The Tailors

My pants make me depressed. They make me feel sad and fat. I stop in the middle of the room and summon Rugby, my bodyguard. I sling an arm over his shoulder, my legs weak. I beg him to call the tailor to come and alter my pants. Rugby goes outside and constructs a mammoth fire in the front yard. I collapse to the floor, staring down at my pants. The tailors arrive by bus. A whole fleet of tailors run from the bus and invade the house. They say the carpenter has the worst looking house on the block and the same could be said for the tailors’ clothes. They are all ill-fitting. Binding. Too loose. Voluminous, in some cases. And their selection is poor. Logo t- shirts and jeans. Out of date clothes that look they were purchased from a second-hand store. I have little faith in them. They prop me up and take measurements. A man with an outgrown mohawk, wearing a denim skirt with a flag embroidered across the chest pulls out a pair of scissors and snips the air.

They set to work.

I black out.

When I wake up, I’m sweaty and famished. I’m in my bed. I toss back the covers and hop out. I feel refreshed. There is a definite spring in my step. I look down at my newly tailored pants. They are very sleek. Almost a part of me.

When I get downstairs, I find Rugby entertaining the tailors. He explains to me the great sacrifice they all went through to reconstruct my pants. One by one, the tailors lift their shirts and drop their pants and I see missing flesh and hair. As I squat down to test the give in the pants I realize their sacrifice was worth it and, looking at them, I see they are all smiling, proud of their craft.