Clothes

No, said Rose.

They all have jeans, said Ben. Everybody can wear jeans and Oxford shirts.

That is such a bad look. Nobody wants to look at actors in jeans. Unless they’re black jeans. What if the men wear black jeans and black Henley shirts? And the women black jeans and ballet tops?

What in hell is a ballet top?

Rose showed him a picture in a catalogue.

Sexy.

Well, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. The older actresses can wear something more modest. Turtlenecks.

Rose was nervous. She had clothes on the brain. She had shopped that afternoon and found something thrillingly Myrna Loyish, an interview suit, a brown glen plaid wool skirt with a jacket with three-quarters sleeves, high rounded collar, bias-cut pockets, and a belt. Very professional. None of that sex kitten look. Most of the suits were paired with low-cut babydoll blouses that seemed more appropriate for a call girl. Buying the right suit had taken her five minutes. There was so little that she liked. And she was a fast shopper. Then she had spent ten minutes chattering to a sales clerk about accessories. She longed for a quilted double-strapped handbag, a $40 knockoff of a Chanel bag she had seen in the New York Times. But, no, she couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t swing into the interview merrily with a red quilted bag. Alas, she needed something brown or black. She had several brown and black handbags at home. Every professional woman in the city had several brown and black handbags. She also had the right shoes, a pair of high heels pulled out of the closet only for job interviews. In the office she wore flats or black Adidas.

The play was only two months off. The play, the play. The play’s the thing. Ben cared only about the play. He listened to Richard recite his lines over the phone in his spare time.

That cute Bosnian accent, whispered Rose.

You flirt. Give me a cookie, Ben said. Rose handed him a chocolate chip cookie.

Rose had everyone’s measurements and ordered the clothes from an obscure retail catalogue. She chatted to a marketing person who agreed to give her a break on prices. She felt as though she had known this woman for years. Sometimes the woman had good suggestions for costumes. One year the actors had performed in long tunics over tights. That had been a low-budget year. Another year the look had been hoodies, commando hats, and cargo pants. The only time they had worn Renaissance costumes they’d borrowed them from performers at a Renaissance Fair and everyone had complained about the smell.

I’m never, ever, ever wearing a smelly velvet gown again, the lead actress had complained. I had the thing dry-cleaned and the underarms still reek.

This year it was win-win. Everyone could use a pair of black jeans and a Henley or a ballet top or a turtleneck. The actors got to keep the clothes. The months of work were otherwise unpaid.

They do it for the applause, Ben said.

No, said Rose. They do it for the clothes. The barista who’s my age requested a burgundy ballet top. Clearly she doesn’t realize how she’ll look beside the young.

Withered? Ben guessed.

Hush. We shan’t talk about it, Rose said, imitating Margaret in HOWARDS END. She had always wanted to be noble like Forster’s character but suspected she was more like Queen Margaret in RICHARD III.

And she didn’t want to think about withered.

Note: Above photo is of actress Myrna Loy. Wouldn't she have been a fine Queen Margaret?