The Girl Who Let Her Clothes Do All Her Talking For Her

The Girl Who Let Her Clothes Do All Her Talking For Her

by

Lowell Jay Hochstein

I never thought of myself as a thief. Not really. Sure, I took stuff, but it was only for the owner’s own good. I never took money, jewelry, or anything like that. I only took clothes, bad clothes, clothes that needed taking. It was like a quest with me, my small way of beautifying the world. Nothing felt better than relieving an otherwise stylish closet of a hideous outfit. It almost felt like the charitable thing to do rather than a crime.

Now, I’m not egotistical enough to think that I’m the only one with good taste, but please, have you seen some of the things that people wear? I’m sure if they knew how bad they looked, they would pay me to get rid of this stuff.

Well, my story begins one morning while visiting a stranger’s apartment. I had already visited the closet and found a simply egregious-looking blouse that I had to save the owner from when I noticed a blinking computer light on the desk. Usually, I wouldn’t pay attention to such things, but hanging from the back of the chair that sat in front of the computer was a particularly offensive sweater that I was drawn to like a hungry moth to wool. It was here that I noticed a neatly piled stack of papers next to a blinking computer monitor. The cover page read as follows,

‘The Girl Who Let Her Clothes Do All Her Talking For Her.’

The title piqued my interest, and so I decided to read just a little.

The story was about a young fashion model who had lost her ability to speak after witnessing the death of her parents in a drowning accident when she was a child. I, too, had lost my parents as a child, only they didn’t die; they just left, one after the other. Our mutual loss made me feel relatively close to this character, and so I read on. The only way she communicated was through her choice of clothes. If she was feeling okay, she wore yellow; if not, she dressed all in black. As I continued reading, I became increasingly interested in her story. I began to suffer her losses and looked forward to and hoped for her recovery. I wanted her to find her voice again. I wanted there to be a happy ending. The problem was that there was no ending. The story was only half completed. If I wanted to know the conclusion, I would have to come back. After all, I couldn’t just call up and say, ‘excuse me, I broke into your apartment yesterday and loved your story, could you please call me when it’s done,’ now could I?

So, I put the terrible sweater back on the chair and returned the obnoxious blouse to the closet. I made sure everything was exactly as I had found it and left, with plans to return in a few days to see how the story turned out.

One week later, I was seated at the desk in the empty apartment again. The manuscript had increased by only a few pages, but I was pleased that the author was working on it. And again, when I reached the point where the story stopped, I retreated to return later for more.

It was on my 10th visit, after several months of secret readings, that I finally reached ‘The End.’

I put down the last page, neatly stacked the manuscript by the computer where I had found it, took a deep breath, and broke the nearest object that I could put my hands on, I think it was a lamp.

I re-read the final chapter in horror and disgust. The model never resolved her issues, never got her voice back, and in the end died of her cancer. And, there was no mention of fashion at all. I hated it. I hated the author for writing it.

Well! After all those weeks of faithful attention, I was not about to let her get away with this. I had an investment here. I had made myself a partner, albeit a silent one, if for no other reason than my participation as a loyal observer. But my silence was about to end.

I wrote all day at the stranger’s computer, staying much longer and closer to the time when people usually returned home from work than was safe. I didn’t care, though. I had to finish, and I knew this would be my only chance.

When I completed my rewrite of the last chapter, my little model had come to terms with her fears, confronted her loss, and had found her voice so that she was able to speak the words of thanks to her doctor for saving her from cancer. I also added several fashion tips that I was sure would be of enormous help to both the author and her readers.

Satisfied that I had done a good deed, I hit the save and print buttons on the computer and left, to the sound of my words being laser-printed to paper. I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment and goodwill. I vowed never to return to this apartment. My visits would surely be noticed now, given the broken lamp and the changes to the book. Also, as a sign of disdain, I refused to clean up the remains of my favorite snack of Double Dutch Chocolate Chip Cookies and diet Root Beer, which I had brought along to sustain me through my efforts. I also took care of the horrible fashion tragedies in the author’s closet. But most of all, my pledge never to come back was that I could not bear the thought of seeing my work discarded and a return to the original ending in its stead.

About a year later, I was on my way to visit a darling little condo on the Upper East Side; I wasn’t quite sure just which one yet, when I saw it in the window of a bookstore on Lexington Avenue.

‘The Girl Who Let Her Clothes Do All Her Talking For Her’

A sign beneath a pyramid of hardcover books read,

‘The brand new best seller from an exciting new author.’

From The New York Times:

Funny, provocative, touching, and filled with cunning little tips for the fashion-conscious woman on the go.

I went in and purchased a copy of the book. I carried it under my arm to my apartment, never once opening it. I just wanted to hold it for a while, to feel its heft and texture. Upon my arrival home, I locked the door, unplugged the phone, sat down, and began to read. The next time I looked up from the pages, it was 3:00 am. It was my ending, just the way I had written it. Not a single word of mine had been altered.

“Why, you little thief,” I thought to myself. “You stole my book.”

The next morning, I broke my vow and entered the very same apartment in which I had rewritten the now ‘Best Seller’. As was my habit, I first went to the closet and to my surprise, there was not one offensive garment to be found. In fact, it appeared that the entire wardrobe had been purchased following my exact prescription as outlined in the book.

When I entered the living room, the site where I had labored over my text, I was surprised and bewildered by what I found there. A whole bag of Double Dutch Chocolate Chip Cookies and a six-pack of diet Root Beers had been placed neatly on the desk next to the computer, along with a note.

“Dear Friend,

I hope it’s all right to call you a friend even though we’ve never met. But I feel like I know you. I’ve been watching you. When you first broke into my apartment, I was so startled that I hid in the hall closet. I watched you through the slats in the door. When I saw you go into my clothes closet, I must say I was intrigued. I watched you select one of my favorite blouses and crumple it under your arm. I must admit, it made me angry, and I was about to confront you when I saw you go to the desk and begin reading my work. I was surprised when you put my blouse back in the closet, straightened up, and left without taking anything.

I was so shaken by the fact that someone had broken into my apartment that I immediately had a couple of hidden cameras installed. I never expected to see you again. But when I reviewed the tape and saw that you had returned the following week, this time just to read, I was thrilled. You have no idea how hard it is to get people to read your work before you’re famous. In fact, I began to look forward to your visits. It motivated me to work harder so there would be more for you to read each time.

Then you changed the ending, and I was floored. Yours was so much better than mine, and your fashion tips were fantastic. You absolutely made my book, or I should say our book.

Here’s the thing: I haven’t been able to write a word since you stopped coming by. So listen, I’ve spoken with my publisher about you, and she’s interested in meeting you. I also have some ideas for another book that I’d love to collaborate on with you. As for the last book we worked on together, I’ve made out a check for your share of the royalties. It’s in the top drawer, and all you need to do is fill in your name to be good.

Please come back.

Very sincerely yours,

Miss Style Reborn