The day had diverged from the uneventful with an odd sign as the wind blew my Mets cap down the street with the last leaves lost by the trees. The sign poked out from a corner, a polished brass invitation, at an odd angle, tilted. Like a good hat.
“Eras to Suit.”
No one visible to explain what that meant. Caught a pensive, almost bookstore vibe from a quick glance. So I went in. My ears were cold, the wind seemed to have whipped in a mood for change and I’ve always been a sucker for warm wood tones. Maybe I heard a hint of jazz, maybe a trill of techno…not much like the tunes on my iPod, unless you mashed up a few outliers.
Suits and chairs were scattered all over a couple of rooms, bookcases making little sections, tables holding not so random magazines that seemed put together with the look. Wicker, wood, metal, plastic, hipster, tweed, contemporary casual, fashionista.
Posed on a leather club chair, the perfect hat, matched to a daring hemline. And I paused, just for a minute, considering whether to try them on, trade in the t-shirt and jeans, see if I really would feel like someone solving an Agatha Christie mystery. Tempting enough to pick up the hat.
A clerk appeared, “Dressing rooms are in the back, take your time.”
So I did. The slippery feel of the sheer fabric, no label, was it silk? Taking probably too many moments to adjust the fall of the hat brim and the hemline to just the proper angles, deciding where to clip the iPod in the absence of a belt or waistline (hat or garter, you’ll just have to guess).
And the magic of the mirror; the lighting seemed to be adjusting itself as I tried to make sense of the pattern: was it feathers, was it floral? And behind my image, streets full of deco car hood ornaments turning fluidly into cinema marquees, buildings sprouting up from the chrome light fixtures…and the mashed music played, prompting tendrils of cables to dance a future that hadn’t happened.
“Whizzu Triglette” said a detachable man in the corner of the mirror as the prehensile cobblestones rolled toward me.
To step on to them might be the end of the world as I knew it.
Buildings winked.
And this might be what fine feels like, the intersected angles of hat and hemline and future.
