The Magnifying Glass and the Rouge Brush

I stepped out of the shower and hurried to the dryer.  The house was cold and I was wet–I was freezing.  I yanked open the dryer door, shocked and dismayed to find my clothes missing.  What the hell?  I ran back up the stairs and banged on the housemate’s bedroom door.  He answered it, perhaps a little surprised to find me nearly naked and bouncing from foot to foot.  "Pantless Friday?" he asked me, gesturing towards my boxer shorts.

"You’re really very funny, and I’d love to hear you crack some jokes," I told him acidly, "but did you happen to take my clothes out of the dryer?"  He shrugged and shook his head.  Seriously.  What the hell.  I decided that someone must have stolen all my clothes, as silly as that seems, and I set about to find the thief.  I retrieved a magnifying class from an old school kit called The Young Scientist.  I borrowed a rouge brush from the new female housemate, and set about investigating the house for clues.  The steps to the basement had not been dusted in awhile, and on them, footprints were plain as day.  There were fingerprints on the dryer handle, and the burglar had left the side door wide open.  In essence, the house was rife with clues, and I couldn’t understand why the thief had been so careless.  Had he wanted to be caught? Just the same, though, the clues were next to meaningless.  The footprints were too large to even be human, and the fingerprints so bizarre, so perfectly symmetrical, that I was more confused now than when I had began.

I resigned myself to having to buy new clothes.  I wrapped myself in a trenchcoat, slipping the rouge brush and magnifying glass in the pocket, and drove to the nearest clothier.  "Hello, Monsieur!" a bespectacled man greeted me enthusiastically.  "How can I help you today?"  He reached over his counter to shake my hand, but I did not extend mine.

"I am too miserable for pleasantries today, kind sir," I lamented.  "For someone has stolen my clothes!"  He took his hand back and cocked a finely-shaped eyebrow.  "Someone has stolen your clothes?" he countered, just a little incredulously.

"Someone has stolen my clothes," I reiterated, untying the trenchcoat, allowing it to open.  He regarded me in my boxer shorts, and, cocking the other eyebrow, asked me, "Pantless Friday?"

"Not funny."

"It is a little."  He turned and walked from behind his counter and motioned for me to follow him.  "Thankfully, it is slow today.  Thankfully for your sake.  Are you thankful?"  Not waiting for me to respond, he opened the door to a side room and flicked on the lights, and I nearly gasped at all the amazing garments covering the walls.  Of every shape, of every color, was everything a man could possibly imagine or design.  He smirked a cocksure little smirk, saying, "I’ve spent years accumulating all of the most amazing clothes and their accoutrements, and they are from all over the world.  I am allowing you a fantastic opportunity today, because you have been wronged, and it is only fair that it should be righted."

"I am thankful, sir, of that you may be sure."  He nodded noncommittally and turned towards the collection, and he started rummaging through it.  He said absently, "I have just the thing in mind for you.  It is a popular outfit in these parts of the world, and I think you may enjoy it indeed."  He produced simple black clothes; pants, neither tight nor loose, and a shirt with buttons up the front.  As he handed them to me, he said, "You will need a single accessory with this, sir."  With that, he handed me a seamless piece of white linen, telling me, "Attach it around your throat using a collaret."  I nodded my understanding.  I paid him a healthy sum and left, satisfied that I had found some clothes to wear.  So satisfied, in fact, that I put on my new clothes before I left, accidentally leaving my trenchcoat behind.

Circumstances arose, however, that demanded I return the following day.  "Monsieur?"  He greeted me concernedly, noting the collar grasped in my right hand, and the shirt unbuttoned halfway.  "Is there something wrong with your fine new clothes?"  The enthusiasm of yesterday was largely gone, now, as he sensed he was about to lose a sale.

"The clothes are fine, true," I complimented him, smiling politely.  "Well made, certainly, and any man might be glad to wear them.  Problem was, the confines of the collar are such that I cannot breathe easily.  Upset, I studied the collar of the shirt, and was surprised to find my own initials!  Of course the collar is too tight on my neck–if it fit me fifteen years ago, how might it fit me now?  That is why I am here."  He nodded, motioning for me to continue.  "You see, I was hoping I might just return the collar, and than I might just keep the clothes."

He sighed his regret.  "I am sorry, Monsieur, but that is quite impossible.  Although it might seem silly to some, especially in today’s world, I cannot separate the one from the other.  It does neither the outfit nor the collar justice.  But if you follow me back now, we will exchange it for something you find more suitable."  We returned to the room from the previous day, and once more, I could not help but marvel at all the amazing clothes.  He studied my neck for a moment, and I noticed that he was not breathing, or that he was breathing so subtly that I could not discern it.  "You do have a fantastically large neck," he informed me, and then he turned back towards his magnificent collection.  A little offended, I waited to see what he might provide.

A moment later, he handed me two pieces of billowy, white cloth.  "They wear this in deserts on the other side of the world," he told me,  gesturing expansively in the other direction.  "They wear it, pilgrims all, before a giant rock in a giant plaza.  If it is good for them, then I can only imagine that it might be good for you."  I left the store in my new clothes, confident that I would be comfortable in my brand new clothes.

The following day, the bespectacled man did not appear happy to see me.  "Monsieur, could there possibly be anything wrong with your brand new clothes?"  He looked closer at me then, and gasped.  "Monsieur!  There is lipstock on your collar and stains on your shirt!  Are those beer stains?  You should not be drinking beer in those clothes, sir!"

I was a little miffed at his castigation; after all, I was the customer, and I had paid a pretty penny for the black clothes of two days prior, and exchanged them, rightfully so, for clothes that might better suit me.  "I have appreciated your patience these past couple of days, my good man, and your willingness to share your collection of clothes from around the world.  However, these clothes, as amazing as they might be, will not work for me."

"I should think not!  They are ruined!  Just ruined!"

"Obviously," I continued, "and it is also obvious that I should not be trusted with clothes that are so pristine; let us be honest, and let us say that pristine clothes demand pristine behavior.  The absence of the latter seems to ruin the former."  The clothier nodded his vigorous agreement.  "So, I was hoping, and at risk of seeming ungrateful for all that you have done, that you might allow me to exchange these clothes for yet another outfit."

The bespectacled man appeared to be deep in thought, mulling it over.  "I suppose I can probably launder those right out.  All I ask, Monsieur, is that you might be more careful with the next outfit I give you."  With that we returned to the side room.  As we walked across his store to that room, I realized that I’d yet to see another soul in his store, and while the room was brightly lit, I could not tell from whence the light came.  I had little time to ponder these things, as the clothier walked so briskly, I had to jog to keep up.  The man, for yet a third time, rummaged through his collection.

"Here is a new outfit you might enjoy," he told me, handing over a heavy brown robe and a pair of sandals.  "You will be facinated to know that men wear this on the other side of the world; not in the deserts, as with the white clothes, but on mountains that quite nearly poke holes in the sky."  I smiled my appreciation, glad that my search might finally end.  "I do ask, though, " he continued, "that you allow me one small favor.  I wish to shave the crown of your head."  My mouth dropped open–what a strange thing to ask of a customer.  Before I could tell him no, he said, "I know that it is an odd thing to request, but I assure you, my intentions are pure.  The hairstyle will compliment the garb, and believe me, thousands of years of tradition can not be wrong."  He furnished a razor, and sensing my newfound tractability, did as he said he would.

I left the store, happy that I might not only have a brand new outfit, but that I also received a free haircut.  However, it was not the end of my clothing adventures.  In fact, it was not nearly the end.  I returned the next 14 outfits, unable to find something that suited me; the clothes were all grand, certainly, but I could not help but be thwarted by all of them.

The final time I visited the bespectacled man, he had discarded all of the pleasantries, must like I had asked him two and a half weeks before.  "Try these," he said, pushing his glasses upon my eyes.  I shuddered, pushing them off of my face with a violent jerk.

"I am sorry, sir," I told him, a little perplexed by the patronizing smile he was directing at me.  "Surely those are perfect for you, but I felt empty.  And pretentious.  And like I was selling away half of myself, a Pyrrhic victory of the head at the expense of the soul."

The man nodded his understanding.  "I do not know what to tell you.  You have exhaused my entire store and all of its choices," he informed me.  "I have nothing left that you have not tried, and it all seems to poorly suit you."   He stood and walked behind his counter, suddenly dropping a tightly-bound package beside the register.  He opened the register and returned me my money.  "I found this the other day, and have been meaning to return it to you.," he said, eyes on the package.  "You forgot it here the first day."

Opening the package, I was surprised to find my trenchcoat.  "How convenient," I exclaimed.  "I’ve something to wear home!"  As I went to put on the trenchcoat, the magnifying glass and rouge brush fell out of the pockets to the floor.  I bent to pick them up.  The clothier studied me as I straightened, wearing the trenchcoat, bearing the magnifying glass in one hand and the rouge brush in the other.  "You look like a detective," he told me.  "Like Dick Tracy."  I smiled at him, and then I left the store.