I love my new suit.
Some say it’s hard to find a good suit these days, but they’re wrong. You just have to know where to look.
I got mine in that alley behind the mall. You know the one—where the drunk and the stoned and the tweaked and the displaced congregate. I was strolling past the dumpsters and the piled-up refuse, doing some window shopping, so to speak, when I saw it. Clinging to some poor emaciated soul, its milk white sheen practically glittering in the moonlight.
So new! So unblemished!
I just had to have it.
I set about removing the suit, being careful not to rip any of the more delicate parts. Then I deposited the former owner’s gooey husk behind a stack of crates.
I slipped the suit on and checked out my profile in a puddle. Such a snug fit! Trim and svelte, with a minimal amount of droopage, unlike my last one.
Quite a dapper gent, the being in this suit. Quite stately indeed.
There’s no feeling like stepping out on the town in a brand new suit. The passersby turn their heads and smile, and I manipulate the suit’s facial tissue accordingly. It always pays to be friendly.
I get into the hottest clubs when I’m rocking my suit. Like tonight, I just sidled up to the bouncer, extended the smallest digit of my right hand upward, winked my right eyelid, and he waved me in. Works every time.
And oh, the hijinks I get into! My favorite is pouring copious amounts of beer into my suit’s upper hole. Always a crowd pleaser.
[I’ve accumulated quite a lot of beer during my nights out. One of these days, I’ll figure out what to do with it all.]
One must be vigilant when wearing a suit. Earlier this evening, while I was cutting a rug on the dance floor, one of the suit’s eyes rolled back in its socket. Luckily, I fixed it before anyone noticed. [At least, I think I did.]
Sometimes when I’m boogieing it up, I’ll accidentally bend a leg in a direction it’s not supposed to bend. I’m still getting used to this whole bipedalism thing. It seems kinda passé but, as they say, when in Rome.
I love rockin’ out on the dance floor, vibing to the music, moving my various appendages along to the beat. People high-five me, say, “Man, that guy’s groovin’ it up out there! Good for him!”
[Though, they wouldn’t be high-fiving me if they saw what I really look like.]
Occasionally I’ll get some questioning looks, maybe a few stares. After all, you don’t see too many good looking fellas walking around in suits anymore, but I don’t let it bother me. I tell myself, “Hey, you’re in a suit, chief! You don’t need any smoke from those turkeys.” Then I stare right back at ’em, work the old facial muscles into a big smile, and spread my arms out wide.
They usually run away after that.
But then there are the initiated, the ones in the know, the ones who are hip to what’s going down. The travelers like me. When I come across one of them out in the wild, they’ll lean over to me and whisper:
“Hey, nice suit!”
“Why, thank you,” I’ll say, as I adjust the skin sagging from my upper arm. “Know any good tailors?”
About the author:
Jon Clendaniel is a writer of speculative fiction from western Pennsylvania. When not writing, he enjoys taking long walks and watching obscure horror movies. He is currently looking for a new suit.
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