“So little faith. When I set my mind on something, I typically do it,” I say.
“An office worker? People aren’t stupid, Jaxon…”
“I’m not going there to work. I’ll socialize with people until I get my answer.”
“And what if somebody recognizes you? Your picture is everywhere. Americans have tabloids too, you know.”
“I’m not the sort of person that American tabloids track. American tabloids are all movie stars and British royals, not minor continental celebs. They probably think the Grand Prix is a bike race.”
“Formula One racing is growing in popularity over there.”
“Well, they weren’t paying attention ten years ago,” I say. “I’m a historical figure. I’m Herbert Plumer.”
“People still share the clip of the fight.”
“They’re not looking at my face, they’re looking at a brilliant and well-deserved left hook.”
“You lived in Manhattan on and off. You still know people.”
“I haven’t been back since I was twelve. You’re not talking me out of this.”
“New York is an international city. You can’t tell me it’s not international. Get one person who’s spent any time in Monte Carlo nightclubs, and you’ll have a pack of paparazzi on your ass.”
This gets me thinking. The next time Arnold comes by, I instruct him to send for somebody who can change my looks.
“Not what I was imagining,” Charley drawls unhappily.
A theatrical costumer named Bev shows up a few hours later. She suggests a new haircut with a center part.
“I want a disguise, not a new style, I’m an American who works at a wage job.” I search American hair fashions, and soon find myself on a website called Sav-R-Mart fashion fails. “Here we go. This.” I point at a picture. “Give me this.”
“No, Jaxon!” Charley says.
“This is not a current hairstyle,” she says nervously. “Gelled spikes with frosted tips hasn’t been popular since the nineties.”
“Perfect. You’ll give me the hair. I want those tinted rectangular glasses and the short-sleeved shirt, too. What is this shirt? Men actually wear this?”
Arnold’s back with another heirloom I don’t want. He peers at the screen. “Is it a Hawaiian shirt?”
Bev looks, too. “No. Hawaiian shirts have flowers. I would call this a 1990s party boy shirt.”
I take a closer look. It’s a neon-blue button up shirt with lots of pink and yellow triangles and squiggly lines on it.
“Get me some shirts like that.”
Staff is dispatched to shops. I take a seat and instruct Bev to begin.
With trembling hands, she drapes a cape over my shoulders and then pauses, looking upset.
“What is it?” I demand.
“Bleaching the ends of your hair, Mr. Henningsly…I don’t recommend it.”
“All the better. Do it,” I say.
“I just want you to know, I am advising against it.”
“Are we going to start anytime this century?”
An hour later, the hairstyle is complete. Bev steps back, looking uncertain. “I’m sorry, this is what you asked for,” she says.
Charley is just laughing. “Help! I’m having NSYNC flashbacks!”
Bev hands me a mirror. I look like a different person—almost. “I love it.”
Bev grins, surprised.
“It’s not enough, though. You make up people for the theater. Do you have fake scars or something to try on?”
“Can I suggest you try on a different bizarre and disturbing obsession?” Charley says.
“We can give you something more.” Bev roots around in her cases, sounding braver now. “A disguise has two parts—what you cover and what you offer up as a distraction. This might be a little extreme, but if you truly don’t want to be recognized, you have to give them something else to look at.” She extracts a black thing the diameter of a pencil eraser and affixes it to my cheek. “There we go. It’s a stage mole, designed to be seen from the audience.” She steps back. “It’s a lot.”
Charley is just shaking his head. “It’s too much!”
“But it does draw the eye and give his face a different character.”
“It’s not realistic at all!” Charley says. “Nobody has a mole like that!”
“You’re right—nobody has a mole like that. It’s a stage mole. It’s not designed to be realistic, but people will accept it,” Bev says. “People are a lot more focused on themselves and schooling their own reactions than you might realize. And if they focus on the mole, it’ll be to make stories to explain it.”
“Like why he didn’t remove it,” Charley says. “Most people would remove it.”
I hold up the mirror. It’s huge and extreme, but I find I like it. “I wouldn’t remove it,” I growl.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Charley says. “You’d give it a name and put it up for knighthood.”
The rest of the accessories have been delivered by now, and I try on the whole ensemble—the glasses from two decades ago, the obnoxiously bright shirt. I fluff up the hairstyle that everybody seems to hate.
“Yet somehow these things aren’t ruining your looks,” Charley complains. “They should ruin your looks more.”
“I don’t give a shit about my look. I don’t want to be bothered, that’s all. Let’s give it a spin.” I grab my phone and head downstairs, girding myself as I usually do when I go outside, ready for people to get in my face or try to get a quote or a picture. Or if I’m in a hat and sunglasses, for people to recognize it as a disguise and try to penetrate it with varying degrees of success.
I walk the block without being noticed. Some people stare at my mole and then look away. Some glance over me briefly and carry on. I don’t know if it’s the hair or the glasses or the shirt or the mole, or maybe it’s the whole thing, but people are avoiding my eyes. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
It’s as if…I’m invisible.
I stroll around the block, reveling in it.
“I love it,” I say when I get back.
Seven
Jaxon
New York City
SportyGoCo occupies the top three floors of a decrepit building in an unremarkable part of the Garment District. They apparently design and market sportswear to be sold in large stores. After a number of moderately successful years, their fortunes have plummeted precipitously.
God knows why my parents bought the place, though it’s far more likely that they didn’t know that they had. It’s hard to tell how much interaction they had with Wycliff Inc. beyond my dad using them as a captive audience for self-important speeches.
I report into the human resources office where a man named Derek has packets and forms for me to fill out with my new name—Jack Smith. He smiles at me but mostly keeps his eyes on the forms and the packets as a way of not staring at my mole.
Fucking brilliant.
He leads me up to the design department, my new home base, but they’ll share me with shipping, he informs me.