In the snooty beach-town of Yachtsandmartiniville, there is a shop that sells uncomfortably over priced accessories.
In the window display there are garish paisley wallets and diamond studded lipstick cases. Along the walls hang rows and rows of wispy summer scarves and designer dog collars. They have ties and pins and trinkets of all sorts but their most sought-after merchandise is in a room all of its own; the bags.
For fun, I peruse. I try on enormous, floppy hats and sunglasses with lenses the size of dinner plates.
Fashion is a sly beast that has always eluded me. However, that being said, as I reach the back room, even I can sense that there is something strange at work.
Though nothing looks particularly outstanding, I have the feeling that there is something worth looking for and begin to paw through rack upon rack of purses and pocketbooks.
And then I find it.
Hanging on the far wall is a brownish, leather knapsack. God only knows how much it costs but oh, wouldn’t it just be ideal for some sort of Jack Kerouac-esque adventure?
I make my way over and pull at the flap in search of a price tag. It’s a bit stiff but I’m sure it will break in after a bit of use.
I search around the outside edges, looking for something (anything) that will tell me just which organ I would have to sell to purchase this creation when the bag jerks away from me and cries out in rage.
Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Young lady, I don’t know what kind of behavior riff-raff like you are used to but it certainly will not be tolerated in a respectable place such as this.
And then it turns around and I blanch.
The gorgeous, made-for-epic-quests knapsack isn’t a bag at all but a person.
A scary, pretentious, horridly-over-tanned person.
His skin is leather, I swear it, though I can now see clearly that his face bears no resemblance to a purse, only a very angry caricature of David Hasselhoff.
Now—this is a nightmare—another rack of bags is turning to acknowledge the commotion only this time I find, instead of a very angry man, a bored-looking, overweight woman in her mid fifties donning a terrifyingly orange hide.
Soon the entire room is filled with disdainful, irritated, offended and outraged leather-people, all commenting in disgusted whines about
the nerve of some people.
I try and leave, to back away and flee.
They follow me like a zombie army; Night of the Living Leather.
I’ve made it back onto the sidewalk but they are fast on my trail.
Sprinting, I head for my truck; my beautiful, 1984 chevy truck. Mint green. She’s a trooper, if I can get back to her I’ll be miles away and this will have been a bad dream.
There she is, I’m home free now baby—
The leathers are swarming,
HOW ARE THEY SO QUICK?
I speed up, it’s a mad dash now. Throw open the front door, launch myself into the driver’s seat. Key in the ignition, reverse, first gear, floor it.
They are making to chase after me but the leather seats of their shiny sports cars are hot from the sun. They cry out in agony.
I laugh as they fade in my rearview mirror.
Thank goodness for fabric upholstery.