11. Denim

‘Denim is originally French, did you know that?’

Alice shook her head.

‘De Nimes. They were of Nimes, or something like that. And from that you get denim.’

‘You don’t say.’ Replied Alice.

‘I got some nice jeans recently, and I have found out that they don’t age gracefully like they say they should.They are supposed to get better with age, right?’ Jill scooped some dip with her pita bread. ‘They don’t. That’s what I learned. Some do, but most don’t. Interestingly enough the comfortable ones, they are the ones that will disappoint you.’

Alice took some of the dip herself. They were sitting at the lunch table at work, waiting for their half hour to run out before they had to get back to their desks.

‘How so?’ Alice asked.

‘They don’t feel the same once you wash them, and then they shrink. They don’t shrink all around, either. They only get shorter, I think.’

‘Must have something to do with the cut and the weave, I guess.’

‘Sorry?’ Asked Jill.

‘Must have something to do with the fabric of the jeans. You know, they are woven, and I am guessing that only some of the yarns shrink in the wash. They must be the ones that go up and down the jeans, I guess.’

‘Huh.’

‘Yeah, fabric is wild.’

‘Well, the only thing that I have learned is that you have to get raw denim that is too long. It’s uncomfortable and you don’t know how long they will be in the end, but I don’t think you have a choice. That’s if you want to have denim because you want to see how it ages.’

Alice’s cellphone alarm went off. She stood up and stretched, then brushed bread crumbs off of the table and onto the floor.

Jill got up as well.‘Change and aging might be beautiful but it is never easy. And you have to look for the beauty, otherwise they just don’t look new. We love new. And we are very picky about old.’

When Alice got home she untied her shoes and walked into her bedroom. She opened the wardrobe doors to see what she had in there. Clothes. What sort of clothes? Where were they from? How old were they? Were they worn in or tired? Who could tell? She had no idea if she was looking at them honestly, she could only see blue. She was tired.

Her phone rang; it was her mother. She put her on speaker.

‘Hi, Mom, whats up?’

‘Hi honey, how are you?’ replied her mother over the speaker.

Alice closed the door to her wardrobe and turned to leave the bedroom.

‘I am fine, thanks.’

‘Honey, I am worrying about you.’

Alice didn’t reply. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass for some water.

‘Maybe being on the pill isn’t the best way to find a boyfriend. Maybe that’s the wrong way.’

Alice hung up on her mother and walked back into her bedroom. She opened the door to her wardrobe and stepped into it. She had to crouch down to fit underneath the rack, then closed the door behind her.

Nothing happened. A crack of light peeked from between the doors and dust mites were caught floating in the air of the wardrobe. It smelled of wool and leather. She felt a shoe buckling beneath her foot as she tried to keep her balance.

‘I would really like something to happen,’ She said out loud.

Nothing happened. Then the doorbell rang.

Alice ignored the door and stayed in her closet. Someone then banged on the door with their fist.

‘Alice, where are you, where are you?’ Shouted Jill through Alice’s front door. ‘Something has happened!’

Alice couldn’t help but come out of the wardrobe and walk to the front door. She had no idea how Jill had gotten into her building. Alice opened the door.

‘Alice, you wouldn’t believe it,’ Jill kept going, ‘You wouldn’t believe it. We have been chosen!’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘We are going to be models, Alice!’

‘I don’t understand, why am I going to be a model?’

‘Well, you see, I submitted you. You, I, I mean, we well, we just shine, Alice. Don’t we? We just shine. And you know so much about clothes, you just get it. I thought that we should be models, so I sent a photographer some pictures of us, and he said that we should be on his Instagram!’

Alice made a face. ‘You have pictures of me.’

‘Yeah, I mean follow each other on instagram, right?’

‘I don’t post anything,’ Said Alice.

‘Sure, but on Facebook then. Doesn’t matter, he liked our style. He likes our style! On Saturday we are going to an event he is going to be at. We are going to an event!’

Alice didn’t say anything and just leaned on her half opened door. She looked down at the ground.

‘Come on, something’s happening!’ Jill did a small dance in the hallway of Alice’s building. ‘It’s all happening!’

Jill never showed up that Saturday because she was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from Alice’s that evening. She didn’t see the truck that hit her and she had no idea she was dying when she was crushed. When everyone had arrived at the office the next morning, Alice’s boss called everyone into the lunch room and told them about the crash. The boss said that anyone who needed to go home, could. So Alice did. She went home, turned off her phone and went to her wardrobe. She opened it and pulled out her clothes and laid them on her bed piece by piece. She was determined to look at them with focus. What was tired and what was aged? How would she know?

Alice found herself constantly distracted by her thoughts. Some of them were of Jill, but Alice also just couldn’t keep her mind on the task at hand. Alice found it incredibly difficult to look at her things and decide if they were tired or if they were aged. They were all old – no, older. They were not new; they would never be in an ad or fresh from a box again. Were her jeans faded or were they worn out? Maybe the jeans could get away with it, what about her khakis?

Everything was tired, nothing was new. She had to look with an eye. She had to find the beauty in the old if there was to be anything there. She had to make an effort to see what was good, to make it. Everything was old. Everything would be thrown away eventually, but where was the spark, the color, the story. Could she see the stories? What got Jill so excited about her, anyways? Was she even Jill’s friend back then?

That Saturday Alice put on her best stories and went to the event that Jill had signed them up for. Words imprinted on her legs, her torso. Feelings and happenings—they were plastered all over chest, her feet. They hung from her ears, even.

She had to find the photographer, and then she had to explain who she was and why Jill wasn’t there. The photographer’s jaw dropped. Was she sure that she still wanted to be there? Alice told him that she was there, so they ought to get on it with it.

The photographer nodded and smiled. ‘Excellent. Normal people in their clothing, on the street, and we are here and I am finding you on the street. Your clothes have stories to tell, I have a story to tell. Your friend died, yet you are here, that is very brave.You are not wearing black, but I guess that you are here for her? Yes, you are here for her. A dramatic story.’

Alice just stood there.

‘Those jeans, they are amazing,’ Said the photographer. ‘Could you make them move? They are so old, they are not tired. You are tired. Not them. A story of dignity in clothing.’

Alice walked towards the photographer with anger in her eyes.

‘No, not angry.’ Said the photographer. ‘What about ferocious, can you do ferocious?’

‘You just called me tired.’

He shrugged. ‘Well aren’t you? Your friend just died. When that has happened to me, I am exhausted. I don’t know what to do.’

Alice looked around at the people on the street ignoring them.

‘You are here,’ He said, ‘And look at all the things you are trying to tell me. It is real, you know, it is human to have an eye for this. It is complicated, too. Beauty is not always nice. Or sexy. Or fun. Definitely miserable sometimes.’

‘Beauty is miserable? Alice asked’

‘No, just our experience. That is just where we find beauty. So freaky, no?’ He took one more photograph. ‘OK we are done here. Good luck, eh?’

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