Appearances

         He was a completely ordinary looking fellow, aside from his coat. 

         Too short to be a trench, too long to be a jacket, not quite built for rain or skiing; it had no identity whatsoever, other than being teal.  It was a strange garment, especially worn with shapeless chinos, brown loafers, neat mousy hair and a clean shave.  There was no statement in how the man presented himself to the world, which was a statement in itself.  It was almost unsettling, how nondescript he appeared.

         The 831, as per usual, seemed to be running on its own secret schedule.  Marsha had arrived at the stop her customary 10 minutes early, dressed and styled with the laser-precision usually reserved for top-billing clients.  She was still sitting patiently, even with the bus following the one she wanted running late.  No worries, dinner would begin whenever she arrived.  Silk stockings primly crossed, one motionless Prada above the other, she was solid and still as a marble statue observing the jacket/coat on the bench opposite from hers.  She did not let it occur to her to wonder if the man minded, or even noticed, that she had been eying his teal thing for the full 20 minutes he had sat there.

         "Why are you taking the bus?"

         If anyone had known her present facade well enough, they would have been surprised at how the question caught her completely off-guard.  It was direct, but non-confrontational; a rare combination in her world.  "I beg your pardon?"

         "Shouldn't your gentleman have brought the Lexus by now?  Or are you slumming it?"

         She permitted him the smile that sent her underlings scurrying, masking the discomfort of a flash of awareness.  How out of place she seemed, indeed.  "Why, pray tell, would you like to know?  Or think it is in any way your business."  The last phrase was pointedly not formed as a question.

         The bright fabric over his shoulders dipped in a shrug, his face bland.  "You've been staring at me for almost a half an hour, so I thought I might as well break the ice."

         Her custom-matched liquid powder did not blend well with the red suddenly in her face.  "Er, your coat, actually."

         He regarded her a moment with eyebrow raised, a smile barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.  Twinkling eyes asked her to elaborate.

         "It's, well... I was intrigued as to what manner of statement you're trying to make."  She regained her poise, like an Olympic figure skater after a slight ridge in the ice.  "A bit of hypothetical market research, if you will.  You see, I'm a Buyer.  I accomplish specific looks for people; choose clothes which display who they are.  It is my job to understand what a person's wardrobe says about them, and vice versa."

         The man looked down at himself, a touch theatrically to Marsha's eye.  The smile grew slightly.  "What have you deduced?"

         "Well, that is what intrigued me actually.  You're groomed and tidy, so you obviously care about your appearance.  Aside from that, your outfit is silent.  Except, there is something about your coat."

         "What about it?"

         He wasn't even giving cues with his conversation, dammit!  The pitch of his voice never raised, or lowered.  Everything had been said in a steady middle-register, neither warm nor cold, interested or apathetic.  She couldn't tell if he was coming on to her, or ridiculing her, or bored.  A tiny line appeared next to the waxed comet-head of one eyebrow, making them unacceptably asymmetrical.  How was he getting to her like this?  No one could be this faceless!

         "Would you like to buy it?"

         "What?  Heavens no!  Well, I mean..." Marsha stalled, wondering at the utter lack of offense she had instinctively braced herself for.  Not to mention the fact she had braced herself.  People's feelings only concerned her if they made or broke a contract, usually.  "I've never seen one quite like it, is all.  Coats are protection from the elements, but also finish the outfit.  A good coat, or jacket, I like to say," a satisfied smile restored luster to her mulberry lip stain, "is just as important as a good car.  It is the vehicle that carries you from one place to another."

         "Very clever."

         She sailed over the remark, to avoid being knocked off balance again.  The next step in her well-honed assessment, which was to regard his coat again, did it anyway.  "Yours, though, well..."  She was reminding herself of her first car, sputtering away on an empty tank.  Foundering, she decided on a strange course of action; she said exactly what she thought.  "It says nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It is nothing but a coat, and it doesn't make sense to me.  Especially the color.  If you were trying to be nondescript, it would not be teal.  After watching you, and now talking to you, I have no idea whatsoever who you are."

         "Should you?"

         That was enough to stop her completely.  For the first time in her life as Marsha Black, Expert Buyer for the Rich and Famous, she may have even goggled at someone.  She knew what "Don't Care" looked like; droll neo-Hipsters had been her bread-and-butter on more than one occasion.  "Doesn't Matter": hell, everyone had been on the Heroin Chic wagon in the 90's.  Even "Don't Know" had enjoyed moderate success, especially among fringe pop-stars.  But this was completely outside her experience.  She didn't know what to do, and oddly, felt suddenly lonely.

         He regarded her with thoughtful eyes, no triumph or remorse reflected in his features.  "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.  Besides," that little smile again, "I'm still wondering why someone like you is taking the bus."

         "Thanksgiving," her normally sparkling voice fell flat.  "Parking is... difficult, around where my family lives."

         "They don't have a chauffeur?"  Now he definitely was making fun of her, and she bristled like an irritated hedgehog.

         "They don't have a car, and mine got stolen last time I drove there!"  Her eyes widened.  How long had it been since she'd told anyone that?

         "I'm sorry."  He really seemed to be, too.  "You're right, it's none of my business.  I didn't mean to pry, and now you're upset."

         She let out a sigh, and managed to keep it from shaking.  "It's alright.  I suppose I deserved it, looking at you like a low-key fashion victim or something."  She glared at nothing in particular across the street, her mouth a hard line.  Where was the goddamn bus?

         "Well, congratulations on doing well for yourself." 

         Her eyes shot back to him, narrowed.  Seeing nothing but a benign look in return, she let the tension drain out of her.  It felt good.  Until then, she hadn't realized how much of it she had been holding on to.  "That's why I'm dressed like this, even though it's just my folks.  They're proud of me, and like to see me looking fine and fancy.  No one in that lot would know Yves St. Laurent from Levis without a label showing.  They wouldn't really care, anyway.  Anything bought new is classy to them.  Maybe that's why it matters so much to me..."

         "You found a way out, and took it.  That's great."  A diesel rumbling approached from down the street, vibrating through the traffic.

         "Yeah, well.  It pays the bills, for me and them.  But sometimes..."  She bit her lip.  She had carefully sifted her thoughts for so many years, speaking only the little pieces that could help her get ahead.  They all poured out of her now, like flour from a torn sack when you lift it.  "All I see is clothes anymore!  They're more important to me than the people inside them.  I thought if I could wear the right stuff and act the right way, I could be someone who's not from the trailer park.  I made myself over, but it's my whole life now.  I really thought clothes made people who they are, until I saw you.  You just wear them; they aren't you.  Who are you?"

         The compressed hissing of brakes obscured what he said.

         "What?"  Marsha leaned closer, as he got to his feet.  A person walked between them.

         "I said I thought you'd never ask, but this is my bus.  Happy Thanksgiving!"

         Marsha almost followed him, but caught herself before she got to her feet.  The doors hissed shut, and the bus rumbled away.  It still wasn't the 831.

Word Count: 1441