by Kirsten Koza
The skirts were packed together on a rack as tight as library books. I pried them apart with the outside of my hands in search of tags and my size. A bulky woman next to me pushed the skirts back, forcing my hands closed. I spread my hands open again, glancing at her sideways. She returned daggers and shoved the hangers back toward me with a quick, squeaky jerk. So went this folly until I managed to liberate a skirt. From the other side of the rack, a woman strode quickly toward me, her black high heels clip-clopping on the scuffed-up tile floor. Without making eye contact, and despite us being only inches apart, she shuffled through the skirts faster than a Vegas blackjack dealer. The hangers whined against the metal bar until she realized I was staring at her, and she stopped.
“Which size is that?” she finally asked me in French, pointing to the skirt I’d been holding in my hand.
“Thirty-eight,” I replied.
“That’s the one I am looking for,” she said, reaching for it over the rack.
On any other day, I might have just given her the skirt. But somewhere between the feral cats at the accessory bin and the bra boxing match one floor below, a competitive spirit had sprouted inside me like a weed. The second this woman reached across the rack, the game was on and the skirt became the coveted gold medal. It was mine!
“Oh, I’m not putting it back, I’m trying it on,” I smirked, letting the hanger oscillate on my middle finger like a hypnotist’s watch. “But if it doesn’t fit, I’ll put it back.”
Her arm snapped to her side, her chest inflated, and she pursed her lips, pushing out a puff of air through her flared nostrils, like an angry bull. She looked prissy in her pressed blue jeans and long-sleeved blouse capped with white Peter Pan collar. Her dyed and lacquered blond hair with matching pink cheeks and lipstick had the opposite effect of their youthful intention, and she appeared much older than she probably was. Still, she looked me up and down, toe to head, passing judgment on my American attire of sensible (comfortable) shoes, stretch pants (no excuse), and baggy sweater (ugly bra underneath). She stared at my uncoiffed hair. I batted my mascara-less eyelashes at her.
“Excusez-moi Madame.” She continued in English, having quickly deciphered my nationality, “But I have come back just for that skirt.”
Aha! A real live reconnoitrisse!
“Well, I guess you should have come back a little earlier then,” I retorted in my thickest, rude American accent. If I’d had chewing gum in my mouth, I’d have blown a bubble.
The blond woman glared at me over the rack. I glared back. The other women at the skirt rack slid hangers back and forth below our noses, unaware of the imminent high-noon showdown. I turned on my rubber heels and walked away. No way was I heading straight for the dressing room either!
At a table of tangled sweaters, I wedged my way in and picked through them, holding up one at a time, turning it slowly, petting sleeves, and fondling buttons. I unearthed a black cardigan that I held against the skirt. The blond woman eyeballed me from across the table. I put the sweater over my arm and sauntered past a few racks of dresses, letting my fingers touch and feel every one. The line for the register was 20 deep, and I cut through the middle, pardoning myself in front of a woman holding a pile of clothes that reached her chin. The skirt stalker followed close behind. At a stack of hats and scarves, I rubbed the various fabrics between my fingers. Silk. Merino wool. Polyester blend. I tied a floral red-and-blue scarf around my neck, then pulled on a cream-colored cashmere beret, tucking my bright red hair behind my ears and setting the beret slightly askew on my head. The blond woman’s heels clicked to a halt behind me. I turned.
“Bonjour Madame,” I said in my best French accent, raising my eyebrows up and down à la Pépé Le Pew.
“S’il. Vous. Plait. Madame,” she said, hands to the heavens, “you are being very rude.”
Moi? Rude? I pulled off the hat but kept the scarf on and quickened my pace. I was going to lose this broad!
The blond woman’s clicking heels sounded like shuffling cards as she tried to catch up. For a change I was happy to be wearing running shoes. I had the advantage. I bolted, zig-zagging between racks of hideous holiday sweaters, ducking behind an unattended cashier desk, and finally tucking in behind the headless mannequin whose arm I’d seen severed earlier. I rested my head and scarf on top of the plastic torso and held out my right arm, filling the gap where the missing limb once dangled. I shifted my eyes left to right and waited for the blond woman. I envisioned her stopping right in front of the mannequin, turning and spinning, scratching her head, oblivious to my ruse, then skulking away in defeat—just how it’s done in the movies. After several minutes and no sign of her, however, I pulled my head off the mannequin and swaggered toward the fitting room, proud of my clever victory.
Unlike most stores in America where dressing rooms are often located in a separate space, usually at the back of the store, this one was in the middle of the floor, a set of eight simple stalls, four facing one way, four facing the other, divided by thin walls, with heavy, black canvas curtains for doors. I was whistling the Chariots of Fire theme song when my puckered lips fell.
“I’ll wait right here,” the blonde said.
Her arms were crossed and her right foot tapped like a patent-leather metronome in front of the only open dressing room.
Foiled.
I stepped in and watched her smirk disappear as I pulled the curtain closed. When I turned to the mirror, I saw an arm propped in the corner, presumably the same plastic arm the clerk carried away earlier. Its fingers were up, palm facing me, as if it were waving.
“Bonjour!” I waved back.
I tried on the sweater first, unbuttoning it, slipping it on sleeve-by-sleeve, and buttoning it up at an exaggeratedly unhurried paced. I pulled off my shoes and my stretch pants. Standing there in a scarf, a black cardigan, and my underwear, I pulled at the zipper of the skirt, which was a little sticky, but after a few tugs, eventually gave way. I stepped into the skirt and yanked the zipper back up. The skirt was heather gray and tulip-shaped with black trim on the scalloped hem, and made me appear taller and thinner than I actually am. It fit like a glove. I stood on my tippy-toes to mimic the heels I’d need to buy and turned like a ballerina in point shoes, admiring a 360-degree view of the skirt’s curve-hugging form. I curtsied to myself in front of the mirror and then to the arm. “Oh, why thank you,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest. “Yes, yes, I do look good don’t I?… Oh, stop, you’re too kind.”
“Well?” the woman called from outside the curtain, breaking my reverie.
“Well,” I mouthed silently to my reflection, rolling my eyes.
I didn’t answer her.
I cinched in my waist with my hands, shifting my hips side to side. I’m going to buy those cat-eye sunglasses on the way out, too. Damn, I’m going to look hot riding a Vespa through Rome!
I reached behind me for the zipper, which again stuck as I tried to pull it down, but this time it didn’t budge. I held the waistband with one hand and pulled the zipper harder. No go. I spun the skirt around so the zipper was in front of me where I could see it, and pulled it again. Then, in one quick yank, even harder. The zipper split in two like the wishbone of a Thanksgiving turkey, mangling a few of its teeth for good measure. Crap. I pulled the skirt off, hung it hastily back up, and tried to zip it up again, squeezing the teeth together like puzzle pieces, hoping they’d connect long enough for me to hand off the skirt and run. I got dressed, grabbed my purse, the skirt, and, at the last second, the mannequin limb. I smiled and slid open the curtain.
“For you Madame,” I said, extending the arm like a booby-trapped plastic olive branch. The skirt hanger swung on the plastic fingertips.
I guess I hadn’t clipped one of the two metal clamps tight enough, and the weight of the fabric pulled the skirt from its hanger, tumbling it toward the floor.
Like a receiver anticipating the last second Hail Mary pass, she followed the garment with he
r eyes, bending down and snatching it out of the air centimeters from the ground. Instinctively, I’d bent over at the same time but was the slower of the two, and when she lurched up, the top of her head smacked hard into my descending cheekbone, sending me and the arm crashing to the ground, wailing in pain. The very picture of the agony of defeat.
After several minutes, I finally stopped seeing stars and sat up. I blinked until my vision focused on several shoppers and a store clerk surrounding me, their concerned looks trained on my eye, which felt as if it were dangling out of its socket on a spring. I looked around but didn’t see the blond woman (or the skirt) anywhere. She was gone—vanished across the finish line with her prize without so much as an “excusez-moi” or “are you O.K.?” for her not-so-worthy opponent.
I stood up, the thumping in my face pulsing in time with my heartbeat, and slung my purse over my shoulder.
I wondered if I could get a discount on the arm.
After two days of resting a bag of frozen chicken nuggets on my face, I went to the doctor to find out why the swelling hadn’t reduced.
Now he waited for the answer to his question as to how I sustained the contusion to my right eye.
“Well, I was climbing the Matterhorn…” I started.
He looked at me over his glasses then pushed on my eye again.
“Normally this won’t hurt,” he said.
That, too, was a total lie.
Kimberley Lovato is a freelance writer and author based in San Francisco who has admired and sometimes mimicked the antics of Lucille Ball since she dressed like her for Halloween in the seventh grade. Kimberley’s travel, lifestyle, and food articles have appeared in print and online media, including National Geographic Traveler, American Way, Delta Sky, AFAR, Australian Voyeur, Marin Magazine, travelandleisure.com, bbc.com, and more. Her culinary travel book, Walnut Wine & Truffle Groves, won the 2012 Gold Lowell Thomas Award given by the Society of American Travel Writers Foundation, while her essay “Lost and Liberated” received the 2012 Bronze Lowell Thomas Award as well as a Solas Award from Travelers’ Tales. www.kimberleylovato.com
SEAN O’REILLY
What I Did in the Doll House
A special gift is left behind.
MANY YEARS AGO, I FLEW TO BOSTON TO VISIT MY BROTHER in Watertown, Massachusetts. At the time he had a wonderful barn that he had converted into a two-story office and guesthouse. The flooring downstairs was culled from the demolition of a local high school’s gym, and the shelves were lined with books. Skylights completed the picture; it was a nice place and he was proud of it. He had not, however, due to restrictive local building codes installed a bathroom. On the last night of my visit, I asked that the door be left open to the main house so that I might use the bathroom should any nocturnal prompting create difficulties. I was assured that this would be done, and later I went cheerfully to bed.
I awoke early at 5:30 A.M. and although rested, felt vaguely out of focus. I attributed this to waking up in a strange place. I puttered around for 15 or 20 minutes until nature suddenly spoke loudly that big business was at hand. I moved swiftly and quietly to the door of the main house, but to my surprise and consternation discovered that the door that was supposed to be unlocked was locked. It was far too early to be waking everybody up, so I began to cast about for alternatives there at the crack, so to speak, of dawn. The bushes were not tall enough to hide the pending, disgraceful activity, and there were few trees. There were also, unfortunately, many houses nearby with their lights on and the inhabitants stirring for the morning commute. Something else was also trying to commute and communicate, and it hadn’t even had its coffee yet!
My anxious and barely awake consciousness was swamped with rectal messages that alternated between desperate pleadings and the howling of possessed beasts. I looked about frantically, walking with clenched buttocks, and attempted to maintain composure in a rapidly disintegrating situation. The standard protocols for civilized behavior were starting to break down, as they tend to in situations of extreme need. The doll house, the doll house! There was a doll house next to the barn—a bright cheerful thing of pink-and-yellow plastic and just large enough for an adult. I scurried inside and, pleased with my newly acquired privacy, released a tidal wave of fecal matter all over the floor. The stench was overpowering in the confined space of such a small area, so I made a hasty exit after performing the necessary ablutions with my t-shirt. The grotesque looseness of the still-heaving and uneven mass made me realize that it would be better if it had time to dry before I cleaned it up. I congratulated myself for finding a creative solution to my little problem and washed my hands at the hose. I thought no more about the matter and went back to the barn for an enjoyable hour of early morning reading.
Later that morning and before I left for the airport, I had a delightful breakfast with my brother and his family. It wasn’t until I got on the plane that I realized I had made no effort to clean up the mess. My fellow passengers must have thought they had a lunatic on board as I thrashed and wheezed in my seat. All I could think about on the way to Virginia was that my brother and his wife would have to tell their young children that no, they could not use the doll house because their uncle had shat in it.
Sean O’Reilly is editor-at-large for Travelers’ Tales (www.travelerstales.com). He is a former seminarian, stockbroker, and prison instructor with a degree in Psychology. A life-long devotee of good humor and all things sacred and profane, his recent editorial credits include: Travelers’ Tales China, The Best Travelers’ Tales 2006, Hyenas Laughed at Me and Now I Know Why, Travelers’ Tales American Southwest, Travelers’ Tales Greece, Travelers’ Tales Ireland, Travelers’ Tales Grand Canyon, Danger!, Pilgrimage, The Ultimate Journey, Testosterone Planet and Stories to Live By. Widely traveled, Sean most recently completed a journey through the islands of the South Pacific and Malaysia. He lives in Virginia with his wife and six children.
KYLE KEYSER
Love in a Black
Jeep Wrangler
Livin’ it up when the pants are down.
WE JUST EXITED HIGHWAY 31 IN MAUI, AND WE’RE PARKED at a shopping center, located at the crossroad of what he wants to do and what I want to do. It’s after sunset and we’re in a rented, black Jeep Wrangler with a dome light that never goes out. My partner, Adam, is struggling. He doesn’t want to drop his shorts.
“I don’t know, Kyle,” he says, assessing the well-lit parking lot. “Do you think anyone will see?”
This isn’t a ploy. He’s genuinely shy and has a hypochondriac’s sensitivity to people looking at his junk. Still, I’m ready to go. It’s a two-hour drive to the chilly summit of Haleakala, and a sky full of stars awaits me. Pants are certainly a requisite. I understand he’d prefer an evening walk on the beach. But relationships are a compromise, you know?
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Adam. I mean, really, who cares?”
He tentatively tugs at the tie of his waistband. I know it isn’t helping that he’s not the underwear type. Neither of us is; I’m just less concerned about it.
“You know you’ll be miserable if you’re wearing shorts. It’s really cold up there.”
“I know. But the beach is warmer,” he says with side eye and a smile.
I’m pushing him a little and I know it. Haleakala is long dormant but even if it were the towering inferno that originally birthed this island, Adam wouldn’t necessarily be the one running up to explore its hills. Nor would he think it’s a particularly good idea if you did. But with a little coaxing, he’d follow (and love it). If you extended your hand, he’d probably even join you at the caldera’s edge. He’d complain that the heat was singeing his nose hairs but he’d meet you at that edge. And he’d damn sure be wearing pants.
Me, I want a night sky inflated so big it might pop. I want a million shining opportunities to share my knowledge of the cosmos and connect stars to constellations that may or may not really exist. We had a solid day on Earth. Let’s go dr
eam at the heavens. It’s not often a cloudless night, a moonless sky, and a road 10,000 feet up leads you straight to a place where you can do just that.
“All right, let’s do this.” I position my thumbs along the sides of my shorts, encouraging him to do the same. “We’ll take them off together, on the count of three. No one’s watching, I promise.”
Adam reluctantly gets into position. I do a quick look-around—the coast is clear— and count, “One, two, three.”
A ruffling noise fills the Jeep as we both start slipping off our shorts. I lean into the steering wheel, looking outward as I reach down to pull the trunks from my ankles. Adam takes the lean-back approach, bringing his legs up toward him in order to pull his free. I can’t help but chuckle. We take different roads, but we always end up at the same place.
Naked from the waist down, I reach back to grab my pants. Adam has his in hand and starts to slip into them. I steal a glance at the soft whites of his upper thighs while I turn toward the front.
That’s when I glimpse someone standing outside my window. I recoil, startled. “What the hell?”
The face looking in is of an older man. He has long, wavy hair with a white streak down the front. His mouth is closed but very noticeably wide. He’s just standing there, staring, as if taking in a fine art piece: Two Naked White Boys, Illuminated in Dome.