A designer in town resigns. He becomes jobless. Friday morning, he walks to a museum. There is a room where hangers are placed. He stays there. The smell of clothes is what keeps him alive. He meets an old man. Saturday morning…
Yesterday was Thursday. In the afternoon, I wanted to make the dark-roasted coffee. The man asked me to see him.
In the office, we sat opposite. A desk between us.
“Finish your design for the Fall?” he started the conversation.
“Some,” I replied.
“Do we have time to—” his arms crossed.
“A signature smell. Each button is a scent diffuser,” I told him the new element I want. I seldom informed him about my coat designs. He seldom asked. This was not his job.
Today I feel lost in the humid mist. Today I want to walk to a museum in the drenching rain. Today is the first morning I am jobless.
“What?” he was confused.
“Small-bit-of-cotton-wool-soaked-in-essential-oil pellets. I want each pellet put in a hollow-centered sphere, like a bauble. And the sphere has intricate design patterns…”
“Wait,” he talked to his assistant on the phone, “Please get me a cup of coffee, thank you.” “Sorry,” I could resume presenting my ideas.
“The sphere has intricate design patterns, and will be finely wrought. It is fold-open at the center, not like a pendant, so that customers can replace new pellets,” I lowered my vocal pitch.
Today I am in the museum. I cannot see anybody wandering. I turn right from the entrance and reach the coat check desk. I take my wet leather jacket off and hold it. I lift my arm. No one takes it. I put it down, letting the water drop touch the surface. A man from nowhere taps my shoulder, “Can I help you, sir?” he asks.
I respond with a lie, “I’m new here. Where should I go to get my uniform?” “OK. Come with me.” He leads me to the side door.
“How much will it cost?” this man looked out the windows.
“Threefold, at least. For the natural essential oil,” I said.
“Your ideas are good, but coats are used to wear, amiright?” he sat back on the chair, drinking a sip.
“Yea,” I accepted. We were going to be on fire.
Today, many coat hangers surround me, poking at the edge of my jacket. The man leaves. I hang my jacket and stare at the several coats here. A blazer smells of the heady wood, a cape smells of the breezy lavender, a raincoat smells of the earth. The coats I have designed are heading toward the bottom of the trash bin.
“Should we be more practical?” he asked.
“Real practical! Women will love my buttons. The design is elegant. The aroma is healing. The idea is novel. It makes profits.”
“A slight change on the last stock is good for the next. Everybody wears the same style every year—I don’t see the difference. You don’t need to make buttons on coats unlike buttons,” he looked at me.
I was working in the company for more than a year. He needed a subordinate who was willing to make a small change on the last stock for the next and was able to submit designs on time. Two designers cost money, so one must leave.
“I’m a designer,” I said.
He asked for the next point.
“Not a manufacturer.”
“He gave me all his designs two days ago,” he told me that.
“One week, and I’ll be all set,” I said.
“Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say ‘You’re too good for us.’ I am, but don’t say it.”
I walked out of his office. Shut the door and wrote him a resignation. Five minutes.
Today is Friday. No one comes. Wearing the uniform, I do not sit still. I do not look for visitors. I approach the back of the room where hangers are placed. I rearrange the hanger stands one row after another. A designer like me cannot bear chaotic display. I take the blazer and exchange its position with the cape. Smaller coats should be at the front and bigger ones should follow behind. The wood and lavender scents become lightest when they merge with the air in the room. My leather jacket is put between the cape and the raincoat. It smells of tiredness and hunger. At three, an old man comes and gives me his wool cardigan. I add more to this. “Thank you,” I receive it.
His wool cardigan is soaked in rainwater. It has a strong old-person smell, like his body smell having blended with his cardigan, as if he wears it every day and washes it once a season. I see the label. “Michael” is handwritten on it. He is Michael. I see the brand logo. It is my first design collection at MUSE.
It is almost five o’clock. Michael comes back to me. His wool cardigan is still wet.
“We have a dryer,” I say.
“Let it dry,” he says.
I hold his cardigan. His palms touch my hands. He gets it back.
“Thank you,” he says.
“My pleasure,” I say.
He turns around. Perhaps ten paces between me and him. I look at his back.
A man taps my shoulder. “Please clean up this area,” he says. I have to leave. Michael wears my clothes of some years ago. I have not seen a person putting on this cardigan since that Autumn. Today, it seems new. Its material stays smooth and soft. Its grey looks bright.
On Saturday morning, I walk to the museum. I sit at the entrance staircases and wait for Michael. One and half hours have passed, I see a familiar back at my nine o’clock position. Perhaps ten paces between me and him.
“Hi,” I say. He looks up.
“Your clothes still smell of rains,” I say.
“Let it dry,’ he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“A washer or a dryer wastes the wool,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“I never put it into any machines. Let the best of it stay with me,” he says.
I look at him. This mixes with his body smell. This smell evaporates under the sunlight and remixes with the rain. This becomes a scent. This is more calming than any liquid detergent flavors. This wool does not deteriorate in a long time. I look this plainest clothes, added with his own buttons and pellets.
