Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

I continued forward. My body was growing cold as my overcoat began to stiffen and freeze and perspiration chilled my flesh. I quickened my pace. My imminent appointment didn’t unsettle me as much as before, yet I still remained curious about what to expect. It seemed like a silly place to set up a practice, for nobody who needed counseling would find comfort going up that dingy staircase, let alone passing all those heads.

“And if the family counseling doesn’t work, at least there’re lawyers—” I began to say, but abruptly stopped myself, conscious that I had spoken aloud, not even to a pair of dogs. I kept walking and finished the thought in my head: Well, at least, it’s pretty convenient to have lawyers nearby to handle the divorce .

IV

I rounded the corner and started down a more congested street. The wind felt stronger here, more bitter, and everyone was walking briskly, with faces lowered. I was looking for a store, thinking that I could buy a change of clothes. Thankfully, I had the money from my security deposit on me because I had been cautious about leaving it unprotected in my apartment.

On an awning across the street, I read that somebody named Crowley had two stores side-by-side. One sold new and used CDs. Its front window was plastered over with images of rock stars in seductive poses. The door was covered in a mess of decals, stickers, and scribbled insignias or perhaps messages in the jargon of some particular subculture. I didn’t spend any time trying to figure it out because I hurriedly entered Crowley’s other store, which sold used and vintage clothing. Warmth and the odor of burning incense permeated the room. Slow instrumental jazz was playing softly. Racks of clothes lined the walls on either side, and above these racks were more racks. The upper ones were apparently reached, not by a step stool, but by tiny wooden chairs that were made for children. Near the back wall sat a low couch. A young couple was lounging there in an attitude of listless indifference, which implicitly conveyed to me that they weren’t the salesclerks. The girl was dressed in worn corduroy pants, and reclined, spread-eagled, with one leg crossed over the young man’s thigh. Neither of them paid any attention to me as I began looking through the clothes. Strangely, nothing was organized, not by size, make, or style, not even by gender. There were plenty of long, flimsy dresses and button-down shirts from a previous generation. Between a quilted flannel shirt and a denim dress with brass buttons down the side, hung a white nurse’s outfit made of leather. At the exact moment I happened to have my hand on the garment, the girl muttered something to the boy and then giggled.

“Is there someone who could help me?” I asked. I felt cold and pressed for time.

“Customer,” the girl called, turning her head toward an arched doorway that was partially obstructed by a stereo cabinet.

“I like the hat,” the young man said as he straightened up and gently pushed the girl’s leg off of his.

She whispered something to him, and he responded, “I don’t think so.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Out of the backroom came a skinny woman in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt bearing the name Moravian. She smiled and walked up to me.

“Hi there,” she said. “Did you find something?”

“No.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” She continued to smile and look at me kindly from behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

“Anything dry,” I said.

“Oh no,” she said and actually started to help me remove my overcoat. “You must be freezing.”

“I have an important meeting to go to.”

“What happened?” She draped my overcoat over the counter and then came behind me and took my sports coat off me.

“I fell down.”

“Oh no,” she said again.

I could feel her hand on my back, touching my gray shirt, then moving down to my legs.

“The bottoms of your trousers are frozen stiff. Literally frozen.”

“I know.”

“Poor thing.”

“I didn’t see anything formal.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll set you up.”

She threw my sports coat on the counter too, stepped in front of me, and looked at me carefully, sizing me up.

I watched her as she moved about the store, assembling an outfit for me. She dragged behind her a little chair that was missing chips of blue paint. Most of the garments she selected came from the upper racks. She would place one foot on the small seat and quickly slide the hangers along the bar. Her animation was at a pace anomalous to the mellow mood of the room. When she stretched, I was able to see not only two dimples on her back, just above the waistline of her jeans, but also that she had very small, indiscernible breasts. Occasionally, she turned to me and smiled.

I didn’t notice that the music had stopped playing, until the young man got up from the couch, searched through the loose CDs on top of the stereo cabinet, and restarted the music.

The skinny woman came toward me with an armload of clothes.

“Try these,” she said. “I got you several things to choose from.”

“Don’t you like his hat?” the young man asked her.

“I love his hat.”

I noticed her eyes focus on my wound, but she didn’t say anything about it.

“Come on,” she said, and I followed her under the arched doorway, into the backroom.

I wasn’t quite certain what to make of the room at first. It appeared to be a separate store altogether, with glass counters like those in a jewelry shop and shelves on the back wall stacked with various knickknacks. I gave it a cursory glance and continued behind the woman, mainly focusing on her.

“Over here’s the bathroom,” she said.

She clicked the light on for me with her elbow and deposited the clothes on a bench across from the toilet. Leaving, she pulled the door behind her, and although she’d left it slightly ajar, I didn’t push it completely shut. I doubted, of course, that she would spy on me through the crevice, but, what’s more, she had an aura of liberty that was contagious. Strangely, she made me feel relaxed enough not to mind the thin gap in the door.

The bathroom was more quaint and feminine than the rest of the store would have led me to believe. There was a shower stall beside the toilet, and an enormous mirror stretched the length of the wall above the basin. In the corner, on a tripod, burned a large three-wick candle. All the clothes the woman had selected for me were dark, solid colors. I stripped down to my tee-shirt, boxer shorts, and hat, and then I removed the hat and the tee-shirt. I stepped back and inspected myself in the mirror. The normal hue of my skin had become ashen; my flesh cold and clammy. Using a cloth hand towel, I patted myself down and rubbed dry some places on my body that needed to be rubbed dry. Afterwards, I dropped the towel upon my pile of discarded clothes, instead of returning it to the shower rod for reuse. I tried on all the clothes, except for a shirt with wide lapels. In the end, I dressed in a pair of gabardine pants and a black, shiny rayon shirt. I didn’t look too bad. I leaned close to the mirror to inspect my wounded head. Apparently, the cold weather had given my skin such a pallor that the wound seemed less hideous and blended better with my overall drained complexion.

With my hat back on my head, I left all the other articles, including my own clothes, and stepped out of the bathroom.

The woman apparently wasn’t waiting for me because I found myself alone in the backroom. I went up to one of the glass counters and saw a bunch of brightly colored pipes and silver lighters. Arranged on the shelf beyond it were hollow tubes sticking out of peculiar bulbous bases.

“You’re looking pretty sharp,” the woman said behind me.