Memoirs of a Skeleton Valet

4. APE

I don't do clothes. Everything hangs off me like rags, and flaps in the wind between my ribs. Have you ever seen a limp turtle-neck? Not a pretty sight. I have to put on eight layers before the proportions start to look right, and it all feels heavier than flesh, though I know that isn't true. And supposing I find something snug enough to fit, it leaves nothing to the imagination. Hats just feel silly, and depending on the style make me look like a Vaudeville act or a tourist (which isn't inaccurate, I suppose). Scarves and ties are dreadful. In fishing vests I look like someone's dead dad. Overalls, suspenders, mumus; no, no, no.

A few accessories DO have an appealing effect on me; gloves and aviator sunglasses, although the latter slide right off because they have nothing to latch on to. Surprisingly, I can make a fur-lined winter jacket work, and for some strange reason, a bathrobe doesn't look too shabby, either. Anything with built-in shoulders passes muster, like high-ranking military getups or padded football jerseys. We find these last items at the costume emporium. By now, after begrudgingly modeling clothes at three department stores in a row, I can finally admit I'm having fun.

Arrow is treating us to this shopping spree, probably to shake off our earlier drama at the monastery. As luck would have it, this stupidly flamboyant metropolis was waiting for us just down the road. She's been buying things off almost every rack. I feel more used than spoiled, like her personal dress-up toy, walking down runways and spinning before mirrors in whatever duds she selects for me. I allow the winter jacket, the gloves and for some reason the unwearable aviators, but quickly stow them in my pack. Only knee-deep in the costume dressing room does she tell me the other reason for the spree: we're attending Mistaken Identity tonight, an after-dark party held only once a year. I want to ask her how she'll enjoy the party as an anvil, but I shut up and go along with it. In particular, I go with the Sargent Pepper uniform with flaming epaulets. Sans trousers, of course. I politely decline the cape she is pushing, but can't resist the delicious silversmith key she's been saving for me. It dissolves down my ribcage like a shot of cold champagne jello.

I pull along the cart heaped with Arrow's purchases, and we make our way to a luxury hotel on the main drag. As we negotiate the revolving doors in the glitzed-up entrance, I notice the sun is setting over my shoulder--a rare sight. The sky's colors are striking, and match my outfit; glossy gold fringed with orange.

In the room that Arrow has procured, she sits me down in a shag throne and forces me to critique her outfits. She changes behind a paper screen and swaps ensembles with startling speed. Behind her is the wall of glass obligatory in all high-roller suites, the view overlooking the entirety of neon Shangri-La. Night is falling slowly, for once. We actually have twilight. The gathering shades of evening remind me of old fairy tale books, the kind a child can only read slowly despite wanting so badly to know what happens next.

Arrow is back to being sixteen again, which makes the outfits falsely appropriate. In short order I've already seen a peacock tutu, angel wings, metallic disco jackets, a little black dress with built-in laser show, and white moon boots that ride up to her knees. With guarded input from me, she settles on these last two, but throws on a Little Red Riding hood for good measure. I grab the Olivetti in its case, and it's time to go.

Down the hallway, in the elevator, and through the lobby, the length of her dress keeps changing, as if she can't make up her mind. The real estate of her thighs is a bit much, but I remind myself I'm not her father. But who is?

A Cadillac limosine is waiting for us at the curb, and the driver lets us in. Done fussing with her dress, Arrow is now doing twenty laughs a minute learning the controls to the lights, music, and windows. I find the refrigerator and crack open a tall can. Not enough to fall asleep, but when am I going to ride in a limo again? For that matter, why don't we always travel in style and comfort? A couple of dune buggies would have dusted those salt flats in no time.