Stories and Poems

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3.26.2009

Chifon

Chiffon was serialized in Prophile Magazine through the fall of 1998. The complete story is bound in a 16 page chapbook that is available by mailorder as a fundraiser for Alchemist Theatre.

"I see you in peach," Meg said.
One knee deep in the carpet pile, I was looking through my shelves of old records for a Ray Charles classic: Makin' Whoopie.
"Peach chiffon. What do you think?"
I'm near fifty, and wear size 3X. "I admire your imagination," I said.
"For the Ugly Bridesmaids' Fancy Dress Ball. A fundraiser for Alchemist Theatre. I'm on the board.
Right then she was on the sofa, her face behind some big-page fashion magazine. I ran an index finger along the second row of album covers, and stopped when I couldn't remember what I'd just read.
"I don't think there's enough peach chiffon in this town for the job."
She dropped the mag. "I'll sew something up. Seventy dollars a couple." She smiled. "I'm asking you to take me."
I rolled onto my butt, back against the rack. Though Meg was often on my mind, I'd never pictured her behind a sewing machine. But I'd learned to hide surprise when she revealed another talent.
"I'm to wear this in public?"
"The Ambassador Club in September." "You could have warned me you were in the arts when we met."
**********
The snug skirt on the dress Meg made had me mincing from the car-park. The Ambassador proved to be a gay bar just north of downtown, the kind of place we'd kept a cruiser watching nearby when I was on the force. Meg's theatre group had the banquet hall upstairs. She went white-tie with a pencil moustache, her long hair slicked back, banded and tucked down her collar. My topcoat couldn't contain all the chiffon. I scanned the street, hoping not to see someone in blue that I might know.
I didn't recognize anyone inside either, though Meg claimed the room was up to its wainscot in dignitaries: doctors, lawyers, lieutenants of industry. The men looked embarrassed; husbands forced by wives into frilly bibs, top hats and pastel tails. At least they wore suits. I'd have swapped a nut for one and thought it a bargain.
"John." Meg got my attention. "This is Queen Mebbe, your bride."
"Jesus," I said as my hand disappeared in his white gloved mitt.
He was six-six easy, in white lace and sequins that seemed to flow without end. Make-up gleamed out his white veil. Behind him, in trimmer versions of the dress grabbing up my butt, two likely lads strained to keep the long train of his gown off the floor.
"Kudos kiddo," he said, looking me over, toe to tiara.
I turned to Meg, mouthed "Kiddo?" Her smile broadened.
"Credit where it's due," Mebbe said. "You should be maid of honour."
Meg added, "We've places at head table," which was on risers at the back.
On it, the plastic couple atop a tiered cake ducked the rafters. Maybe I could hide back there.
"Make room for Meg's girlfriend," Mebbe instructed the entourage and I was ushered to a place on his train. "Give her at least three feet of tail. She looks good for it."
"So, who's the lucky guy?" I asked, but nobody troubled to reply.
When Meg's back turned, I snuck to the bar for a rye and soda, took it to the darkest, loneliest corner, and snarled at anyone who approached. The room flounced in ribbons, bows and balloons, monster bouquets either side of the cake, a flowered, lattice arch in the corner opposite. I wondered again who would be Mebbe's groom.
When Meg returned to his side, she took one of Mebbe's large hands and began to greet guests. What in hell? had just crept into my skull when a crash and yelp came from behind a door on my left. The schmooze-fest froze, all eyes my way, expectantly. Jesus, had she told everyone I'd been a cop? I sipped from my glass, waiting to see if any of them would make the first move, then put the drink down and rose to investigate.
Cases were stacked against hall walls. Some had tumbled, leaving a trail of half-empty, broken bottles down a set of back stairs. On the landing halfway down: a tall body in saddle-shoes; white socks; bare, hairy legs; poodle-skirt and pink, cashmere sweater. The fall would explain the skirt lifted above his waist, but not the frilled, red panties at half mast. A blond-curled wig lay empty beside his head, which was wedged under one arm at an unworkable angle. Party guests gathered at the top landing, Mebbe up front. A lavender suit pushed through, calling himself doctor. Another emerged from behind Mebbe's flowing skirts and raced down to scrub mascara from the corpse's staring eyes.
The doctor pushed him away. "What in hell are you're doing?"
"He can't be found like this," the man whispered hoarsely. "Don't you see? It's Mayor Bob."
Mebbe descended for a closer look, then lowered the poodle-skirt over the mayor's milky thighs. "My! Such an enormous loss to the community."

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