Shattered Glass(3)
“Ogling young, pretty boys in diners,” I replied. As predicted, she laughed.
“Long as it’s not pretty girls.” Static told me she had covered the mouthpiece. “Jeffrey wants to know how long it’ll be until you get here?”
“If I can find a parking spot, and a street that doesn’t lead one way to hell? Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“You said that an hour ago,” she reminded me.
“I’m downtown now. Looking for a parking spot.”
I flipped off a street sign that didn’t conform to my need to go right, earning a glare from a misunderstanding motorist who yelled, “Cocksucker!” as I passed. I briefly considered rolling down my window and explaining that I was not, in fact, a cocksucker; that it was just that one fantasy. And besides, I was fairly sure I had a bunny slipper fetish, not a cock sucking fixation. That seemed like a lot of information to impart in the second and a half we had before he pulled ahead of me, so I let it slide.
The fact that I was more comfortable owning up to the slippers thing and not the cocksucker thing was mildly disturbing. I’d rather have a footwear fetish than a sudden attraction to penises? Yeah, that sounded about right.
“Just park anywhere. You can afford the ticket.” Angelica had no logic when it came to money. Her idea made complete sense to her. Paying for a ticket was infinitely easier than finding a legal parking spot. And as a trust fund baby, I could just as easily pay it. The only problem was that downtown also enjoyed a healthy respect for tow trucks. And no one was going to tow away my beloved Arturo—so named after my training officer.
“I see an open lot. Be there in fifteen. Love you.” I hung up after hearing her reply in kind and then pulled into a garage parking structure. After parking and paying, I walked the half block to the 16th Street Pedestrian Mall.
The mall stretched, coincidentally, sixteen blocks, straight down into the heart of the business district. Large granite sidewalks extended six feet out on either side of the shuttle bus lanes. Restaurants, office buildings, outdoor cafés, street vendors, shopping centers and upscale boutiques huddled together on each block. The tailor was at the far end of the mall—not a long walk, but, with the crowds, an annoying one.
The only vehicles allowed on the two-lane road between the sidewalks were police cars, vendor trucks and environmentally friendly shuttle buses. Otherwise, the mall was strictly foot traffic. On weekdays, it teemed with businessmen and women, as well as tourists. In the evenings and on weekends, suburbanites bustled past street performers and the homeless. Almost half of the dirty outstretched hands belonged to teenagers. They were the ones that I had difficulty ignoring. Especially today, with the image of that broken boy still haunting my conscience. My gaze kept wandering down to feet, checking for bunny slippers.
I jammed whatever bills and change I had into their hats or hands, until, when I ran out of cash, I had to jump on the overstuffed shuttle. The shuttle wasn’t air conditioned, so I arrived at the tailor shop baked and glazed with sweat like the main dish at a luau. Angelica was too engrossed in a gold tie to notice my disheveled appearance.
Pricks and Bunnies
Angelica was, as always, elegant and beautiful. Her brown hair fell into soft waves at her shoulders, and her summer halter dress glowed bright with white polka dots.
“Austin, I’m rethinking the gold,” she said when the bell over the door announced my arrival. Her lips were pursed in deliberation as she held up the gold tie with a navy print, tapping her patent high-heeled shoe against the marble floor.
Grateful for something new to think about, I pushed the weirdness of redhead fantasies out of my head and gave my attention to Angelica. Propping an elbow on a nearby shelf, I rested my chin in my hand, basking in the air conditioning. “We could make a rainbow of all the colors you’ve run through, Angel.”
Her lips pursed for a moment then slowly curved upward. “Bit political,” her hand waved, “But I’d go with that. We could have a gay wedding. Rainbow suits and ties? Jessica would be pleased.” She regarded the ceiling in contemplation. Only her teasing smile gave away she wasn’t serious.
“I refuse to make such a suit, mademoiselle!” Jeffrey, of Jeffrey’s Custom Tailor, was a small man with long pointed nose, frizzy grey hair and a constantly furrowed brow. Though that last descriptor might be due to our presence, rather than a permanent state. Not that I could blame the tailor. With each of our six visits, Angelica decided on a different style or color. So far, poor Jeffrey had been commissioned for three different suits: one black, one brown, and most recently, one navy; as well as two tuxedos.