Vintage clothing stores. What's not to love, right? Unless it's 100 degrees in the shade and you're both reaching out for the last pair of Gladiator sandals and you're feeling sweaty, stinky, not to mention mean and nasty.
Which is basically what went down at The Silver Scream on a muggy, Saturday afternoon where our hero and heroine inevitably meet right next to a tag that read: "formerly worn by Charlton Heston in the film Ben Hur." Okay, let's backtrack a little as that's what's commonly known as TMI or in this case, not that much information. When you're a down-on-your-luck actor like Nick Heatherton (yes, son of that infamously famous go-go dancer from the love-in `60s tv show!) newly moved in, to a small town in Milwaukee, WI on a scorching day in July, and you're missing La-La Land (sort of) and all the auditions you're not being called back for, the sight of a hole-in-a-wall thrift store specializing in old Hollywood costumes is like finding a Dairy Queen in the middle of the Sahara during a particularly painful drought. So you can imagine what it was like to see his favorite pair of film sandals in the plain light of day, within grabbing distance, pulled from his eager grasp by this rather grabby stranger. Striking in a throwback hippie way and smelling of sweet honeysuckle but yes, grabby. So what was a gent from the land of Angels supposed to do but be angelic, right? Wrong.
She may have had her paws on the little buckle that pieced the fragile wisps of leather together, but Nick held on to the soles with everything left in him that was good and holy, as he could almost hear the chariot wheels screetching to a halt. Except, they weren't wheels. They were the screetch of a woman who knew the price and the value of everything (which, in Oscar Wilde's point of view would not make her a cynic, but a good vintage shopper.):
"Excuse me, but I saw these first!," came the shriek from the hippie chick.
"Oh yeah? Prove it. I can tell you the exact scene from Ben Hur where these babies get chucked out of the chariot ... "
"Film geek are we?," she snorted. "That still doesn't give you first dibs. I was here in this exact spot first, with my fingers right here on this ancient buckle. And if I pull, you might as well kiss the whole thing bye-bye."
"Geek? GEEK?," he shrieked in not so mock indignation. "Have you checked out the infinite radness of this Brian Jonestown Massacre shirt signed by noone else but Anton fricken Newcombe himself? (as he stretches to point the autographed armpit) It practically reeks of rad-ioactivity! And you have the audacity to say I am some little film geek, Miss Hippie Chick? And what would someone like you want with the great Mr. Heston's gear, anyway? Besides, it's a size 10. Why would some chick want a humongous pair of size TEN sandals, anyway?"
"I happen to need it for a special party ensemble I am cobbling together," she said, seething outwardly but inwardly ready to cry.
"Cobbling? Who says that, Gepetto from Pinocchio?," he said, mockingly.
"It's a word apparently you wouldn't use, because you're too busy showing off your autographed armpits!"
"Ha! You think you're so funny," he said as he made a grab for the ankle sandal strap.
"Whaa---?," she lunged forward to get a firmer grip and fell over the visual merchandising display of a chariot and into Nick's cave, or rather his chest.
The scent of honeysuckle suffused his nostrils with something heady and sweet and momentarily forgetting where he was, and why he was, he let go of Charlton Heston's personal effects and reached out to break her fall, enfolding her awkwardly in his arms.
"Rad-ee-o-activity?," she lay in a heap, laughing hysterically.
No comments:
Post a Comment