and ceiling. It was dark outside, except for the street lamp that shone through the window at the end of the room, and they began to form into smaller groups, talking about the perfection of the illusion, and their own wardrobes.
Sartorially, they looked like they did twenty-four years before. Curly's penny loafers, straight-legged chinos, and plain, off-white shirt made him the gentle jock of yore, with the only concession to fashion being the long peaked collars of the shirt, which he began to curl up and chew on.
"Do you still eat your collars at work?" asked Alan.
"Nope. Too short. At least I don't look like Marianne Faithful. Or are you supposed to be Melanie?"
Alan stuck out his tongue and flounced the ruffles that ran down the front of his orange and purple paisley shirt. "You never did understand haute couture . It's always the male who has the bright plumage."
“Jesus, where does that leave me?" said Eddie, lighting a cigarette and looking down at his pin-striped button down shirt and navy slacks. "Was I really this dull, Woody? I look like a gym teacher, except for the cowboy boots."
"Sorry, Eddie," said Woody, "but that's what you wore."
"That's what I still wear, except for the boots. They always gave me blisters," Eddie said, a little laugh bursting from his mouth with the smoke. "Well, better this than Mister Carnaby Street," he said, nodding to Alan. "Although Woody looks equally Love Generation without being garish, Alan. Of course the fact that he's still built like Jim Morrison doesn't hurt."
Woody grinned. The clothing felt good, not at all like a costume. The brocade vest swung free, the loose, tunic-like black shirt was comfortable, the concho belt rode easily on his hips. If he had been wearing leather pants instead of black jeans, he might indeed have resembled an older Jim Morrison, a Morrison who had not died in Paris in 1971, who had lost a little of his dark hair from the front, but replaced it with a full though neatly trimmed beard.
"Hell," Woody said, "we all look good, but the ladies . . . excuse me . . . the chicks look great."
"Groovy," said Curly, getting up and heading toward the rear of the apartment.
" Such a way with words," Eddie said.
But it was true, Woody thought. The women did look groovy. He had been afraid that fortyish women dressed like sixties teenyboppers might have been ludicrous, but it wasn't. The women glowed. It was as if they had slipped on their youth with their clothing. He had forgotten what a little pixie Diane had been. The few times he had seen her since college, she had seemed mousy, dull, crushed by life. But now, as she sat there smiling, her loose muslin blouse showing the contours of her braless breasts, tight jeans hugging her thighs, she actually looked desirable, the quintessential free-love hippie waif.
Sharla , on the other hand, looked unapproachable, but strong and passionate in her fatigues. She even still had the boots, those ankle-high steel-toes that modern skinheads would have killed for. The contrast was terrific between her and Judy, who wore the female equivalent of Alan's lurid threads, an ensemble of red and yellow paisley and bright green sandals, the whole of which was crowned by an orange headband that bound her blonde hair like a skullcap.
"Who's for brew?" Curly said loudly, entering the room with a glass half full of foam. "I've already drunk all the suds—only the good stuff left!"
They wandered a few at a time to the bathroom, drawing mugs, or went into the dining room for sangria, while the gentle tension of Jimi Hendrix's "The Wind Cries Mary" trembled beside the conversations, like faraway thunder beneath the cries of insects on a clear summer night. But the voices of the insects did not still.
~*~
They spoke of the past, drawn back there by the ambience, the music, sights, sounds, themselves. They spoke of courses they had laughed through or suffered through together, of professors living and dead. They sang the
Sartorially, they looked like they did twenty-four years before. Curly's penny loafers, straight-legged chinos, and plain, off-white shirt made him the gentle jock of yore, with the only concession to fashion being the long peaked collars of the shirt, which he began to curl up and chew on.
"Do you still eat your collars at work?" asked Alan.
"Nope. Too short. At least I don't look like Marianne Faithful. Or are you supposed to be Melanie?"
Alan stuck out his tongue and flounced the ruffles that ran down the front of his orange and purple paisley shirt. "You never did understand haute couture . It's always the male who has the bright plumage."
“Jesus, where does that leave me?" said Eddie, lighting a cigarette and looking down at his pin-striped button down shirt and navy slacks. "Was I really this dull, Woody? I look like a gym teacher, except for the cowboy boots."
"Sorry, Eddie," said Woody, "but that's what you wore."
"That's what I still wear, except for the boots. They always gave me blisters," Eddie said, a little laugh bursting from his mouth with the smoke. "Well, better this than Mister Carnaby Street," he said, nodding to Alan. "Although Woody looks equally Love Generation without being garish, Alan. Of course the fact that he's still built like Jim Morrison doesn't hurt."
Woody grinned. The clothing felt good, not at all like a costume. The brocade vest swung free, the loose, tunic-like black shirt was comfortable, the concho belt rode easily on his hips. If he had been wearing leather pants instead of black jeans, he might indeed have resembled an older Jim Morrison, a Morrison who had not died in Paris in 1971, who had lost a little of his dark hair from the front, but replaced it with a full though neatly trimmed beard.
"Hell," Woody said, "we all look good, but the ladies . . . excuse me . . . the chicks look great."
"Groovy," said Curly, getting up and heading toward the rear of the apartment.
" Such a way with words," Eddie said.
But it was true, Woody thought. The women did look groovy. He had been afraid that fortyish women dressed like sixties teenyboppers might have been ludicrous, but it wasn't. The women glowed. It was as if they had slipped on their youth with their clothing. He had forgotten what a little pixie Diane had been. The few times he had seen her since college, she had seemed mousy, dull, crushed by life. But now, as she sat there smiling, her loose muslin blouse showing the contours of her braless breasts, tight jeans hugging her thighs, she actually looked desirable, the quintessential free-love hippie waif.
Sharla , on the other hand, looked unapproachable, but strong and passionate in her fatigues. She even still had the boots, those ankle-high steel-toes that modern skinheads would have killed for. The contrast was terrific between her and Judy, who wore the female equivalent of Alan's lurid threads, an ensemble of red and yellow paisley and bright green sandals, the whole of which was crowned by an orange headband that bound her blonde hair like a skullcap.
"Who's for brew?" Curly said loudly, entering the room with a glass half full of foam. "I've already drunk all the suds—only the good stuff left!"
They wandered a few at a time to the bathroom, drawing mugs, or went into the dining room for sangria, while the gentle tension of Jimi Hendrix's "The Wind Cries Mary" trembled beside the conversations, like faraway thunder beneath the cries of insects on a clear summer night. But the voices of the insects did not still.
~*~
They spoke of the past, drawn back there by the ambience, the music, sights, sounds, themselves. They spoke of courses they had laughed through or suffered through together, of professors living and dead. They sang the
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