FASHION STATEMENT

By Jeffrey J. Lyons

 MR THREAD was out of order.  Only one-half hour until my date with Yvonne and MR THREAD was on the fritz.  I stood there completely naked staring mutely at the holoscreen as it flashed for the tenth time, "RE-FEED ORDER…COULD NOT READ."  Why me?  Why was it always me?

 MR THREAD was the anagram for Microanatomical Thoroughly Ready Designs.  Officially, the company marketed it as MR TOM THREAD.  We consumers with out constant desire for simplicity changed it to the more succinct MR THREAD.  "A perfect fit every time" was the slogan, which described the process of making our daily dressing lives easier.  It formed a bond between skin and clothes after reading our measurements and manufactured ready-made clothes everyday.

 In theory.

 A fat lot of good that would do me in twenty-nine minutes unless Yvonne was not shy about birthday suits.  And she was.

 Oh, how I longed for the days of my parents when they used to buy and put on their own clothes.  Sure, flea markets and junk stores still carry the old stuff but that's just it.  It's the old stuff.  I tapped the keyboard again.  Buzz went the mechanism.  It hesitated again.  "Damn," I spat as I pounded the screen with my fist.

 I heard an encouraging whirring sound followed by a clunk.  I looked above and saw the crystal body cylinder begin to rock.  Something was happening.  Quickly, I punched in my code: C-D-1, Casual Date One.

 The three-meter long tube lowered and coiled itself around me.  Sometimes there was nothing like a little old time violent ingenuity to get a piece of machinery in order.  In twenty-eight minutes this clothing crisis would be a distant, bad memory.

 I had long grown out of the tickling sensation associated with MR THREAD as it fondled my body and covered it with the appropriate ensemble.  In seconds MR THREAD collected my measurements, which fluctuated minutely daily.  Not only did it clothe me, taking into account my blue eyes, brown hair, and skin complexion; but it would outfit me with props to fit the occasion.

 I heard the familiar ding, signaling the end, and felt the tube lifting.  What artistic creation had MR THREAD contrived this time?  I turned to the built-in mirror and my smile suddenly became a grimace when I saw the brown leather boots and felt the riding stick under my arm.  Twenty-seven minutes to go and I was dressed like an equestrian competitor for the county fair.  I groaned and expelled a few obscenities before trying again.
 The whirring and clanking came again and so did the tube.  The sensation throbbed through my body and a new image was born.

 I barely let the tube rise when I started the process again.  I refused to be seen in a plaid button-down collarless shirt with a red and yellow polka-dotted tie as wide as the Grand Canyon wrapped around my forehead.  The blue polyester pants were so static charged I was afraid that if I began sweating I would be electrocuted.

 Whir-clunk-ding!

 Well, this was not exactly the most current style but the pilot's scarf over the denim jacket was a nice touch.  It's too bad MR THREAD placed me in a tight pink bathing suit with swimming ducks sewn into the trim.

 Twenty-five minutes to go and Yvonne was usually on time. 

 It was pointless to think of taking the clothes off myself and saving only the good bits.  MR THREAD sealed the clothes to my body except for the fly to that I could relieve myself when needed.  When we had sex, we would normally disrobe in MR THREAD. I think it was designed to promote safe sex somehow.  It is a shame because my parents once told me about how exciting to the seduction and foreplay the disrobing ceremony could be.

 In twenty-four minutes I hoped to be seducing Yvonne if this crazy machine decided to cooperate.  The latest atrocity decked me out in a brown corduroy sport jacket with purple elbow patches.  There were high top sneakers on my feet, dark green cotton working pants on my legs. A blue and white striped shirt under the jacket unbuttoned to my navel with a red scarf wrapped about my neck.  Oh, and MR THREAD apparently thought I would look dashing and debonair sporting a goatee with a smoking pipe thrust into my mouth.  I coughed.  I specifically programmed this thing for non-smoking.

 I began again but then stopped and devised a new plan of attack.  I punched in a new code: C-N-13, Cliché-Nerd, thirteen.  MR THREAD seemed to want to make me look that way anyway.  Since thus far I received the opposite of what I wanted anyway, how much more harm could this do?

 Whir-clunk-ding!

 "Oh, no."

 If I planned to attend a masquerade ball, a huge hen otufit would not be my first choice.  The beak tasted like rubber.

 I pounded the keys and swore left and right.  I should never have chucked out my parent's hand-me-downs.  I was determined to visit a flea market and put clothes on manually, once I figured out how to do it.

 When the tube lifted, I was encased in a buttonless olive pullover with blue-speckled silk trousers.  The speckles were not on my top ten list of refinements but my choices were limited at this point.  I decided to stick with it and wait for Yvonne.  I should be able to come up with a reasonable explanation in the next twenty minutes.

 And she was right on time.  I opened the door to a frazzled Yvonne in baggy terry cloth brown slacks and some kind of off-orange, aqua, and yellow patterned silky top.  It did not look right to me.

 "You'll have to excuse me," she said without looking right at me, "but I didn't want to be late."

 "Excuse you for what?" I asked.

 "MR THREAD isn't working.  I hope you don't mind but this was the best I could do after about ten tries," she murmured.

 "And you think I'm making a fashion statement Yvonne?"

 "Well no, well, yes, well, I don't know."  She placed her tiger striped plastic handbag with the phony leather strap on the table and walked in.  "I think it's the virus."

 Appalled. I exclaimed, "What virus?"

  "The one they talked about on the news.  Some kind of virus or worm has attacked all the computer-run household machinery like the SHINE (Selected Hologenic Indoor Effulgence switch), the FLUSH (Feces and Liquid Universal Sewage Hygienist), and things like that."

 I had already reached for the EC (entertainment center) remote and flipped on the news.  The news anchor wore a bright yellow and red plaid sport coat with a green polka dot bow tie and imparted information on a suspected hacker who placed the virus.

 "Investigators think they have traced the source of the mechanical virus to a 24 year old man living in Southern California," the newscaster read. "His motive is unknown but one source tells us that may be related to a self-esteem problem on the part of the individual.  This is his way of getting back at the world for his many years of torment from those who he thinks put him down for the clothes he wears.

 "The major virus scan corporations have their programmers already at work clearing the system and your mechanical instruments and toys should be functioning properly again within 24 hours."  I turned off the EC.

 Astonished, I asked, "Why would anyone take revenge on the world because of the way people dress?  That serves no purpose whatsoever.  That guy is a nut case"

 "In his mind it did," Yvonne said.  "People don't probe enough under the skin and into the minds of others.  We judge people by first glance all the time.  Look at you, automatically putting him down for his actions.  So he got a bit extreme, but it was just his way of dealing with a reality that he cannot stand."

 "Yvonne, you never told me you were a philosopher too."

 "No, that was the fourth outfit."  We both laughed.

 "I don't judge people by their skin color and I shouldn't judge people by their fashion choices.  It really isn't that different when you think about it," I said.  Although I could not help hoping that his next wardrobe would be an olive green jumpsuit with a county jail ID number on the pockets.

The End