Misfits and Oddities

In a suburb on the outskirts of downtown Indianapolis, Indiana, there was a tailor shop that didn't open until 1:30 pm and then closed quite late. The owner of the shop was a gaunt old white man named William L. Bolton. Using the inheritance he acquired from his wealthy grandmother, he started his legitimate business (and the illegal ‘blind tiger’ behind it) at the dawn of nationwide Prohibition, barely a year after the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution was ratified. Besides the unusual name of the establishment, potential customers were given yet another subtle clue that the suit maker inside was a weirdo. One of two signs in the front window read, “PHILOSOPHERS & FREETHINKERS WELCOME!”

At 9:35 pm, on Friday, July 15, 1927, a tall skinny Negro dressed in impeccable navy-blue apparel entered the men's boutique. Copper Corinthian bells jingled on the mahogany flat panel wall, struck by a copper bar on the door as it opened.

Seated behind a whitewood counter in the wide room was a beautiful, middle-aged Negress. Tonight, she looked especially elegant in her slinky, pastel purple dress. She was reading To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Wolf, newly published that year.

The 6’6” brown man walked up to the counter and smiled down at the 5'2" brown woman, who put aside her book and stood up, asking, “May I help you?”

He replied in a reedy voice, “You must be Rosalie.”

Eying him suspiciously, she asked, “What’s the password?”

The man knocked five times on the countertop, three fast knocks, a pause, and then two more knocks. “Thirteen cats,” he squeaked.

From one corner of the shop, lying on his white cushion, the black cat named Midnight uttered a long, loud meow. From the opposite corner, atop her black pillow, the white cat named Snowflake gave off a series of soft, squeaking chirps.

“Yes, I'm Rosalie,” said the woman, the fret on her face disappearing. She donned her prettiest smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir!”

The man was so flustered looking into Rosalie’s gorgeous amber eyes, he never offered his own name.

She almost asked if it was his first time here, but it was evident that it was. So instead of prolonging the man’s unease, she pointed to the green door to her left and said, “You’ll find what you’re seeking by going through that entrance and then down the stairs.”

He briefly eyed the door to the right, the birch one leading to the back room where all the fabrics and sewing kits were kept. Then he took three especially long strides over to the green door. Turning the brass handle, he glanced back again at Rosalie, clearly not wanting to take his eyes off her.

She was used to being ogled.

Seemingly concerned about hitting his head on the upper jamb, as if that had happened before, he ducked down as he entered the green doorway.

The instant she was alone again, the smile dropped off Rosalie’s face. She muttered to herself, “I hate it when he tells ‘em my name along with the password.” But then she admitted to herself, “I guess it could have been worse. He could have been a creepy old white man.”

Rosalie was of the firm belief that— with a few notable exceptions— white men were responsible for all the Great Evils in the world. A moment later, before she could return to her novel, the birch door opened and one of those exceptions walked out.

William was dressed in one of his finest black satin suits, along with a white chiffon shirt— the one with black damask patterns. His collar was unbuttoned. He never wore a traditional tie. Instead, as usual, a lightning-bolt-shaped pendant hung around his neck. The handcrafted medallion from the Bahamas was made from silver, white moonstone, green fluorite crystal, and blue apatite stone. When Rosalie scowled at Bill, he hurriedly asked, “Did I miss someone while I was out back?”

“Two people, actually.”

“Who?”

“Jane Trojanowski came in right after you left. She brought in a couple bags of ‘elixirs’.”

“Excellent,” said Bill. Jane worked with Paul Miltenberger at his apothecary. Paul— like most of Bill’s alcohol suppliers— was employed by day as a pharmacist. “Did she just do a ‘drop off’ or did she stay?”

Rosalie confirmed Jane was still downstairs. “She had on her best dancing shoes.”

“Well,” said Bill, with a knowing grin, “Alice Olson did come in earlier.”

Rosalie smirked. “All the young ladies love Alice.”

Bill nodded. “Who else?”

Rosalie gave him a fiery stare. “Someone I’ve ever seen before— a scarecrow-looking fellow.”

“Black or white?”

“Brown.” She had never been comfortable calling Negros ‘black.’ That was something Bill and only Bill did, as far as she knew. When she first heard him say it, years ago, it seemed like an insult to Rosalie, until she realized he meant it as a compliment.

William Bolton was a very odd man, indeed.

Rosalie added, “I recognize your work. I'm guessing he's someone you outfitted in the past, based on his height and what he was wearing.”

He shrugged. “I think I might know who you're talking about— someone I helped on one of your days off.”

Before Rosalie could give him hell for his nonchalance, the front door opened again. The stranger that entered was a scraggly-dressed Caucasian with a gigantic pot belly. His fat, sunburnt face was contorted with rage. Based on the hateful glare that he shot at Rosalie, both William and Rosalie immediately suspected him to be a likely member of the Ku Klux Klan. He didn’t look like he could afford a pot to piss in, let alone a tailored suit.

Rosalie stepped behind Bill.

Facing down the lobster-red pig man, Bill said dryly, “Hello there! I assume you are here to buy some decent clothes? You could certainly use them!” He grinned. “That’s our specialty here at Misfits: dressing people in the very best, no matter how fat and ugly they are!”

Rosalie shook her head, unamused. In situations like these, she considered Bill’s sarcastic sense of humor to be downright dangerous. She knew her boss would never be so insensitive as to call a regular customer ‘fat’. When they so often referred to themselves that way, Bill’s standard response was, ‘Nonsense! You are not fat! You’re pleasantly plump!’

Not responding to Bill’s insults, the chunker instead snarled, “Where’s that boy who just came in here a couple minutes ago?”

Glowering at the racist, Bill matched his tone: “I don’t make clothing for children.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” The fat man’s fists were knotted into pudgy red balls at his sides. Even his hands were sunburnt. “A white woman came in before him. Where’d she go?”

Ignoring the comment about Jane, Bill said, “If you were referring to a Negro, the Indiana public accommodations law established way back in 1885 guarantees that they have the right to frequent any business they choose— any restaurant, hotel, theater, even...” he gestured expansively, “a tailor shop.”

The intruder’s nose curled up like he just smelled something rotten. Sadly, he was accurate when he said, “That law isn’t enforced.”

That’s when Bill’s face turned into a thunderstorm. He grabbed Tommy from behind the counter and slammed what looked exactly like a machine gun onto the counter, yelling, “Well, that law is enforced HERE!”

The presumed Klansman fled the shop without saying another word.

After he was gone, Bill’s face returned to its normal jovial self. He picked up the cleverly painted wooden decoy to return it to its shelf behind the counter.

Rosalie frowned, looking worried. “One day, you’re going to get us both killed.”

Bill sighed and shook his head. “I pray that I don't, but I concede it's a possibility. Come what may. That's exactly why your family are included in my will.”

Rosalie scolded, “I can't believe you're so complacent about possibly getting me killed! And you claim to love me!”

“I do love you!” Bill looked aggrieved. “I have no family left! And you're one of my dearest friends! How many times have I told you that I'd take a bullet for you? Any aggressor will have to go through me before they get to you! Do you think I'm lying when I say I'd be a human shield to save you?”

“I believe you,” said Rosalie. “I just don't think you make a lot of sense!”

Bill got up on his soapbox. “What makes no sense is to think we can have nothing but positive experiences in our lives. That's a fantasy! Always wanting only good— without expecting some bad— that's what leads to unhappiness! Life is both light and shadow. It's ebb and flow, give and take. A magnet has both positive and negative poles. When you're in a relationship with someone, it's both love and slugs! And whatever we seek, we're likely to sometimes attract its opposite. That's how we learn and grow!”

Rosalie rolled her eyes, even though her employer had shared different aspects of his unconventional philosophy countless times before. She retorted, “Well, I believe God protects me! Otherwise, I wouldn't be here right now!”

“Whatever gets you through the night, sweet pea.”

“I'll never understand why you won't at least get a real gun!”

“No way! I live true to my highest ideals. I’m a pacifist, remember? One of my greatest objectives is to never take a human life.”

Rosalie admitted, “I'll sure be glad when Charlie comes back to work.”

Usually on Wednesday through Saturday, when the secret underground was open, they had a third person here, a burly bouncer named Charles, but Charley didn't come in that night. Nellie— his pregnant wife went into labor early that morning with their sixth child. Bill often referred to both Nellie and Charley as ‘Fertile Myrtles.’

All total, including his day-shift employees and his clandestine bartenders, Bill had seven employees. He paid them all extravagantly.

The tailor spoke what he considered a sad truth about Charlie, “I know he makes you feel safer than I do, just because he carries a gun.”

“Duh,” said Rosalie.

He threw her words back in her face, “But you say God protects you?”

She smirked. “God and Charlie. Aren't you the one who is all about balance?”

Slightly annoyed at (forever) being misinterpreted, Bill snapped, “If Charlie murders someone, that's on his soul! I won't do it!”

“Killing someone in self-defense isn't murder!”

“Says you! And the law! I say that's semantics!”

Rosalie sighed. “You’re the strangest white man on God's green Earth. And all white men are strange.”

Bill chuckled, regaining his composure. He proudly proclaimed, “That’s an Aquarius for you, honey!”

Before she could say anything else, Oliver Kyle Madison came into the shop.

Bill amiably greeted the off-duty police officer, “How are you tonight, O.K.?”

“I don’t know." Bill's friend shrugged. “I read too much news. Did you see the Indianapolis Star today?”

“Hell, no!” Bill grabbed his chest like he couldn't breathe. “I never read the news. That shit will kill ya.”

O.K. didn’t laugh, but his amusement sparkled in his eyes. He swore, “To hell with Jim Crow laws.”

Bill responded, “To hell with 'separate but equal'.”

O.K. said even louder, “Fuck D.C. Stephenson!”

Bill shouted, “FUCK Edward L. Jackson!”

The two men shook hands and Bill said amiably, “Enjoy yourself tonight.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” said Oliver, as he walked over to enter the green door.

After O.K. was out of earshot, Rosalie said to Bill, “I still can’t believe he won’t take your money for not reporting you to the feds.”

Bill sneered. “I let him drink for free. I've fitted him for three free suits. And even more importantly: nowhere else in this city can he meet the kind of people he can meet downstairs.”

Rosalie sat back down on her stool, admitting, “We have been so busy this evening!" She sighed. "I’m getting nowhere reading my novel.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bill, being genuine. “You want to go home early? I’ll hold down the fort by myself for the rest of the night.”

Before Rosalie could reply, the Corinthian chimes rang yet again.

The Negro that entered this time was broad and built, very muscular, not at all obese like Mr. Bolton’s normal customers. The tailor judged him to be about 6'2", easily 270 pounds or more, at least twice Bill's size. He didn't have on a jacket, but what he was wearing was impressive: sienna brown pants; a white silk shirt; a black silk tie. Bill couldn't guess if he was here to have a suit made or if he came to visit the hidden bar in the basement. Word of mouth brought in new customers of both types all the time.

Bill wholeheartedly believed that humanity had far more oddities than was commonly known. He championed all unorthodox relationships. When this dapper dude barely glanced at Rosalie, Bill cautiously assumed that if he wasn't here to supplement his wardrobe, he was likely here hoping to meet a Caucasian woman.

Just seven years ago, women had gained the right to vote. Bill was thrilled about that development, but, overall, American society still wasn’t maturing fast enough to suit him. Even though he did try hard to accept that life was a mixture of both pleasure and pain, the Volstead Act still aggravated him. It proved that in some ways, the so-called United States was de-evolving. In his considered opinion, every hardworking man deserved a good stiff drink at the end of his day. But what incensed him even more was his certainty that the laws forbidding interracial couples from marrying would never be changed. Rosalie’s rants about Caucasians being devils were justified, in his opinion. When she often commented about some politician or other member of the pale-skinned majority by snidely saying ‘white people’, Bill's standard reply was, ‘You can’t trust ‘em as far as you can throw ‘em.’

The young, clean-shaven gentleman stepped up to the counter, where he towered over the old, bearded tailor. “Top of the evening, sir,” said the Negro, with a voice so deep it was like hearing a tuba talk.

“Top of the evening to you, good sir!” William tried to don a decent smile, but he suddenly felt self-conscious about his crooked teeth. “Welcome, welcome!”

The handsome black man's rejoining smile caused Bill to think of his tarot cards, making him feel like he did whenever he pulled the 19th card of the Major Arcana. He thought, That smile of his is positively radiant!

His throat was suddenly so dry, Bill had trouble saying, “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to buy a suit. I heard you’re the best tailor in all of Indiana.”

Deep down, Bill was quite humble. Embarrassed, he lowered his gaze, saying softly, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“What's your name?” The black man thrust out an open palm, saying, “I'm Demetrious. Demetrious Anderson.”

William introduced himself. “Bill.” He gleefully shook Demetrious's huge hand. “Bill Bolton. It's a pleasure to meet you!”

Demetrious assured him, “The pleasure is all mine!”

“So,” said Demetrious. “Can you fix me up?”

“Whatever you need,” said Bill. He already knew that if Demetrious asked to go downstairs and didn't know the password, he would still let him in. Sometimes, he thought, you have break your own rules, if the risk is worth taking! Bill asked, “Do you know what fabric you'd like? What color?”

Demetrious said, “Not really. You decide.”

Bill certainly didn't expect that! “Seriously?”

"Sure. I trust you to make me look good.”

Bill thought, You couldn't look bad if you tried!

“I’ll pay in advance,” said Demetrious, his extraordinary eyes sparkling.

“No need for that.” William normally charged $30 for a suit, a reasonable price for quality goods, but he spontaneously decided he might charge this man only $20. Hell, he might give him the suit for free. “You can pay when the work is done. I’ll make it my top priority. You can pick it up the day after tomorrow.”

“No,” insisted Demetrious. “I’ll pay in advance. Is $50 enough?” He took out his wallet.

“That’s entirely too much!”

“Take it.” Smiling pure sunshine again, Demetrious thrust a $50 bill into tailor’s hand.

“If you insist,” said Bill, pocketing the money.

“I love your lightning bolt necklace,” said Demetrious.

Bill blushed, feeling electricity in his veins.

Demetrious pulled up the cuff of his long sleeve, showing Bill a bracelet made of green and blue beads. Still talking about Bill’s jewelry, he said, “It’s practically the same colors as my little trinket.”

Bill confessed, “Blue is my favorite color.”

Demetrious admitted, “Green is my favorite.”

Rosalie spoke up, saying, “Interesting coincidence,” knowing full well that Bill did not believe in coincidences. His standard comment when he identified synchronicities was, 'Everything happens for a reason'.

When Bill looked back at her, Rosalie’s smile was so big, he thought her lips might touch her earrings. She told him, “I think I will head home. You want me to lock the front door behind me?” Her eyes glittered with knowing amusement when she lied, “We’ve been dead for an hour now. I’m thinking this gentleman will be our last customer of the night.”

“Yes,” said Bill. “I think you’re right.”

Rosalie sauntered over to the broad front window and flipped the OPEN sign over to CLOSED. She also flipped over the Freethinkers sign, which had a lightning bolt ⚡ drawn on the opposite side. After lowering the wooden shades, she slipped outside, locking the door behind her. As she walked away from the boutique called MISFITS & ODDITIES, she wished the proprietor luck.

Before he got down to business, Bill took off his jacket, draping it over the counter. He grabbed his tape measure, a small notebook, and a pencil from the same shelf where he kept his fake Tommy gun.

Midnight had strutted over and was now rubbing against one of Demetrious’s legs, purring loudly. Pushing him away with one foot, Bill grumbled, “Scat, Middy!”

Midnight trotted back to his white cushion, his tail swishing.

Demetrious said, “He’s fine.”

Even his attitude about the cat made Demetrious more magnetic to Bill. Rosalie had such an aversion to felines, Bill initially had trouble convincing her to work for him. It took a couple months, but she eventually grew to love both Midnight and Snowflake (and his third blond cat, Dexter— now passed).

Mr. Bolton asked, “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Please do,” Mr. Anderson answered, his base voice sinking even deeper.

Bill was so breathless, he could barely get it out. “When is your birthday?”

Demetrious looked disappointed, like that wasn’t the question he hoped for.

“I was born on August 15, 1892. I’m a Leo.”

“You know about astrology?!?” Bill was astonished that this 35-year-old knew about the Zodiac. Bill was 62 and didn't learn anything about it until he was in his 50s. He only started doing his tarot readings a couple years ago.

“Yeah,” said Demetrious. “I'm a lion.”

I'll bet you are, thought Bill. I would sure love to hear you roar!

And then Demetrious asked Bill, “What's your sign?"

“Aquarius.”

“Ah! The water bearer!” Demetrious sounded excited. “That makes sense! People born under the sign of Aquarius are the innovators, the forward-thinkers. You fight for the underdog!"

Bill’s eyes widened, shocked that he had just earlier this evening been thinking the same thing.

Was this meeting fated in the stars?

He believed wholeheartedly in serendipity!

“Come with me.” Bill led Demetrious over to the full-length mirror in the corner. Its ornate bronze frame was barely big enough to accommodate Demetrious’s full reflection.

Mr. Bolton was entirely too flustered to do much chitchatting, as he normally would do with new customers. Measuring his arms, he noticed the sweat stains under Mr. Anderson's arms. Demetrious was pretty ripe, but Bill actually liked it. He smelled so manly.

It was a relatively cool night for mid-summer in Indiana. A string of thunderstorms swept through the Midwest the week after Independence Day, causing a big drop in the humidity. Bill was seldom too warm, but he now felt his own armpits seeping sweat.

After measuring Demetrious's upper torso and waistline, Bill knelt to calibrate Demetrious's inseam. The view was a privilege. He felt like he was looking at the legs of a Nubian god. He didn't even try resisting his urge to check out Demetrious’s dick print. It looked massive, probably bigger soft than Bill's penis was fully erect. Thinking with randy amusement that he might have a heart attack and orgasm simultaneously, he remembered what he once read about Genghis Kahn: that the Mongol leader probably died while having sex— coming and going at the same time.

Bill took extra care completing his work. He would have liked this encounter to play out for all eternity.

When Bill looked at the final measurements he’d written down, he felt inadequate. He wanted to ask Demetrious to come downstairs with him but thought there was no chance someone this young and attractive would have any interest in spending time with a creepy old white man.

As if reading Bill’s mind, Demetrious pointed at the green door, asking, “Does that lead where I think it does?”

Bill's answer came directly from his subconscious, he'd heard that question so many times before. “Where do you think it leads?”

Looking sheepish, Demetrious broke eye contact, his confidence vanishing. Bill felt rotten for sounding so cocky. He quickly admitted the truth, “Yeah.” He whispered, “There's a speakeasy in the basement.” He hoped he was being seductive when he added, “And it's cooler down there.”

Recapturing each other's gaze, the two men smiled at each other for a timeless moment, before Demetrious quietly asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”

Bill felt like he'd died and gone to sinner's heaven.

The tailor hurried over to the front door, double-checking to make certain it was locked. As was his custom, he then looked at Midnight to say, “You’re in charge up here, son.”

Midnight meowed.

Grinning like the Zero card of the Major Arcana, Bill led Demetrious to the green door. Opening it, he made a sweeping gesture, saying, “After you!”

D flashed B another resplendent smile.

Much later, when both of them were totally drunk on Bill's best rumrunner Canadian whiskey and Bill stood on a stepstool to kiss Demetrious for the first time, the wild cheering and applause from the other outcasts patronizing the tavern was thunderous enough to shake the entire building, scaring the hell out of both Midnight and Snowflake. Upstairs, both cats rushed to their hidey hole behind the whitewood counter to find comfort hugging each other.

⚡

THE END

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More interesting facts about Prohibition==> Green Doors.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider tipping me. I have been unemployed since mid-2020 because I suffer from seizures and, because I had an incompetent lawyer, I was denied disability. I presently have no source of income other than Vocal. I am on meds for the seizures ('brain reboots'), but the medication often fails to prevent them. They have been especially bad this year— in 2023. Consequently, this is the first story I have been inspired to write in over seven months. The last thing I wrote (prior to this story about Misfits) was this one-minute read==> My Blue Eyes.

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