The Tailor

His hands wind carefully. The fabric is stiff—new and woolly. He weaves the needle in and out, pulling the thread taut, then slacking it, then tightening again. His knuckles are dry and chapped, but his palms—soft, strong. A near-blinding light shrinks his pupils to pinholes. Stitch—stitch. His silver hair glistens under the lamp
He leans over the cast iron table, his back arched forward, like a skeleton over a grave, picking at castaway bones for his collection. He is a slow-wasting effigy—a man without a chosen memory—without a history. Strong from two decades of tailoring, his forearms are rigid and his shoulders steady.

The jacket, as it will come to be called, is nearly finished. He pierces the large eye of the needle, careful not to split the thread. Licking his thumb he twists the end and rests the needle between his left forefinger and thumb. The last patch attaches without trouble, just below the elbow.

“Alright then,” he sighs.

Snipping the needle free, he ties the end of the strand into a little bowed knot and, with the four inches—or so—of extra thread left, stitches his initials under the collar.

CC

The grandfather clock looms in its dusty corner behind him. Once a wedding present, now it is only a heavy reminder. Its face is cracked and dry breath exudes from its hollow chest. The other three corners of the small wood-floored room are empty. The house is empty.

The tailor leans back in his iron chair to look over the jacket. Checking the seams, the zipper—zipping up and back down—flicking the buttons, tugging the sleeves. Every stitch, every string—in order.

He smiles. Strips of fabric hang over his arms and lap. He inhales deeply, as though he’d been holding his breath, and brushes the dust from his lap. Standing, the bands slowly fall to the floor, collecting around his feet. He kicks them away, picking off a few more that were slung over his shoulders and dropping them. Free from the wraps he shuffles to his bedroom.

The pillow comforts his head—weary and satisfied. His eyes drop quickly and the night grows darker.

A knock halts his dreams and he sits up quickly.

He waits for a second sound—silence. The wooden floor is cold under his feet.
Outside a stubby figure disappears between two buildings.

He opens the door. A large cardboard box, its flaps folded together, casts a long deep shadow over his toes. The return address is nearby. He drags it inside and opens it.

Resting on the pile of garments is an envelope, slightly crumpled. It’s unsealed and he tilts it to its side and catches the stack of bills in his left hand. It’s heavier than he could have imagined; his jobs are typically simple mend jobs. He sets the money aside and looks back in the box.
The clothes inside are all frills and sparkles. He unfolds the top garment; it’s a dress. The short sleeves are pearlescent and sequined; the same sequins line the collar and bust.
“Ugh,” he snorts.
It is a gaudy thing. There’s a small tear along the waistline. He sums up the damages with a scrutinizing glare.
The next article is a heavy, animal print coat. Fur-lined and matted with moisture, like a cheetah caught out in a downpour. He draws its scent in, unable to control his inquisitiveness—mildew, coppery. It is in obvious need of new lining and a button is missing from the bottom. He tosses it over the railing that leads to his basement.
The rest of the clothing is equally tawdry; the tailor sorts and categorizes it. Intrigued by its general strangeness, he decides to work on the articles tomorrow.

In the morning he skips breakfast and starts in on his work. His night was tumultuous; the mysterious box—who brought it?
He checks the address again.
When he’s done, he decides, he’ll drop the box off himself.

His day ends much like the last and night slumps over him as he weaves his last set of initials. Buzzing with curiosity he slips out of his slippers, laces up his boots and hauls the box to his truck.

The address brings him to a narrow side street, nestled in the heart of the industrial district. High blank walls surround him and echo the clicks of his heels as he approaches. His is the only vehicle parked on this road; his ears search for a sound, any sound. A cool perfume wind passes his nose and rouses his tired thoughts.
He approaches the tall, metal door. Its hinges are wide and sturdy, like a walk-in freezer, but the handle hangs loosely—broken. He doesn’t knock; his knuckles shake with cold. Instead he drops the box and starts to walk away. A shadow grows from the alley beside him; he ducks behind a garbage can where the night conceals him.
The shadow splits in two, one short and stocky and the other tall and thin. They approach the door; the plump one knocks three times and it is opened from within. They enter, bringing the box with them.
The tailor walks quickly to his car, not once looking back. He missed both faces, but the presence of the short one—he wasn’t sure. His cracked fingers trembled slightly gripping the wheel of his pickup.

Back home, he goes over the experience in his head, picking apart his memory for something—a clue. The tall figure had worn a dark suit, like a businessman. The tailor closes his eyes and realizes that it was a man—broad shoulders, wide chest—yes, a man.
He had seemed to follow the shorter one, as though being guided. So the stout figure was in charge—was it also a man? The knock—what was the knock like? The man thought hard, he tried to recall the sound or loudness—something. It had seemed easily audible. The clothing, it was all women’s clothing—or at the very least, a teenager’s. It had been quite small, the size numbers were normal but the outfits, he remembers, seemed undersized. The cheetah coat—his arm, had barely fit halfway in the sleeve. He is thinner, or so he was told, than many women, so for a woman to fit her arm into the coat, she would need very tiny limbs. It was all very strange.
The tailor was used to suit coats and pants with slight tears and wandering threads, nothing like what was in the box. Something small girls might find in their mother’s closet, left unmoved for decades.
Tired and confused, the near-encounter at the dark warehouse has his mind in shambles. He stumbles into his bedroom, determined to solve the riddle of the box and its peculiar contents—tomorrow.

He tosses under the sheets; a thunderstorm approaches. The rumbling comes closer, threatening to invade the silence of his small home. A cool wind rattles the window and the man sits up. Staring into the dark corners of his bedroom he is overcome with a feeling of duty. He wonders what could go on in that high-walled prison with the strange fashion sense.
A familiar odor invades his nostrils. Coppery. Musty. The breeze sneaks under his door, carrying the smell with it. It is a wet, old thing—a mangy dog or a rained-on-sweater. The coat. He recalls the smell of the coat.
The grandfather clock informs him that it is two in the morning. His curiosity has kept him awake thus far; he decides to go. He untangles his legs from the bedspread and rolls to his closet. Searching for something inconspicuous—finding nothing but greasy overalls and gray t-shirts. And, pushed behind the closet door, a plastic sheet wrapped around a clean, crisp suit—a fresh, fake flower pinned to the breast. Dust on the shoulders—protected by the clear cover. He struggles to acknowledge its presence in the room. It had been over five years since he looked at the suit—thought about the suit.
It is heavier than he remembers and he lays it down on the bed to look it over. Noticing no wear or age, he slowly unzips the slipcover, spilling dust onto his sheets. The flower’s petals are wrinkled but still pristine, shining white. He tries it on. A little big, but it will do. He pulls a small box from the corner of the closet—his dress shoes. His face reflects back at him, weathered but still lively with color. The last thing that he needs is a weapon—just in case. He scoops up a small red box cutter from his work desk.

The tailor taps the wheel to the rhythm of a song in his head. He doesn’t know the name, but he is uncomfortable in the tuxedo and he can’t shake the feeling of intense queerness. It is a song he has danced to—a song of the heart.
He parks around the corner and walks up to the building. His reflection is distorted in the silver door—he knocks three times. No answer. He checks over his shoulder. He knocks again. Nothing.

Wandering around the outside he finds the alley where the two figures had appeared. Piles of black garbage bags sit in puddles of rainwater, thick liquid leaks from one. Thin strands of silver hair fall into his eyes. His suit hangs heavy over his near-emaciated frame. He crouches over a plastic bag—torn open at the top. Reaching within he pulls out a mass of hair, clumped and dripping he examines it. Blonde, collected together in a ponytail that appears to have been cut at its dark roots. He pulls out another, dark brown, and another bright red and curly.
Panic. Where did this come from, what are they doing in there? He steps back, trying to collect his thoughts. He notices the liquid flowing from the bottom of one of the bags. It is red and viscous; the tailor dips his finger into the forming pool. He thinks blood but shakes his head; it has that coppery smell. 
A few feet above the garbage pile a window rattles, echoing the thunder around him. A ledge, perfect for grabbing onto, juts from the wall a few inches. Standing on a can, he could reach it. He tips one of the large aluminum bins on its side and rolls it into position. The lid dents under his weight and he forces the window up. It lifts easily and latches open. He pulls himself up through the opening and falls into the warehouse.

Pitch black. Until his eyes adjust, he is shrouded in darkness. The floor is cold and concrete where he now stands. He brushes his knees and falls back against the wall to orientate himself in his thoughts and his stature. Relying on smell he concentrates on his surroundings. Musty and damp. His heartbeat echoes around the huge room. Sliding along the wall he finds a switch. The light is dim but it gives him a good view of the interior of the warehouse.
The ability to see, however, disorients him even more. He stands between two structures, crudely built and held in place by long, thick wooden beams. The buildings now recognized as halves of houses (missing their back walls), have two floors and are fully upholstered and furnished. Bright colored carpets and couches line the rooms within. In the house on his right a theme of patterns similar to the fur coat is apparent.

Wandering toward the front of the faux-homes the tailor sees that the whole warehouse is filled with structures. Driveways are decorated with candy red convertibles, tops down.
He scours the place earnestly, trying to find something, anything not ideal—not perfect. Strolling down the fake road, noticing the fake plastic trees, smelling the fake air. The silence chills his core. He searches for spotlights, cameras, peepholes—nothing. There is nothing devious, nothing evil about this place. No murder, no sex, no scandal.          He watches his toes while he walks, glancing up only once when a large, white, three-story house catches his periphery. Like the one that he and Madeline visited in Massachusetts; they turned it down in favor of warmer winters—but that was a long time ago. He is surprised to find the daisies in front are real and he plucks one and rubs it apart between his fingers.
Defeated, he begins to walk back to the window. A creak shatters the silence.
The tailor leans out from behind one of the houses. The two shadows stand in the doorway—the tall one and the squatty one. Their whispers are low but he imagines they are making a deal. The small one flaps her arms, he can tell that it is a woman now—her heels click on the hard floor and she waggles her hips with each step. They walk to a wooden door tucked behind a tall yellow split-level, the first that they encounter.

The woman knocks three times. At her beckoning, a line of girls marches out from the door. They are mostly tall, thin, model-types; some have long hair, others short. The man walks along the line, scrutinizing each one. He points to a longhaired blond, then takes her hand and leads her into the yellow house. The other girls go back through the wooden door; the stubby woman follows.
The tailor sneaks toward the entrance, crouching behind the red convertible. He tries to crawl into the back seat but discovers that it is flimsy cardboard. The car collapses, leaving him in a heap atop the rubble that was once a flashy automobile. He scurries into the house. Upstairs laughter rumbles. He tiptoes up to the second floor; the house is sturdy and well constructed. The floorboards creak. Music plays from within one of the rooms. The doorless frames hide nothing from his curiosity and he checks within each one. A bathroom, strands of blonde hair on the tile floor; a bedroom, the bed neatly made; a sitting room, huge brown chairs around a coffee table.
He notices something else about the furniture. Everything is over-sized, far too big to be comfortable or realistic. The colors are too bright, the patterns too gaudy—zebra stripes, rainbow flowers, polka dots. He approaches the musical room.
Inside, the tall man is free of his long coat and it lies across a bed. His black suspenders hang loose around his waist. He is reaching toward the sidewall, where the tailor can’t see. The tall man’s attention is on his subject and he doesn’t notice the tailor approaching. He brings his hands to his face and itches his eyebrow; his fingers are covered with red. He smiles like a child, playing with dolls or baking cupcakes.

The tailor shivers, he prepares himself to flee if necessary. His face is warm with nervous embarrassment. Dragging his fingertips along the stucco wall he stares at the man—giggling, bearing teeth, roaring with laughter. The dryness gives him shivers. A hot pain shoots through his skull, the man disappears.

That night, he dreams of human dolls. Full-size, breathing mannequins in gaudy rainbow dresses. He chooses the redhead, picks out her dress, combs her hair and paints her nails; he takes her into the white, three-story colonial. She is happy to acquiesce his requests, any requests. She is beautiful, her glistening face, her pearly teeth—soft, warm scent.  When he wakes the next morning, he can still feel her milky smooth skin under his wrinkled, dry, daisy-stained fingers.