So I was talking to my students about Halloween today, and remembered this challenge thing. Got in from school and wrote this. It's not really very good, but it was fun to write. Hasn't come out anything like I wanted it to be, but still, I did something, and it filled some time. It wasn't meant to be in individual paragraphs either, but TFF has decided that it wants it to be that way. URGH.
Reborn
Nathaniel looks at his spoon. He lifts it, turns it around in his hand, and regards it as if it's a concave pocket-mirror. He twists his head to the side, to the back, and forwards again. His big blue doe-eyes look small and strained, his Roman nose looks positively mountainous, and his cheekbones seem overdefined. 'Thank God, the world is not a spoon,' he says, dropping the errant cutlery back into his cereal.
He eats some more of his corn flakes. The milk is too cold for this time of morning, but that can't be helped. It's almost winter, after all, and it's not his fault he has to be up this early. Well, actually, it is his fault, but like everyone else working in a boring job he allows himself to pretend that things could be no other way. Life transpired to make him wake up at this time. It wasn't his fault. Really. Life could be a lot worse than this though, he knows it.
There's nothing to read, so he turns the corn flakes box around and peruses the various promotions found there. The theme is black and orange, because it's Halloween time. The box is littered with scary castles, cute pumpkins, bats with unnaturally big eyes; cobwebs, grinning spiders, other detritus. Nathaniel smiles. It's one of his favourite days of the year, and he's waited almost fourteen years for this particular Halloween.
He thinks back to his childhood. That was when Halloween was fun; he'd go out in an awful, but presumably cute, costume, and get sweets in exchange. Not bad, he used to think. When he was fifteen he went dressed as a ballerina, because he figured that this was the only night of the year he could get away with it. Pictures were taken, people laughed. Nathaniel continued his slick ascension up the chain of popularity. 'How cool is this guy!' they said. 'He'll dress up as a woman just for the laughs! So confident!'
Nathaniel smiles to himself, chewing on the corn flakes. They're getting soggy now. Almost time to leave for work. He drains the rest of the soggy flakes from his bowl and heads upstairs through the spacious house. Past the big mirror in the hallway, up the tastefully carpeted stairwell. Sophisticated pictures follow him up on the left hand wall, some abstract, some still life. He likes the pictures; they remind him of how he met his wife.
He pads along the soft beige carpet in the upper hallway. Family photos and scattered artworks assault him from each coffee-and-cream coloured wall. Eventually he finds himself at his big, mahogany, bedroom door. It opens easily and silently on its hinges, a sign of the cost put into it. His bedroom is decorated with deep reds and oranges, so that it always looks warm. He and his wife had agreed that it should be so.
His wife, Sarah, is asleep in the king-size bed, the huge duvet and featherdown pillows almost swallowing her. He can only see half of her face, and then her frizzy hair, launching itself out across the pillow. Sarah often says to him that brave is the black woman who wears her hair naturally. After she'd first said it, Nathaniel noticed that none of the black women in his workplace had their hair in natural afros; it was always plastered and straightened away, locked back. There were more differences between an art gallery and a law office than first met the eye, he supposed.
She looks beautiful, he thinks. In the half-light coming from the streetlights she looks almost she's made of porcelain that was crafted from coffee beans rather than from china. He prefers her with her big oval eyes open, but that can wait. He switches on the soft bedside lamp; it doesn't wake her. His suit is hanging up, his socks are neatly bundled. Orange tie today. It's Halloween!
He checks himself in the mirror. 'Good man,' he says to himself. The suit spreads perfectly across his chest, pulls down nicely into his waist. His hair is fuzzy and blonde, as usual, but that helps him to look young. No need to mess with it today. He shaved earlier. Ready to go.
After giving Sarah a quick kiss and a muffled goodbye (in response to which she mumbles and rolls over), he goes to check on his children. They're too old for kisses now, but he still always pokes his head into their rooms to make sure they're safe and comfortable. When Sojo was younger it'd been to check that she was still breathing; but she was sixteen now, and obscenely healthy. He smiled as he thought those words. Sixteen years old. She was asleep alright, rolled up in her duvet, a typical teenager. Next comes Martin, Sojo's little brother. How can he be fourteen? Time passes too quickly. He's safe and asleep too, snoring gently. Nathaniel can leave now; everyone's safe.
He drives into the city as the sun comes up, smiling more and more as he sees the shops and offices all decorated for Halloween. Tonight will be good, he thinks. Oh, how he's missed this one night!
The plan is set: the children are going to spend Halloween with Sarah and her parents. Nathaniel, for his part, is meant to be at his office Halloween party; but he won't be. It's alright, Sarah knows where he's going. She always has, and has never said a word against it. Thank God he'd been honest from the start. Later in the evening, Sarah will take her children and parents to the gallery for a spooky midnight movie. Nathan will appear afterwards, to drive them all home. Everyone will be soft and tired and warm. He can't wait.
His day is uneventful. He has meetings with clients, he has difficult laws to read and interpret. A difficult criminal case is circulating; something about a mountain of circumstantial evidence but no hard facts. People are debating, some calling speculators gossipy, some saying that this much suspicion can't be wrong. The interns are excited. Nathaniel knows that it will be months, if not years, until this case sees court, and that there is no way the defendant could afford counsel from his firm anyway. But let them talk while they still find it exciting. Good for them. This is the dream, kids. Live it.
He has lunch with Michael, who he will see tonight. They munch ostensibly 'French' baguettes (tuna nicoise) and talk about work, Sarah's gallery, Michael's wife's salon business. Michael's marriage isn't doing well at the moment. Nathaniel tries to sympathise, but can't help feeling a little bit smug. He's never hidden anything from Sarah, and he truly loves her. She, he is sure, feels the same. Michael will have to lie about where he going this Halloween. Nathaniel will vouch for him.
They smile when someone mentions the date loudly, because it was on this day eighteen years ago that they met, in that wonderful place they'll go to tonight. Memories start to flow, and they start to laugh, guarding their words. Never know who's listening. A person can make a lot of money getting rid of talented lawyers. Inter-firm rivalry has never been stronger; the recession has them scrapping for every last contract.
Lunch comes to an end. 'See you tonight,' beams Michael, 'Don't be late.'
'Never,' grins Nathaniel.
The day slows down. He seems to hit every red on the way home; dinner is interminable, and the kids take ages to arrange themselves and leave with Sarah. As they go, Sarah cups Nathaniel's face in her hands and kisses him on the forehead. 'You have fun,' she smiles. 'You put the family first, dressing up for them every year. I'll see you later. I love you.'
'I love you too,' says Nathaniel. 'Don't worry. I'll come get you when the movie's done.'
Finally! They're out the door. Nathaniel's still wearing his suit, but even so, he takes the stairs two at a time; he rushes into the bedroom, dives beneath the bed, and pulls out his safebox. Three disguised, integrated padlocks later, and he's in. There, before him, is his attire for the evening. Perfectly designed, tailored, and, oh, it's wonderful. He doesn't touch it; carefully he closes the safebox lid and locks it back up.
He takes it down to the car and packs it safely away, into the backseat. How lucky he is to have Sarah, he thinks. How many other women would take his explanation at face value? It must have been because he was honest from the beginning, and still is. 'I'm not gay; I just like to dress up like a woman,' he'd said. This was on their fifth date, the first time he took her to Lacy and Luke's. She'd accepted Nathaniel, laughed at his brutal honesty, and then called his playground an aesthetic wonderland. He was proud.
Halloween was the biggest night in Lacy's. After the kids had become old enough for Halloween, Nathaniel had chosen to spend that time at home, with them; they were more beautiful than he could ever be, after all. One or two nights a month would be spent at Lacy's, but they were never like Halloween.
He drives carefully. It would be a disaster if he was caught in transit with that giant risk to his job and entire social life riding in the back seat. He takes the highway, skirts the city centre proper, finds his way into the eastern end, just before suburbia begins. It's dark but the moon is visible through the orange streetlight, giving everything an edge. Oh, it's like Christmas but better.
Lacy and Luke's is hidden in a prefab square building built inside an old warehouse. He draws up to the industrial estate where the warehouse is; he drives around, parks his car in a backalley between two big storehouses. Nobody parks in front of the warehouse; nobody wants that kind of attention. He's sure that the police would never come in, because he's seen prominent policemen in there before, but it still pays to be safe.
He locks up his car and begins walking, his steady paces reverberating through the empty industrial spaces. The ground beneath his feet is old asphalt covered with little bits of grit accumulated over the years by lorries, pick-up trucks, forklifts. His suit feels crisp, his shoes feel expensive and clean. He pulls himself up and walks with his back perfectly straight, his safebox tucked neatly under his right arm. He looks up to the clear sky, and can feel Halloween in the air.
The warehouse looks like any other; massive metal walls, a corrugated roof, doors that open like a hangar. It's huge. Word is that it was once used by an aeronautics company for repairs, but nobody knows, or cares, if this is true. He goes in through the side door; someone has stuck a cute little pumpkin face to it. It's the details, he thinks.
Once inside, he hears muffled music coming from the little square building located in the middle of the room. The ground in here is smooth, clean concrete. His steps echo, and he can hear them speeding up.
Lacy's has no front door; it has only a stage door that leads to the dressing rooms. You don't go into the club proper until you are dressed the part, and you take your costume off before you leave. Coming here is a massive risk for every professional that can afford the privilege. Membership isn't cheap, but it's completely invisible.
Nathaniel makes his way to an empty dressing room. The hall is busy; people bustling around, costumes half-on, makeup everywhere. Inside the dressing room he sees what he has come to expect: the huge, lit mirror and dresser, covered in Maybelline and Maxfactor and L'Oreal, the lipsticks, rouges, kohls, and concealers; the hair dyes, the wigs, the combs and brushes; the wardrobe with fresh underwear; the little shower with massage stones and an in-built hairdryer and shaving kit, next to the pile of fluffy white towels. Across from the mirror is a tasteful golden chaise longue, in front of which sits a small faux-Moroccan (or is it real?) table with fruit, champagne, and roses. If you want a more substantial meal, it can be called for. The walls are coloured a deep, hearty red with a golden star-stencil ring towards the ceiling. Nathaniel closes the door behind him, and takes off his shoes and socks. He sinks his feet into the plush cream carpet, and smiles.
First, champagne. He sucks on a sweet strawberry too, just because he can. He strips off and take a second to regard himself in the mirror; Nathaniel Thornton, lawyer, not for long. He opens his safebox, slowly this time, and puts on each item carefully. He's decided to go classic for his comeback; sexy vampire. Can't go wrong.
The lacy suspenders first, and then a slightly puffy black miniskirt. He is a man, after all, so nothing too skintight will
work. He slips into his corset, perfectly fitted and covered in intricate red pattern details, and sips his champagne. Oh, this is the life. Lace, lace, then satin; a little silk to finish it off. And a wig. Can't have a blonde vampire. The heels, four-inch, black lacquer, with leather thongs that he twists up around his shins and ties in place.
Michael knocks gently on the door; he needs help with his makeup. He takes a strawberry gladly, and sits in front of the mirror. Nathaniel hands him a glass of champagne, and they drink a toast to Halloween.
An hour later, they emerge into the club proper. An open bar to the right; between it and the jacuzzi corner is the main stage. Someone dressed as a werewolf warrior is up there just now, swinging around one of the three poles. He looks wonderful, thinks Nathaniel. In front of him are a collection of luxurious beds, sofas and chaises longues; doctors, journalists, rock stars, politicians and policemen drape themselves over them and feel beautiful. Small candles in mini chandeliers, painted black and festooned with bats for the season, hang from the roof. The stage has its own lighting rig.
Lacy and Luke will be somewhere. Nathaniel feels like congratulating them on another success, another secret night; but they'd only laugh, and then ask where he got his corset made. Instead he settles for taking a neon Halloween cocktail (he doesn't ask what's in it, but it's delicious). He finds that his feet have remembered perfectly how to walk in heels. It's in the ankles, and then the hips. He swishes his skirt a little, grins, and walks back into the centre of the club. Taking a seat, he regards his surroundings, sips his drink. He watches the werewolf on stage; the little ears, the faux-fur dress with slits right up each thigh; the perfect dark makeup, the leopard-print stockings. His drink is gone before he knows it. Time to move.
Michael strikes up conversation with Little Red Riding Hood (the city's superintendent) while Nathaniel walks up to the stage. He takes the right-hand pole in one hand. He swings his left leg up, and throws back his head. The music slows to a dirge; it's time to pretend to die, but be hot about it. He catches the werewolf on the other pole grinning at him. They move like nymphs, they think of ghosts. I hope the spirits are enjoying the show, thinks Nathaniel.
The family man, the father and husband and lawyer, is reborn.
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