Erin
I pull up to the port and wait for the man in the security booth to direct me to the warehouse, then drive down the road, past enormous shipping containers, trucks and abandoned boats until I reach a building with a rusty sign hanging above the door saying ‘North Shore Storage.’
I park the car out front, unlock the door and peek inside.
The smell hits me first—damp, decaying and probably moth-eaten materials. A bit like a lost and forgotten vintage shop. There are windows—too high to reach—but they’re dirty, which stifles the ability for light to shine through.
Inside is exactly the sort of chaos I’d have expected from Mallorie’s head. Garment racks bowing under the weight of costumes, plastic bins stacked three high, and a regiment of headless mannequins standing in a row like they’re awaiting sentencing.
“Well,” I say out loud, stepping inside. “At least you’re already decapitated. That helps.”
I drop my bag to the floor and drag the first mannequin toward the entrance with an unfeminine grunt. Whoever invented mannequins has clearly never needed to move one alone. By the time I’ve wrestled three to the door, my arms are burning and my patience is shot.
When I reach for a fourth, I lose my footing and knock against a garment rack. A sequined jacket slides off its hanger and lands at my feet.
I peer deeper into the rack to see what other gems might be hiding in there. I’m not disappointed.
There are costumes. Notcutecostumes, but dramatic ones. Vintage and outlandish. Things that have clearly been worn under hot lights by people with confidence and possibly substance abuse problems. Feathers in every color. Fringe of varying lengths. Satin, velvet and chiffon. A gold jumpsuit that looks like it has more sexual experience than me.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone, then turn back to the rack.
“I am already mid-divorce,” I tell the garments. “I have nothing to lose.”
I slip off my sweater and leggings and pull on the jumpsuit. Then I turn to a cracked mirror leaning up against the wall.
Holy smokes!If it was possible for flattery to be aggressive, this would be the absolute definition.
The waistband nips me in, the neckline plunges, the legs flare so impressively they deserve their own encore.
I strike a pose. And then another, and then I remember the other garments.
Next, I layer over the jumpsuit a cropped military-style jacket—black with gold buttons—and top off the look with a feathered cabaret hat.
Wrinkling my nose, I toss both and change out of the jumpsuit. Standing in only my underwear, I rummage through more items and find the most exquisite, thrillingly theatrical showgirl costume. A leotard, really, covered in sequins and beads in blue, green and silver. Inside it is a built in corset and dangling from the same hanger is a set of feather boas in the same color palette.
It could have walked straight off the set ofMoulin Rouge.
There’s no way I could ever wear something like this. There’s no way I could pull it off. My eyes roam over it hungrily.
Fuck it.
I pull the costume on over my panties and bra and squeeze in as much as I can to pull up the zipper. When I turn back to my reflection I could faint.
Staring back at me is a slinky, superbly sexy showgirl slash peacock.
Good heavens.
I have legs, and a waist, and an extraordinarily perky bosom. I wonder if Mallorie would let me borrow this for those increasingly frequent moments of low self-esteem. This outfit is more effective than Zoloft.
I decide to keep it on while I rummage for the rest of the mannequins—it adds a certain sparkle to an otherwise mundane task in my overwhelmingly mundane life.
I manage to locate four more mannequins bringing my total to seven. But Mallorie said she needed twenty. Glancing around in the dimming light, I search for anything that might qualify as a headless doll. I search under everything, lifting up discarded theatre curtains, dust sheets and canvas backdrops. Then I notice a large container with a piano upended inside it. I peer over the top and sure enough, there are roughly fifteen headless bodies wedged beneath the piano.
There’s no chance on earth I’ll be able to move that piano by myself. And that’s the only way I’ll be able to get my hands on those mannequins.
I’m going to need help.
I slip my sneakers back on my feet so I’m not tottering around barefoot, and fetch my cell from my bag.
