I am not going insane. I am a human being, plain and simple, thinking and operating off of whatever my senses perceive. And those senses are, at this moment, telling me that the suit I'm wearing is growing. Physically growing, you know, getting larger. It's a wonder of a suit, all tuxy and shiny, pleated and oh-so-lovingly creased, silky and cottony (only 20% polyester), with big brass buttons and racing stripes down the pants. It's the nicest thing I ever rented, and when I tried it on I had to buy it, so it became the nicest thing I've ever owned. And now, against all the laws of nature I know, it's getting bigger. The suit I'm wearing is growing, over me. I am not going insane.
Two hours ago, when I slipped this suit on, with the help of a small, anxious old man at a tailor shop called Workman's, thirty miles away, it fit me like a very expensive glove. That's no small feat, either - I'm a man of rough face and lumpy body, and have never, for as long as I can remember, owned any bit of clothing that fit without pinching, biting, or causing all manner of bodily rashes. Even my lucky yellow hat had to be broken-in with the aid of a Dodge Ram pickup I own and its chain-link snowtires before it would sit quite right on my head. (It's a purple hat now, and very lucky indeed.) So when today I was quite carefully draped in this snazzy new suit, and it clung to my sides more faithfully than any dog I've ever had, I was forced to regard the event as nothing less than the highest of miracles. But now those tapered sleeves with their big brass buttons hang pathetically over my dangling hands, leaving only the tips of my fingers room to peek out from their overlong cuffs, and the formally stiff collar had overtaken my neck altogether - it is now doing its best to swallow up my chin. The pant legs are not a major problem, though covering my shoes now like a doctor's elastic booties; they still fit fairly comfortably. But the waistpiece, cumberbund and all, has ridden up my gut and over my chest to such an extent that I dare not take any overly deep breaths, for fear of being disemboweled alive by the suit's steel zipper.
The suit is growing; no other conclusion can be drawn now. It is dark and oddly cold inside it. It cuts me off from the outside world, a dry-cleaned layer of unwanted armor, a shroud in starch-stiffened fabric. Everything I've learned in life up to this point is telling me that the suit should not be doing this. It is physically impossible, but it must be happening, because I feel it, it washes like an apocalyptic tide over every nerve in my body, and if I cannot trust myself then I must be going insane. And I'm not going insane, as I made clear at the very beginning. I am not a liar. The suit is growing; that is a fact. Fine. If I can build from there, with more facts, hopefully I'll be able to create a clear picture of this world once again. Hopefully I'll be able to prove I understand.
Fact: my name is Phillip Shrapp. Middle name Jonah. Nickname Phil, or PJ. I work for a company called PansyLord. We make guns. I am standing in my apartment, which is a faded, greenish-yellow thing, cracked and thick with dirt and stench, because I never clean it, and I've not yet taken out the garbage. I'm standing on a floor, which is wooden, and creaks. It is scuffed, dented, and perilously thin. The toilet stands in the same room as the kitchen, and both are overrun with roaches. The dishes haven't been washed in days, piled high enough with the decaying remains of half-eaten franks, beans and ramen noodles to pass for a prize-winning fifth-grade Science Fair project. They are unclean and seemingly uncleanable, though there are, at least, a whole lot of them, making up in numbers what they lack as a glaring health risk. I should have cleaned up. It's my wedding day. That's why I bought the suit. I am to be married, to seal a bargain designed in the name of whatever's holy to take a man and fix his world, in the company of a good woman. A fairly important event. So I blew what money I had on a fancy suit, one that would with any luck make me look halfway loveable. Clothes make the man, they say, and I wanted a suit that could change a guy's life. I may have misfired - in this suit all I can think about is death. What is this thing, crawling over me? Where did it come from? ... Facts. Think facts.
I was driving, and it was so late it was early. Four in the morning, I think, though I pawned off the truck's radio ages ago, same day as my old gold watch, so there was no real way of telling time. The goal was to find a good, cheap shop, open at that ungodly hour, one that would get me to look like a million bucks without asking me to pay quite that amount. Easier hoped-for than done. After tearing about in futile circles for far too long I found myself thirty miles out of my way (and out of my head), with no hope in sight. That was, as I recall, about the point when my pickup broke down. I must've been more worn-out than I'd realized to think the truck could run without gas. Probably figured I could save some money. I'd figured wrong, quite plainly, and could do little but kick about in the dust, feeling thirty miles away from any fortunate event. And yet fortune did seem to smile on me then, very briefly. A shop called Workman's Tailors seemed to appear out of nowhere, promising quality clothing at bargain-basement prices. So I went in. How could I not? The place was mostly empty, save a few "Save!" signs, faded half to bits, a shabby desk with a cash register, and a shabbier old man who I figured ran the place. Red tags and dust bunnies had overrun a shag-carpeted floor that had seen better days, though clearly not much better, and had never seen a vacuum. "Ungape that mouth and unpop them eyes, son," he said with a yellow grin. "The suits are in back. My name's Bacchus." It suited him. An odd ancient name for an odd ancient fellow. He wore all purple, excluding a white beard, and walked with a stoop, which he blamed on mercury poisoning. I was surprised to believe him. He smelled of car deodorant and knew exactly what I was looking for. "That deer-in-headlights look really sticks with ye, doesn't it? Heh. If I didn't know better, young man, I'd think you were fixing to get married today." He had it spot-on, and I told him so plainly. I'd met a wonderful, rich kind of girl, all class - her father owned a hammer factory - and it wasn't all about the money, either. She was peaches in the sack, too. He gave a mild wince and a "congratulations," then darted round back to pick me out a suit.
What can I say? He read me like a book. The suit was absolutely perfect. Smelled a bit, but after a while I didn't even notice that. Either it managed to air out just right, or I just got used to it somehow. It all seemed very strange. I thanked the old oddball to the utter best of my abilities. He'd done me well, and I felt bad for an accidental crack about his mother, but then how was I to know she was still alive? With the son looking about ninety, I thought thinking the old battleaxe'd be dead was a safe assumption. Anyway, I took the thing home - wore it home, actually. I couldn't bear to take it off, even walking half a mile in the dust to get gas. But after about an hour or so of driving, trying with mixed success to find my way home again, a strange sensation started to come over me, as if my head and limbs had suddenly been overrun with soft, fabric spiders. I nearly ran off the road. To tell the truth, I probably did. I did manage to make it home, but I've still got no idea how. That must have been another one of those minor miracles. I made a stumbling run up the stairs to the apartment, falling down at least twice. My pant legs were stretching out somehow. I tripped at every turn. I fumbled with my keys, trying to force the lock open with only the sleeve-covered stumps of my hands to work with. No one ever thinks what a joy an opposable thumb is, until it's too late. An advancing pratfall left both me and the door dented, but thankfully the bleeding on my part was minimal. Deciding it best to restrict my actions to simple standing, I simply stood, in the middle of my apartment. And I've been standing here ever since.
Has it been five minutes? Fifty? Five hundred? What time is it now? Is it day or night? I can see nothing, inside this suit. All is black. The fabric has grown to cover me completely. A little while ago I had to strain just to see any hint of the outside world above the cocoon of its steely fabric. Now straining would be futile, and considering how difficult it is to think at this point I'm glad, in a way, that I no longer have to attempt to see. I must be an interesting sight. Surely I still look my best, and if I can just manage to move my legs, perhaps in another hour or so, and walk out into the world, I'm certain everyone will be thoroughly impressed. Those big brass buttons, with their seductive glow, must look pretty sharp. They feel sharp, against my scraped and bloodied skin. I should be afraid, as the fabric hardens to stone outside me, but instead I feel quietly philosophical. Inside the suit, time stops for me. It is, even after all this, quite a lot better than going insane. Here's a thought, to show I'm still thinking: What is more important in this life - good clothing or oxygen? Do we wear what we wear as decoration, or as protection from everything outside us?
I cannot move now. I cannot reach out. I change nothing. But I am not so unhappy. The noise of the world has departed, and I intend to enjoy the simple pleasures I've been given here, like the polite, cultured pounding of my lungs, and the slow, calming trickle of fluid leaking from my hands and head. The suit provides me with inky, black, atmospheric peace, a sensation I've never had while conscious, with no sights, tastes or smells to distract from my quiet ruminations on Ö uh Ö ouch. I think I might be Ö losing quite a bit of blood. Oh well. Time to go to Ö sleep. Yeah. That I can handle.
Property of Orange Cow Productions. ninc., 1999. This piece may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, altered, forwarded, or otherwise worked with in any way without the express written consent of Orange Cow Productions, ninc. We can be reached at ocpmovie (at) lycos.com.