Chapter Thirteen #2
“Uh, sure,” Danny mumbled, trying to imagine a New York City nightclub where people wore furry hats.
Bethesda tossed the hat to Christian, then plunged their long fingers into a nearby crate full of scarves and belts and headbands and rubber animal noses, the kind you’d wear on Halloween with an elastic band stretched around your head.
“Now tell me, Danny,” Bethesda said archly. “How do you feel about chain mail?”
“Comin’ through!” Christian announced, barging into the fitting room carrying an armful of clothes and dropping them into a heaping pile on the floor.
“Let’s try this one first,” Christian said, handing Danny a black feathered jacket that looked like a flock of vultures feasting on a roadkill lunch. “We can pair this with some shorts and maybe a mesh tank top? I think you’ll feel better in something a little less…caveman.”
Danny looked down at the jacket, then back up to Christian, who waited expectantly with folded arms.
“Should I…?” Danny mumbled, shrugging.
“Oh!” Christian gasped. “Sorry! Lemme give you some privacy—”
“No, it’s fine,” Danny cut in. “Actually, maybe you should stay. I have no idea which is the front and which is the back.”
“In fairness, neither do I,” Christian said, his chipped tooth catching the glint of the overhead light as he turned around and faced the wall. “I’ll turn around, you lemme know when you need some help.”
Danny grabbed at the hem at the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it over his face, the neckhole catching on his forehead and messing up his attempt at “cool” hair.
He tossed the shirt into the corner and reached for the brass buttons of his blue jeans, unbuttoning the fly and tugging them down, the stiff fabric cool on his legs.
He looked over at the clothes that Bethesda had pulled for him, scanning the mound for a pair of black shorts.
“Uh,” Danny breathed, digging through the pile of clothes. “What shorts did you say went with this?”
“Oh, I think it’s the…,” Christian said to the wall. “Hey, do you mind if I—?”
“No. Sure.”
Christian turned around and his eyes immediately fell on Danny’s body, lean and nearly naked with just a kiss of tan left over from his summer lifeguarding days.
Danny’s shoulders were slightly slouched, his knees somewhat buckled, and a pair of white Fruit of the Loom briefs hugged tight at his waist.
“Right,” Christian muttered, giving his head a little shake, then reaching down and pulling up a pair of sequin booty shorts.
“Hurry up in there!” Astoria’s voice called from outside the door. “We wanna see!”
“Hold your horses, ladies—Marky Mark needs to do some more crunches.” Danny squeezed his way into Bethesda’s idea of a T-shirt, tugging the tight black mesh fabric down over his stomach.
Christian slipped the feathery jacket over his shoulders, then took a few steps back, squinting to admire his work.
“You ready?”
“I guess so,” Danny mumbled, picking a molted feather off his lip. “Do I look okay?”
“You look fabulous!” Christian said, pushing open the door. “I give you the new, and improved, Danny Victorio!”
Danny tiptoed out of the dressing room in his bare feet, suddenly aware just how short the short-shorts were. He anticipated gasps, or applause—anything other than five puzzled faces, cocking their heads as if he might look better sideways.
“Huh,” Nina said.
“Huh,” Bethesda echoed.
Danny scratched at the collar and gave the shorts another tug, hoping they’d magically stretch an inch longer.
“This isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Astoria said after what felt like an eternity. “But he looks like a Muppet hooker.”
Danny glanced at the mirror on the wall, squinting as his reflection frowned back at him.
“Not feeling it?” Bethesda asked.
Danny shook his head.
“That’s fine,” Bethesda said, shrugging. “Learning what doesn’t feel right is just as important as discovering what does. Christian, how about you put him in that skeleton tuxedo?”
“Too fluffy,” they said when Danny emerged from the dressing room wearing a pink faux fur coat.
“Too goofy,” when he walked out in the yellow-striped clown pants.
“Too aggressive,” they deemed the dog collar and leather cap.
“Too hippie,” with the bell-bottoms.
“Too Upper East Side,” was the houndstooth cape.
“Too I-just-joined-a-cult,” they thought of the flowing white robe and crystal necklace.
“I have a feeling we’re getting slightly off course,” Bethesda said, chewing a pinkie nail. “Danny, is there anything in this place that you would actually choose to wear?”
“Um,” Danny gulped, peering hopelessly around the store.
His eyes drifted to the mess of clothes on the dressing room floor, and something new caught his attention—a cuff of cornflower blue peeking out from under a heap of tulle and crinoline (words he’d learned about fifteen minutes earlier).
In a store full of alien garments, this sliver of fabric looked strangely familiar.
He gave it a tug, revealing a wrinkled sleeve that made his stomach flip, like when his mom floored the Pontiac over the “thrill hill” in Freshkills Park.
The patch on the shoulder confirmed it: “Police Department: City of New York.” It was the shirt that always smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Speed Stick and stale McDonald’s french fries.
The same shirt his mom had once scorched with the iron—and paid for with a punch in the stomach.
But there was more. Danny tugged the sleeve, revealing that this uniform was nothing like his dad’s—the front shimmered with crystals, and “Bad Boy” was scrawled across the back in spray paint.
“This one,” Danny said. “I like this one.”
“Iiiiiiiinteresting,” Bethesda said, nodding, tracing their chin with a blue fingernail.
“Wait, I have an idea,” Danny said, remembering the crate of scarves and animal noses.
He burst from the dressing room and dove into the crate, shoving aside a chicken beak, elephant trunk, and puppy dog nose. His eyes lit up when he spotted it. Grinning, he yanked it from the pile, pulled it over his face, and turned to the group.
“A radical Club Kid.” Bethesda nodded with approval. “Take that, Giuliani.”
FLASH.
Orion’s camera lit up the store, sending out a Polaroid picture of Danny wearing a rubber pig snout.