"Spring Break" 13
Fashion.
By Gaedhal
Part 13
The Fieldstone Inn, March 2005
"This is dumb," Brian grumbled, pausing the Vette at the
Stop sign.
"Turn left here," Justin instructed, looking from the map
to the crossroads. "It should be about a mile down this road."
"This is a fucking waste of time," Brian continued.
"Well, we could go back to the Antique Market," said Justin.
"We've already spent the whole morning there. We could spend
the afternoon there, too, if that's what you want to do?"
"No!" Brian almost shouted. "No more Antique Market! Please!"
Brian had allowed himself to be coaxed back to the Market first
thing on Saturday morning. And the fruits of that return trip
were in the trunk of the Vette: two vintage Barbie dolls for
Molly and a Lionel train set for Gus from the Tommy and George
toy collection, some old magazines that Justin was planning to
use to make collages, an antique necklace for Justin's mother,
small presents for Debbie, Lindsay, and Melanie, and an original
movie poster for an obscure Marlon Brando film that was one of
Brian's favorites, 'One-Eyed Jacks.' That was the only real find
of the day, Brian thought. He wasn't certain what he was going to
do with the poster, but the moment he saw it, he wanted it.
And then there was the cookie jar.
That was also in the trunk. Against Brian's wishes. Against
his principles. Against everything that he stood for as a man
and a queer.
A fucking cookie jar.
A cookie jar in the shape of the fucking pink flamingo.
"No way!" Brian had hissed when Justin's hands went around
the hideous piece of crockery. "That's too horrible even for
Debbie Novotny! Every time I'd go into her house and see it,
I'd get physically ill!"
"I wasn't thinking of getting this for Debbie," Justin replied.
"I was thinking of getting it for myself."
"Jesus, Justin! What do you want a monstrosity like this for?"
Brian couldn't fathom it. Justin was an artist with an excellent
eye -- at least Brian thought so. Why in the fucking world
would he want this... this pink horror?
"It's funny," Justin explained. "Silly. Having it around would
be like a joke. No one would think I'm serious. Not like with
all that junk Deb has. She really thinks her stuff is pretty.
But I want this cookie jar because it's... it's...." Justin
searched for the correct word.
"Because it's campy," Brian finished for him. "Like feather
boas. Ridiculous little dogs with bows on top of their heads.
Bette Davis impressions. 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show.'
Emmett Honeycutt. Campy bullshit. I say -- no fucking way!"
Brian hated camp. He hated that it was probably the most
identifiable aspect of gay culture. For many people it WAS
gay culture -- and that bugged the hell out of Brian. It
symbolized their marginalization. And not the outlaw kind.
Not the edgy, sexual side of queer life. But the clownish,
eunuch side. The thing Brian most despised. A fucking pink
flamingo!
So why did he find himself taking out his wallet and buying
the fucking thing?
Carrying the fucking thing out to the Vette and putting it
in the trunk?
What alien entity had possessed him so thoroughly, so
utterly?
"It should be right along here, Brian," said Justin, putting
the map away.
Yes, that's what had possessed him. A piece of blond ass.
A few moments later they saw what they had been searching
for. Another refurbished farmhouse, like many in the area.
With the requisite red barn behind it. And a sign in front
that read: "Ilona's Vintage Clothes."
Justin had been pawing through some old clothes at one of
the booths at the Antique Market and had asked the woman
who ran it if she had any men's clothing.
"No," she replied. "But I know where you can go to find some."
And now here they were.
The red barn may have looked like a barn from the outside,
but inside the place was more like a trendy boutique, bright
and tastefully decorated. In the front was a large selection of
women's vintage clothing, most with designer labels. But in
the rear Brian could see racks of men's suits. Shoes. Ties.
Coats. And he headed back there like a fashion-guided missile.
There were clothes from all decades, not merely the more
recent vintage he had expected to see. The first thing Brian
found was a mint condition Burberry trenchcoat that was
certainly from the 1950's. Then a pair of leather pants
that screamed Jim Morrison, circa 1969. A fawn Ralph
Lauren suit from the '80's. A powder blue Pierre Cardin
Edwardian jacket from the early '60's. So many fucking
amazing things! In a barn in fucking Pennsylvania!
"Where did you get all this stuff?" Brian asked the owner,
the Ilona of the sign outside. "Like this Burberry?"
She was a 50-ish woman, tall and very thin, who held
herself with the haughty languor of a former model. She
was smoking a long, brown European cigarette, and she
spoke with a vaguely Eastern European accent.
"That raincoat? England, darling," she answered, blowing
out a puff of smoke. "At a house sale in Devon. The man died
and left 40 years of wardrobe behind. I bought all of it. Some
pieces you see here. Others I consigned to a store in New York
City. The rest I sold online. The computer, you know?" She
shrugged as if Brian would not have ever heard of such a
strange contraption. "Many items had never been worn. I
do not think the man got out all that much. But he was very
rich and had excellent taste in clothing. He had four Burberry
trenches. This is the last one left."
"I'll take it!" Brian yelped. It fit perfectly and Brian knew
that Burberry coats were made like iron and never wore out.
"You are too tall, darling," she stated, running her eyes up
and down Brian's lean form. "But you are a decent size
nevertheless." Ilona rolled another rack from the storage
room and began to look through the clothing hanging on it.
"This should fit you," she said, taking out a 1970's sharkskin
suit. "And this." A punky Vivienne Westwood shirt. "This
also." A pair of Versace pants from the early '90's.
Brian immediately stripped off his jeans and sweater and
began trying on the clothes in the middle of the barn.
"He is not shy, your friend," Ilona commented to Justin as
Brian stood in his 2(x)ist briefs while deciding which
pair of pants to put on next. It was an impressive sight.
"No," Justin agreed. "Brian is not at all shy."
"Justin! Could you hand me that red shirt?" Brian called.
And Justin laughed as he went over to assist him.
"So, how do you like this place?" Justin could see that Brian
was in his element and he was enjoying the private fashion
show immensely. Justin had never before seen Brian in
full shopping mode and it was quite an educational experience.
"Aren't you glad we came here?"
"What do you think of this color?" Brian asked about the
Pierre Cardin jacket. "I don't think this blue is right for
me. It's too pale. However, it would be perfect for you."
Brian removed the jacket and made Justin try it on. "A little
big, but my tailor can alter it."
"It suits him," said Ilona in her husky voice. "He looks like
a little Mod boy with his blond hair."
Brian also tried on a pair of vintage boots, some belts, and
a number of ties. His hoard of treasures kept getting bigger,
much to Justin's amusement.
Finally, Brian had sorted out what he wanted. Justin gulped
at the size of the bill as Ilona tallied it up. But Brian never
even blinked. He took out his Gold Card and handed it over.
"In New York these clothes would go for triple that amount,"
Brian told Justin as they carried the haul out to the Vette.
"Are we going to be able to fit all those clothes in the trunk?"
he asked.
"Only if I toss out that fucking pink flamingo cookie jar,"
Brian declared, pretending to reach for it. But then he laughed.
"We'll put some of the stuff in the trunk and rest behind the
seats. There's enough room back there for most of the odds
and ends."
"So my cookie jar can stay?" Justin said, batting his eyes
appealingly.
"Don't push your luck, Sunshine," Brian admonished.
"You aren't that cute!"
"Whatever you say, Brian," Justin grinned. "As long as I
can have my pink flamingo."
By Gaedhal
Part 13
The Fieldstone Inn, March 2005
"This is dumb," Brian grumbled, pausing the Vette at the
Stop sign.
"Turn left here," Justin instructed, looking from the map
to the crossroads. "It should be about a mile down this road."
"This is a fucking waste of time," Brian continued.
"Well, we could go back to the Antique Market," said Justin.
"We've already spent the whole morning there. We could spend
the afternoon there, too, if that's what you want to do?"
"No!" Brian almost shouted. "No more Antique Market! Please!"
Brian had allowed himself to be coaxed back to the Market first
thing on Saturday morning. And the fruits of that return trip
were in the trunk of the Vette: two vintage Barbie dolls for
Molly and a Lionel train set for Gus from the Tommy and George
toy collection, some old magazines that Justin was planning to
use to make collages, an antique necklace for Justin's mother,
small presents for Debbie, Lindsay, and Melanie, and an original
movie poster for an obscure Marlon Brando film that was one of
Brian's favorites, 'One-Eyed Jacks.' That was the only real find
of the day, Brian thought. He wasn't certain what he was going to
do with the poster, but the moment he saw it, he wanted it.
And then there was the cookie jar.
That was also in the trunk. Against Brian's wishes. Against
his principles. Against everything that he stood for as a man
and a queer.
A fucking cookie jar.
A cookie jar in the shape of the fucking pink flamingo.
"No way!" Brian had hissed when Justin's hands went around
the hideous piece of crockery. "That's too horrible even for
Debbie Novotny! Every time I'd go into her house and see it,
I'd get physically ill!"
"I wasn't thinking of getting this for Debbie," Justin replied.
"I was thinking of getting it for myself."
"Jesus, Justin! What do you want a monstrosity like this for?"
Brian couldn't fathom it. Justin was an artist with an excellent
eye -- at least Brian thought so. Why in the fucking world
would he want this... this pink horror?
"It's funny," Justin explained. "Silly. Having it around would
be like a joke. No one would think I'm serious. Not like with
all that junk Deb has. She really thinks her stuff is pretty.
But I want this cookie jar because it's... it's...." Justin
searched for the correct word.
"Because it's campy," Brian finished for him. "Like feather
boas. Ridiculous little dogs with bows on top of their heads.
Bette Davis impressions. 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show.'
Emmett Honeycutt. Campy bullshit. I say -- no fucking way!"
Brian hated camp. He hated that it was probably the most
identifiable aspect of gay culture. For many people it WAS
gay culture -- and that bugged the hell out of Brian. It
symbolized their marginalization. And not the outlaw kind.
Not the edgy, sexual side of queer life. But the clownish,
eunuch side. The thing Brian most despised. A fucking pink
flamingo!
So why did he find himself taking out his wallet and buying
the fucking thing?
Carrying the fucking thing out to the Vette and putting it
in the trunk?
What alien entity had possessed him so thoroughly, so
utterly?
"It should be right along here, Brian," said Justin, putting
the map away.
Yes, that's what had possessed him. A piece of blond ass.
A few moments later they saw what they had been searching
for. Another refurbished farmhouse, like many in the area.
With the requisite red barn behind it. And a sign in front
that read: "Ilona's Vintage Clothes."
Justin had been pawing through some old clothes at one of
the booths at the Antique Market and had asked the woman
who ran it if she had any men's clothing.
"No," she replied. "But I know where you can go to find some."
And now here they were.
The red barn may have looked like a barn from the outside,
but inside the place was more like a trendy boutique, bright
and tastefully decorated. In the front was a large selection of
women's vintage clothing, most with designer labels. But in
the rear Brian could see racks of men's suits. Shoes. Ties.
Coats. And he headed back there like a fashion-guided missile.
There were clothes from all decades, not merely the more
recent vintage he had expected to see. The first thing Brian
found was a mint condition Burberry trenchcoat that was
certainly from the 1950's. Then a pair of leather pants
that screamed Jim Morrison, circa 1969. A fawn Ralph
Lauren suit from the '80's. A powder blue Pierre Cardin
Edwardian jacket from the early '60's. So many fucking
amazing things! In a barn in fucking Pennsylvania!
"Where did you get all this stuff?" Brian asked the owner,
the Ilona of the sign outside. "Like this Burberry?"
She was a 50-ish woman, tall and very thin, who held
herself with the haughty languor of a former model. She
was smoking a long, brown European cigarette, and she
spoke with a vaguely Eastern European accent.
"That raincoat? England, darling," she answered, blowing
out a puff of smoke. "At a house sale in Devon. The man died
and left 40 years of wardrobe behind. I bought all of it. Some
pieces you see here. Others I consigned to a store in New York
City. The rest I sold online. The computer, you know?" She
shrugged as if Brian would not have ever heard of such a
strange contraption. "Many items had never been worn. I
do not think the man got out all that much. But he was very
rich and had excellent taste in clothing. He had four Burberry
trenches. This is the last one left."
"I'll take it!" Brian yelped. It fit perfectly and Brian knew
that Burberry coats were made like iron and never wore out.
"You are too tall, darling," she stated, running her eyes up
and down Brian's lean form. "But you are a decent size
nevertheless." Ilona rolled another rack from the storage
room and began to look through the clothing hanging on it.
"This should fit you," she said, taking out a 1970's sharkskin
suit. "And this." A punky Vivienne Westwood shirt. "This
also." A pair of Versace pants from the early '90's.
Brian immediately stripped off his jeans and sweater and
began trying on the clothes in the middle of the barn.
"He is not shy, your friend," Ilona commented to Justin as
Brian stood in his 2(x)ist briefs while deciding which
pair of pants to put on next. It was an impressive sight.
"No," Justin agreed. "Brian is not at all shy."
"Justin! Could you hand me that red shirt?" Brian called.
And Justin laughed as he went over to assist him.
"So, how do you like this place?" Justin could see that Brian
was in his element and he was enjoying the private fashion
show immensely. Justin had never before seen Brian in
full shopping mode and it was quite an educational experience.
"Aren't you glad we came here?"
"What do you think of this color?" Brian asked about the
Pierre Cardin jacket. "I don't think this blue is right for
me. It's too pale. However, it would be perfect for you."
Brian removed the jacket and made Justin try it on. "A little
big, but my tailor can alter it."
"It suits him," said Ilona in her husky voice. "He looks like
a little Mod boy with his blond hair."
Brian also tried on a pair of vintage boots, some belts, and
a number of ties. His hoard of treasures kept getting bigger,
much to Justin's amusement.
Finally, Brian had sorted out what he wanted. Justin gulped
at the size of the bill as Ilona tallied it up. But Brian never
even blinked. He took out his Gold Card and handed it over.
"In New York these clothes would go for triple that amount,"
Brian told Justin as they carried the haul out to the Vette.
"Are we going to be able to fit all those clothes in the trunk?"
he asked.
"Only if I toss out that fucking pink flamingo cookie jar,"
Brian declared, pretending to reach for it. But then he laughed.
"We'll put some of the stuff in the trunk and rest behind the
seats. There's enough room back there for most of the odds
and ends."
"So my cookie jar can stay?" Justin said, batting his eyes
appealingly.
"Don't push your luck, Sunshine," Brian admonished.
"You aren't that cute!"
"Whatever you say, Brian," Justin grinned. "As long as I
can have my pink flamingo."