Bad Boy

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Hey!” he began to protest, then remembered her stricture.

  “No sports jacket. Ever. And no checks or plaids. Solid colors only. And dark ones. In fact, to begin with, we’re going with the Henry Ford approach: any color you want, as long as it’s black.”

  “Black? But I don’t‌—Every‌—” he stopped himself. “Fine,” he said.

  Tracie walked around him slowly, like an officer inspecting the troops. “Where did you get that haircut?” she asked.

  “Logan’s.”

  “Never go there again except to clobber him. Stefan will try to fix it. If I beg him.” She looked down at his legs. “Forget khakis. And you don’t wear anything from the Gap, Banana Republic, J. Crew, or L. L. Bean.” Jon was desperately trying to remember what she was saying, wishing for his Palm Pilot, and attempting not to take offense, all at the same time. “Look, if you wear this stuff, you’ll just create a pucker in women.”

  “What’s a pucker?”

  Tracie made her big eyes bigger. “It’s the female equivalent of a wilt in a man. There are some looks that are so bad, they make us pucker up to be sure we would never carry any of that genetic material.”

  “More information than I require.” He tried to think of what, if anything, in his wardrobe was left. “So where do I get my‌—” he began.

  “You wear either cool stuff from thrift stores or really, really expensive Italian clothes,” Tracie said. “And you mix them. Let’s go through your closet.” She stalked across the room and pulled open the door to Jon’s walk-in. He followed her. The clothes were meticulously arranged by pattern. Checks on one side, plaids on the other, descending down the color scale from light to dark. Tracie moved down the middle of the aisle like a machine gun mowing down soldiers. She pulled the first sports jacket off a hanger and dumped it on the floor. “No.” She pulled the next and dumped it, too. “No and no and‌—ecch! No!”

  “What’s wrong with madras?”

  Tracie ignored him, except to give him a withering what’s-right-with-it? look. She opened his bureau drawers one after the other and scrabbled through his stuff. Jon panicked for a moment and wondered if there was anything that he . . . Well, he had no time to think, because Tracie threw him a black crewneck sweater, jeans, and‌—in desperation‌—pulled off her own belt. Jon cringed.

  “No! Not the strap! Are bad clothes a whipping offense?”

  “No, but spending real money on this crap probably is. We definitely have to go shopping. I’m not sure I can pull more than one cool outfit out of this. Okay? So here’s the point. You are going to change: what you wear, what you say, where you go, what you eat.”

  “What I eat? Maybe we’re talking too much change,” Jon said.

  “Hey, you asked for this. You get it.” Tracie raised her brows. Silently, she gave him the belt and pointed back to the closet. He headed over to strip off his clothes behind the door.

  “Change now?” She gave him a look. “That was just a question,” he said as he slipped into the straight-legged jeans.

  “No questioning the alchemist,” Tracie called from somewhere near the door. “Otherwise, the magic doesn’t work.”

  Tracie was going through his coats and jackets again. She began to bundle all the rejected clothes together and stuff them into a plastic bag.

  Jon stepped out from the closet. Now he felt meek and small, like the real Oz. Tracie dropped the bag and looked him over. “Well, that’s better. Except the shoes. No more sneakers.”

  “No more sneakers? But . . .” Tracie raised her brow and spun on her heel. “That wasn’t a but,” Jon hastened to tell her. “It wasn’t even a question. It was . . . a clarification. So what do I wear instead of Nikes? Sandals?”

  Tracie turned back to face him. “Only if you think Jesus had a hot social life. Look, footwear is very important. Nice guys wear Nikes, or Top-Siders, Keds, or Converse. Boring! Sexy guys wear Doc Martens or boots.” She squinted and looked him over again. It made Jon feel . . . peculiar. Surely she was taking this too far. “Look,” she said with a sigh. “I have to tell you about the pants thing.”

  “What pants thing?”

  Tracie seemed not to hear him. “I’m really trusting you by telling you this, but I feel you have to know. Most women have a pants thing.”

  “What?” Jon asked. He was afraid she was going to tell him that he had to stuff socks in his crotch and that women picked out their lovers and husbands based on bulge factor. He just didn’t think he could bear it, but before he could tell her to stop, she began with a completely irrelevant question.

  “Did you see Out of Africa?” she asked.

  “The movie?” he replied.

  “Yeah. With Robert Redford and Meryl Streep.”

  “No,” he said.

  “How about Legends of the Fall?”

  “I don’t know anyone over fourteen who saw that one.”

  “Well, there were some of us,” Tracie informed him. “And it was all about the pants thing. A lot of women have the pants thing.”

  “What the hell is ‘the pants thing’?” he asked.

  She sighed. “It would be easier if you’d seen the movies. But it’s all about a certain kind of pants. Not tight, tight ones . . .”

  Relief flooded Jon like water on a service station’s bathroom floor. He wouldn’t have to stuff his pants, though he wasn’t sure what kind of pants he wouldn’t have to stuff.

  “But not those pleated pants, either. God, not those pleated khaki Docker things that make men look like throw pillows when they sit down. You want pants that are flat in the front. I mean, Robert Redford was already a middle-aged wrinkle bunny when he made Out of Africa, but he looked so damn good in those pants. My friend Sara says it’s the swoopy hair thing, but most women I know admit it’s the pants thing.”

  “Where do you get those pants?” Jon asked, mesmerized.

  “I’ll have to go with you. Because it’s not just that they’re flat in the front; it’s also the way they hug your . . . back.”

  “How high do they come up?” Jon asked, imagining some kind of one-piece overall. “They cover my back?”

  Tracie shook her head in despair. “I mean your butt. Sometimes, I admit, women look at men’s butts.”

  “Not our crotches?” Jon asked.

  “Don’t be disgusting,” she said dismissively. “Why do . . .” Then she looked up and was silent for a moment.

  He couldn’t imagine what she was seeing on the ceiling, but it was clear that she liked it. Maybe it was Robert Redford’s butt. “It’s a funny thing,” she said. “It also has to do with the textiles. Nothing shiny. No. A man in shiny pants is . . .” She shook her head to get rid of the thought. “It has to be a smooth, firm fabric. See, it’s about butts, but it’s also not about butts. If you know what I mean.”

  Jon hadn’t a clue. But he didn’t want her to stop now. He felt as if he might be about to witness a biblical revelation.

  “It’s like most naked butts are not that cute, but one that’s in a nice pair of pants, that’s just sitting there kind of cupped by them, not too big, not too flat, just kind of narrow yet full . . .”

  Forget this! “You are an embarrassment to yourself and others,” Jon said. “Tracie, are you telling me responsible adult women make choices based on trousers and footwear? Details like that?”

  Tracie opened her big eyes even bigger. “Jesus, Jon. In all these years, I never knew you were so ignorant. You know what they say: God is in the details. We‌—women‌—talk about details for hours. You guys are the big picture; we are details.”

  “But I am details. I was a computer analyst for four years. Nothing but details.”

  Tracie nodded, but not in a positive way. “Exactly. Wasn’t that just the time your celibacy kicked in?” Jon tried to think back, afraid that Tracie might be right. “Look. Trust me on this one. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with your job. It just isn’t sexy. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Sligh
tly hurt, Jon shrugged. “But what if they ask what I do?”

  “And they will. Women want to know everything. You just be vague. Vague drives women out of their minds.”

  “In a good way or a bad way?”

  “Both.” She laughed. “It took me three months to find out if Phil was an only child. But the point is, they’ll come back for more. Just clear your throat and tell them you’re . . . in sales. Let them try and figure out if it’s drugs or rebuilt engines.”

  “So let me get this contradiction straight: Women are driven crazy by vague and they go over details like monkeys on fur.”

  “Right. Beth from work spent an hour and thirty minutes today discussing the cable-knit fisherman’s sweater that this guy she went out with wore on their first date and if it meant he was gay.”

  “Did it?” he asked. She picked up a black jacket and threw it at him. Jon struggled into it.

  “Yeah, unless he’s a fisherman,” Tracie said, smiling at him. At seeing Tracie’s pleased face, Jon struck a series of supermodel poses. “Okay. Now you’re put together.”

  Jon went to the mirror and checked himself out. He had to admit he looked different‌—and improved. The crewneck sweater, one he only wore over a polo shirt, kind of hung off his shoulders in a sexy way. And the pants, though a little uncomfortable, were tight enough along the legs to make him look a little taller.

  “Look at your buns!” Tracie said. “Wow! You’ve had hidden talent all this time.”

  He blushed, but it didn’t stop him from half-turning to look over his shoulder. “Have I got the pants thing?” he asked, hoping it might be true.

  “Well, the pants aren’t perfect, but it’s easier to fix that than the butt. Okay, this is what you’re wearing from now on.”

  “You mean every day? How do I keep it clean?”

  “The French only have one outfit and they wear it over and over.”

  “But they’re used to body odor in France,” he protested.

  “Look, wash it out every night until we go shopping. It’s worth the trouble.”

  “Can’t we do it on-line?” he asked. “That’s how I buy most of my stuff.”

  “Oh, that’s why it looks that way. Do on-line shopping if you want to have on-line sex. If you want it up close and personal, we’re going to have to feel the goods, babe.” She looked him over. “You actually look really presentable.”

  He eyed himself in the mirror. He had to admit he looked a lot more like a man and less like a Salvation Army hanger. “I think this is a good look for me,” he said.

  “Meet me tomorrow night and we’ll go shopping,” Tracie told him. “It’s something I’m very, very good at. And bring your cards.”

  Chapter 12

  The first place Tracie dragged Jon to shop at was Secondhand Rose’s, a hip vintage-clothing emporium north of the city. Jon looked around at the odd clerks and the rails stuffed with even odder clothes. “Tracie, this is used stuff,” he said.

  She didn’t have time to explain. “No it’s not. It’s vintage,” she told him, and started tearing through the first rack. She could get him shirts, sweaters, or even jeans that were new, but to replace that impossible Micro jacket, she’d need something that didn’t look as if it came right out of the Gap. In her opinion, the key to really interesting dressing for a man was not to be too different from anyone else, except in a single particular: a fabulous jacket or a great pair of boots. And it had to be something that couldn’t be ordered from a catalog or bought at a boutique‌—that showed no originality or interest. A Prada jacket cost big bucks, but any asshole with a platinum card could buy one. Tracie was looking for something unique, something that would fascinate.

  Maybe that was why it was so hard to find something worn, unique, and appropriate. In a way, this would still be like being a billboard, but instead of advertising Bill Gates or Ben & Jerry’s or Micro/Con, you were advertising yourself‌—your inner self: “This is the kind of guy I am. One who bought this black lambskin jacket twenty years ago and wore it until it was the texture and thinness of baby’s skin. And I love it.” She looked at Jon appraisingly, her eyes partially closed.

  Then she went back to the rack. Now, what jacket will tell people who Jon is‌—or, more to the point, who he wants to be? Tracie kept making the hangers squeal as she shoved them along the rack, past bowling jackets, polyester sports coats, and the tops of leisure suits. Nothing. Nothing. Then she stopped. A possibility. A long black frock coat with narrow lapels. She told him to hold it. Then she noticed the expression of horror on his face.

  “This?” he asked, his voice almost matching the pitch of the hangers. “You want me to try it?”

  “It’s a start,” she told him grimly, and began again to tear through the rack. A guy up ahead was also working it, and it looked as if he knew what he was doing. He was dressed well, cool, and was probably rich. He’d get all the good stuff.

  Her nervousness made her hurry, and she almost missed a gem: a tight little black leather shirt hanging inside out. She looked at it and then eyed Jon, who was standing beside her, useless. He was watching her as if she had suddenly sprung a leak or something.

  She searched and searched. At last, despite the guy ahead of them and the lack of decent material on the rails, she had accumulated a small pile of possibilities, which Jon was holding as if he was afraid of infestation. She’d even found a cool pair of trousers from a morning suit that might work. She took Jon to the corner where the dressing rooms were clustered and pointed to one. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try these on.” He stood there motionless.

  “Did these come off dead people?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” she asked. “Just put them on. The pants and long jackets first.”

  “Did you know the bubonic plaque was caused by fleas in people’s clothes?” Jon asked her.

  She ignored him and pushed him into a cubicle. “Put them on,” she insisted. She waited. And waited. “What’s taking so long?” Tracie called in to him.

  The dressing room door opened very slowly. Jon stepped out wearing an outfit that looked a lot like the one Lincoln might have been shot in. The black frock coat was to his knees, and the long striped pants‌—well, he’d never be a Goth. Tracie snapped a photo, then gave him a thumbs-down. “Thank God,” Jon muttered, obviously relieved, and disappeared back into the dressing room.

  In a few minutes, the door opened again. This time, Jon was in an Austin Powers jumpsuit with a puff-sleeved shirt. Had she picked that out? Tracie was horrified. He looked like a gay space clown.

  “That isn’t for you,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was here on the rack,” Jon said, shrugging.

  She looked into the dressing room. There was also an orange overall and an aqua calf-length skirt. “Were you going to try that on?” she asked, hearing the same voice her stepmother had used when she inquired if Tracie would jump off the roof if her Encino friends did. God, there was something about shopping that brought out the bully in her.

  She took the extra stuff out of the room and pointed to the garments she’d selected. “Only those,” she told him. “This other junk must have been left behind by some circus carnies.” Couldn’t he tell the difference? If he couldn’t, then he really was hopeless.

  He tried on two more garments and she gave him another couple of thumbs-down. Jon shrugged each time and, in return, gave Tracie a grateful look. At least he went back into the dressing room. It was starting to look like a waste of time, until the door opened and Jon walked out in a pair of torn blue jeans and the supple black leather shirt. Now Tracie paid attention.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was moving in the right direction. She walked around Jon appraisingly. She added the loden coat. Yes! He actually looked interesting. Maybe even good. She gave a high school cheer but then stopped in midjump. Now one of those sports jackets, the one near the end of the rack. She ran off and returned with a battered but stylish tweed sports jacket that she m
ade him exchange the loden coat for. She regarded her living science project. Unbelievable. Now he actually looked hot.

  Now that they were at the shoe store, Jon could at last sit down. He flopped back into the chair as if he’d been pushed. He’d never been so tired. Who knew shopping could be as exhausting as the Olympic decathlon? No wonder young women were so buff. Even Tracie‌—who once had held the Ms. Young Encino Shopper title‌—was tired from their bout with the stores. Jon, with none of her battle experience, must be absolutely dead, she thought. But there was one item still not crossed out on her Post-it list, and she was nothing if not thorough.

  And who would have suspected that Tracie was such a shopping maniac? She was relentless. Some primal passion glinted in her eyes as she pounced on what looked to Jon like more useless and boring textiles. They’d been at it for hours, it seemed, and he’d spent more on clothes today than he had in the last two decades.

  Now Tracie was holding up shoes for Jon’s approval. These were suede, and awful. He contorted his face in an expression of distaste. Tracie pointed to another pair. Well, they weren’t bad, if you liked pimp shoes. Jon sat up, trying to show some interest. Tracie handed him the left shoe. He picked it up gingerly.

  “Not bad,” he admitted, trying to muster some enthusiasm. Then he turned it over and looked at the price on the bottom of the shoe. He nearly fainted. You could support a Moldavian family for a decade on that amount.

  “That’s what good shoes cost,” Tracie told him as if she could read his mind. He knew he better keep still if he wanted her help. He did as he was told, trying them on. Tracie flashed his credit card and forced Jon to buy them. At the counter, the owner smiled. Behind the head of the owner, written in Roman-style type, was a sign that proclaimed

  THE SOLES ARE THE SOUL OF THE BODY. Tracie

  pointed to it, nodded at Jon, and nudged him, as if to say, You see? Jon hunched his shoulders in defeat and put his feet into “de shoes.”