midriff. "I can see your butt-crack," is her favorite line (and most of the time it is almost true).
Aubrie's face is an expert at conveying a certain other meaning when she asks her young lady peers, "Aren't you going to be COLD?"
Aubrie takes seriously her responsibility to protect the purity of men's minds, which is why she gets stressed out going to the beach. She solicitously wears a t-shirt over her swimsuit, but when that gets wet and clingy, she virtuously yanks the suctioning fabric away from her body, thinking, "I might as well be one of those bikini wearers." She brings extra t-shirts to the beach to offer to those types.
Aubrie scoffs, (sometimes twice, if no one seems to hear the first time) whenever someone walks in a room wearing spaghetti straps, ("her BRA is showing!") yoga pants, ("defeats the purpose of even wearing pants") or shirts with writing across the chest ("doesn't matter what it says, it is really saying, ‘stare at my boobs, please.’")
Aubrie has absolutely no problem calling it like it is. She is extremely comfortable with utilizing vocabulary terms such as, "slutty," "skank," and "garden-tool sack," (her clever way of labeling the ho-bags).
Aubrie took action when she found out Brenda shops at Victoria Secret. She is obedient to the command, "Flee from sexual immorality!" and therefore justified in never speaking to Brenda without disdain in her voice these days (to separate herself from someone with such degraded standards).
Aubrie congratulates herself over the superior abundance of fabric on her dress compared to the skimpy outfits of women around her at her cousin's wedding. When she openly comments on this and an acquaintance accusatorily asks, "So basically you’re ashamed of your body?” Aubrie confidently replies,
“I have no reason to be ashamed because I’m not the one squeezing all my fat together to make my cleavage pop out. I respect my body.” Aubrie knows there are some things we should be ashamed of, and that acquaintance making an obscene gesture at her while she makes her exit is evidence that righteousness is always persecuted.
Aubrie's youth group leaders always say, "Modesty is an attitude," which brings to her face a triumphant smile, because she has clearly mastered it.
DRESS CODE
DRESS.
CODE.
STRESS MODE
DEPECHE MODE
LET’S GO
MY PARENTS AND I
NEVER SAW EYE TO EYE
NEVER EYEPATCH SIDLED
TO THE AYE AYE SIDE
JUST YES NO
IN ESCROW
DRESS CODE
PUT ON TAKE OFF
HELL NO
NOT IN MY HOUSE
NOT IN THAT BLOUSE
STRAIGHTEN YOUR TIE
HANG TILL YOU DIE
JUST SO
DRESS CODE
So we all joined this new bowling team because, free bowling every day after school, right? But on our first day at the alley, we met the coach. Most coaches at school were also teachers, people you knew and got used to. But this guy was a townie no one had never seen, and he smelled like he had cigarettes stuffed down his shirt collar. He was fat, loud, scowling, and above all, disappointed. The bent of his shoulders said, “My god, you’re the sorriest sons of bitches I’ve ever seen.”
The only explanation for his present situation teaching high schoolers how to bowl was that he’d drank himself to the bottom and needed a little cash to dig back out. That, or someone had lied that happy hour started at four.
We lined up for tryouts. He watched us hurl, fling, drop, pitch and catapult bowling balls into every gutter. Someone even bowled a 39. When the monitors flashed game over, he walked out front and crossed his arms under the glow. "The bad news is, you all made the team.” Only seven students had tried out.
Our newly minted team bowled every day after school, and every day we found Coach waiting on the furthest lane. He would stand to greet us with a grunt, and we would goof off just enough to make him yell. He shook his head, tugged at his elbows, pulled a ball cap over his face, and sometimes threw up his arms and walked away. But for whatever reason, he was chained to us and he never actually left.
We only had ten practices before our first meet was upon us. Coach suddenly realized we all needed uniforms in order to compete. State regulation dictated slacks and matching polos. Someone suggested a traffic cone orange. We knew we sucked, and wanted to really lean into it. A blaze of glory and bad attitudes.
Somebody’s mom bought seven orange polos from JCPenney, and immediately took them to a local place to have our school’s name ironed onto each one. They were the most saturated orange imaginable. The collars were mysteriously crooked, so when you folded them down, one side drooped all the way to your sternum. Zachary, the most obnoxious of our noxious team, shrugged and popped his collar. We all laughed and followed suit. Coach ignored this, and reminded us it was our last practice before the meet. Someone threw a granny shot to spite him.
But when we drove three towns over for our first meet, a small anticipation grew among us. The gravel parking lot seemed impossibly crowded for how small the alley looked from the outside. Coach pushed open the front door, which looked like a back door. The lights were so dim all we could see was the red and green glow of the bar. When our eyes finally adjusted, we realized we had left the high school realm and entered the smoke stained liquor soaked refuge of backwater roughnecks. I swear someone in there had a peg leg.
I tugged at my orange collar. Everyone there looked like Coach. Our competitors looked like his grandkids, wide and scowling. The teams milled about in maroons, navies, and greens that blended right into the 70s stripes on the walls. Zachary was wearing jeans.
We were assigned lane ten. I sat down and stole a glance at the other team. They slipped custom bowling balls with unique patterns out of special bowling ball carriers, and wiped them down with microfiber cloths. Silver-white stitching gleamed from their matching black shoes. We lugged over the dented balls we had brought from our alley and set them next to our borrowed clown shoes. They didn’t even look at us.
The first part of a bowling meet was a baker game, with five members of each team bowling two frames each. One of our guys, nicknamed runescape, toed his mark for the first frame. His knees were knocking. Gutter ball, to no one’s surprise. The other team got a strike but no one cheered. Next up, our vulgar scandinavian exchange student Ole. Two throws for two pins, one off each end. Fuck, he said. We nodded.
Our screen glared a string of open frames. The perfect form and delicate hooks of our neighboring lane contrasted brutally with our aimless straight shots. All bravado had faded on Coach’s turf. My turn.
I fidgeted at my mark, checking my toes three times. I lifted the ball to eye level. I took a step and swung it back, but the weight tugged me sideways and I flung my foot forward to correct. I released the ball just as my toe slipped across the line.
Foul ball, but a gutter anyway. I walked back to the retriever, where the team sat glum, sorry, and orange. It was silent except for the clatter of spares and strikes all around us. I turned to look for Coach, expecting to find him hiding his face or sipping beam at the bar. But whether for pride or lack of it, he was standing right behind our seating area, watching intently.
The retriever rumbled and spit out my ball. I heaved it high and planned my paces, eyes fixed on the second to right arrow. I took three steps forward and lunged into a fourth, but the throw felt off as soon as it was through. I turned and walked back to my chair without even watching. But Coach had his eyes on the lane, leaning his whole body left like a kid playing Mario Kart. "Brooklyn!" he shouted. I heard a crash and spun to look. I missed my intended arrow, but the ball had crossed over the center to hit the 1-2 pocket. The orange shirts stood with a roar. There were popped collars and high fives all around, except for Coach. A quick nod and a satisfied crossing of the arms, and then he was frowning like the middle of a third divorce.