And then he found the clothes. You might say he discovered them by accident. Stumbled on them even, amongst all those miscellaneous objects at the bottom of his mother's trunk. Squashed down amongst odd shoes, forgotten dresses and tin boxes - crumpled beneath the weight of his mother's old junk. Crumpled but not crushed. He pulled them out, forgetting why he was in there in the first place. Pulled them out and laid them down. Running a wary hand over their kinks and creases, he inspected them, thoroughly and when he was done he had already decided. So he took them back to his room, swiftly stepping on the balls of his feet, undressed in front of the mirror with the door bolted firmly behind him. And turned his back. Ashamed perhaps, to witness the spectacle before it was time, as if any previous glimpse of the cut of the cloth as it slipped so surely over length of his back might spoil the final surprise. As if. And when he was reborn, he turned around and held his breath.
The jacket was checked, a muted concoction of greens and yellows. The trousers, a faded burnt brown but the blue, blue shirt, tight at the collar and long at the cuff, was as deep as the sky on an August day. And those shoes (his father's old brogues from his wedding day) scarred at the heel and worn at the toe but all things considered, they fitted him well.
To a discerning eye, the whole ensemble would be considered an offense. An assault to the persuasive art of matching separates and the general arrangement of garments based on the timeless principles of both style and taste. Timeless in their ability to reach beyond fashion, a cheap vulgar fix and transform the wearer beyond era and age.
But not Pepito Pons. To him, they were perfect.
They suited his purpose, complemented his mood and on most nights, they helped him play the part.
The jacket was checked, a muted concoction of greens and yellows. The trousers, a faded burnt brown but the blue, blue shirt, tight at the collar and long at the cuff, was as deep as the sky on an August day. And those shoes (his father's old brogues from his wedding day) scarred at the heel and worn at the toe but all things considered, they fitted him well.
To a discerning eye, the whole ensemble would be considered an offense. An assault to the persuasive art of matching separates and the general arrangement of garments based on the timeless principles of both style and taste. Timeless in their ability to reach beyond fashion, a cheap vulgar fix and transform the wearer beyond era and age.
But not Pepito Pons. To him, they were perfect.
They suited his purpose, complemented his mood and on most nights, they helped him play the part.
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