Today’s prompt: You are the personal stylist for a yeti who wants to be fashionable.
When Patrick emailed me inquiring about my services, I wasn’t sure if he was being honest. In retrospect, he wasn’t entirely forthcoming. He said he was going to be accepting an award at a prestigious event and wanted to appear fashionable. That much was true. He also claimed to be a larger fellow with a commanding presence. His words, not mine. But also true, it turns out. He spoke of being an older gentleman. Now, depending on how picayune you want to be about the definition of older and gentle, that admission was a little nebulous. Whatever the case, he concluded the email with a number where I could reach him. So I called him, and once we got past the niceties, the part I most despise, we got right to business.
“You said you are an older gentleman,” I said. “Could you be more specific?”
Patrick cleared his throat. His voice was deep and throaty. “I may have stretched the truth on that a little. Or underplayed it, more like.”
Just as I suspected.
“I’m not old so much as ancient,” he said. “I’m 185.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re young at heart,” I said, deciding to go along with the joke. He was obviously embarrassed by his age and likely not the commanding presence he claimed to be. Perhaps more of a legend in his own mind. He was probably a frail, yet stately, old man attending some podunk awards ceremony at a VFW hall or a Wendy’s.
His booming, almost savage voice betrayed this, though.
“And I’m not always so gentle,” he added. I know. It sounds cringey on paper. But he did not state this in that skeevy way some men have of making everything sexual. “I’ve had to do some things I’m not proud of… for the sake of survival.” He paused again. “You see, I’ve had what some would call a solitary life.”
Oh, okay! NOW I was getting it. I’d gotten him all wrong. He wasn’t a fragile little old man. He was clearly some weirdo, probably living in a bunker, munching on dry ramen, and brandishing an impressive collection of firearms all bearing Biblical names. He probably peed in a can he kept next to his bare mattress, covered with stains that could not and SHOULD not be explained. And the award? Likely a medal or a knife or something from some whack organization like the Conspiracy Theorists of America who find it impossible to get everyone together for the ceremony because nobody believes anybody else about the location or purpose of the event.
“I should have added that I am a yeti,” he finally said. Okay. Fine. I can admit I’m not much of an intuitive person. I can elevate your wardrobe in ways that would blow your mind, though.
“That makes so much more sense,” I said, explaining to him what I’d been thinking just moments before. We both laughed (or bellowed, in his case), and then he shared that he did sleep on a stained mattress, which I didn’t need to know. I’m often the recipient of unwanted information. I suppose that’s the personal part of personal stylist. Or, in this case, yetial stylist.
“I’m receiving an award from the Red Cross,” he said.
“Really!?” I gasped. “That’s so cool! What for?”
“For saving a couple of lost trekkers in the Himalayas.”
“Oh!” I said, truly impressed.
“And, subsequently, not eating them,” he added. “So, do you think you can help me? Can you make an old yeti look presentable on the red carpet?”
“I believe I can. As long as you don’t try to eat me,” I said, only half joking.
“I won’t,” he assured me. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Then count me in,” I said. “So, I’m going to assume you’re a winter…”
