“Leave it to Jack to complain about free shit,” Michael said. He was standing in the corner of his Aunt’s loft apartment in Angel with his arms crossed surveying the comedy of the fashion-forward John Varvatos representative trying to outfit his band in acceptable attire. The trunks of clothing that the stylist brought barely took up a quarter of the floor space in the apartment. Michael could see his Aunt’s taste in the light maple floors that were perfectly finished. They reflected the sparse sunlight the London skies emanated through the large windows.
“You should talk,” Jack retorted. “You’re just standing there. Why aren’t you getting a makeover?”
“Oh I don’t plan on it,” Michael said, starting to weasel his way out of it.
“Actually Stephanie made it clear I’d be dressing ALL of you,” the trendy man replied.
“What?” Michael said. He peered at the thin man with long black hair pulled into a low pony-tail. He had more metal bangles on his right wrist than he had ever seen on a non-belly dancer. On his right wrist was a thick, brown leather strap that held the face of a watch that was the size of Michael’s fist, which was much bigger than the fist of the man who was wearing it. He could see the skeleton of the inner-workings of the watch from where he stood 20 feet away. On the representative’s body were slim, slightly reflective stovepipe pants with a grey pinstriped vest covering a lilac purple t-shirt. On top of the ensemble sat a chunky, cable-knit scarf wrapped around his neck. It was the only thing that seemed to give the trendsetter’s body volume, other than the watch.
“Now look Dick,” Michael started.
“Nick,” the trendy representative said, correcting Michael.
“Nick, I apologize. But I don’t think my wardrobe is in the budget.”
“No excuses Michael,” Nick said. “Remember I’m from New York and I don’t put up with bullshit. Stephanie made my goals and objectives clear for this visit and she scares me a whole helluva lot more than you ever could.”
“Fine,” Micahel said, and saw the indignant look in Jack’s eyes, and tried to correct his attitude. “I mean thank you. I’d be happy to comply for a free wardrobe. Just, um, do I have to wear bracelets?”
Nick laughed. “Only if you want them,” he said.
“Cool.”
Then Gabe came out of the bathroom wearing a sleek, three-piece grey suit with a cerulean blue tie, and a light blue checked collared shirt.
“Holy shit,” Michael said. “Gabe you look like a different person. Your eyes look amazing.”
“Seriously?” Gabe asked.
“Except for your white-socked feet,” Nick said, chiming in.
Michael’s gaze dropped down to Gabe’s wiggling toes, and even caught a flesh-colored digit moving across a small hole.
“Yeah that kind of killed it,” Michael said.
“Whatever,” Jack replied, then he looked up at Gabe. “Why aren’t you making me look like that?”
“Because Gabe’s body type is the sample size of John V's suits, and he’s escorting Ylva to the Q Awards next week. He’s not going to be performing in this.”
“And what happened to complaining?” Adam interjected.
“He got a taste of how hot Gabe is going to look and got jealous,” Michael teased.
“Boys stop fighting,” Nick said. “Now that I have your sizes I can send over more outfits later.”
“More outfits?” This isn’t enough? You brought more than we carried here from New York and there’s a full keyboard in there.”
“This is just the beginning,” Nick said. “Also your outfit for tonight will be sent over by messenger later. They will be labeled and sorted for each of you. I swear to God if you deviate from the ensemble, I’ll make you swim your asses back to New York through the Atlantic.”
“What makes you think we’ll deviate?” Gabe asked.
Nick shot a look at Adam, who had already unbuttoned the top button of his pants and his collard shirt and was lounging on the couch like a tired dog.
“What?” Adam asked. “This is all so tight-fitting.”
“It’s because they’re your size and they actually fit you. If you weren’t so sloppy I would say you could score some modeling gigs, but you’re a mess. You let the clothes control you. Your posture is too stooped. Your hair is too long. Speaking of. When can I send over the hair stylist?”
All the boys, except for Jack who palmed his shaved head and smiled, looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Good,” Nick said, taking silence as a concession. “I’ll call him now then. Excuse me.”
Nick walked out of the room with his phone raised up to his ear right above the thick scarf.
“Michael my hair?” Adam asked, whimpering a bit and grabbing the ends of his shoulder-length hair.
“This is getting a little extreme,” Gabe said.
“Do I slouch?” Adam asked, still whimpering.
Michael could feel his annoyance develop into anger. “Who is this guy?” He thought. A person who never heard them play would determine their look. Gabe looked good, but he didn’t know how much leeway he could give to a man who wrapped a boa constrictor around his neck and called it a scarf.
“Hey Nick,” Michael said, calling out.
“Yes?” Nick said, walking back into the room. “The hair stylist will be here in a bit. Good thing I put one on stand-by.”
“Yeah Nick about that,” Michael said. “I’m not sure what you had in mind, but I think you’re going too far.”
“Too far?”
“Yes. Clothes are one thing, but altering our whole appearance is another. We don’t want to look like something we’re not.”
“Boys you have to trust me.”
“Why should we?”
Michael could see Nick counting to five in his head.
“Good,” Michael thought. “He shouldn’t think he has the license to do whatever he wants.”
“Okay,” Nick replied. “Is Gabe not enough of an example of why you should trust me? Doesn’t he look fabulous?”
“We don’t want to look fabulous. We want to look like us. This is all too manufactured.”
Michael crossed his arms for emphasis.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I’m not used to styling people that didn’t solicit my services. I promise to simply spruce up what you guys have, and that’ll be plenty to work with.”
“You don’t have to flatter us,” Michael said with a slight smile.
“Speak for yourself,” Jack said. “Tell me all the ways I’m beautiful Nick.”
The boys laughed and Nick joined in. “I’ll be gentle, I promise,” he said.
“Your help is appreciated,” Michael said, conceding.
Then the doorbell rang.
* * * *
