Marcellus Tvaris was a tailor. He was the very best of tailors. He could fit a dinner jacket with such precision, he fit his dresses with such delicacy, that he was able to keep his shop open in a suburb on the west side of Detroit for twenty five years. He had an exacting and accurate eye for detail. He would take notice of the particular way a man's waistline might bulge, of all a client's proportions, of how a man walks in his pants and use this information in his tailoring. He took special notice of some of the female clients he had. Some had near perfect proportions. He noticed how they walked. He noticed the curvatures of their thighs, their spines. He measured them almost maniacally, breathing heavily and brushing aside what little hair he had left.
Mr. Marcellus Tvaris was in his early fifties. He was relatively short for a man. He was very near bald save for a strand of hair that circled about his head. He had a well defined pot belly from eating seconds at dinner every night but still had muscular shoulders and thick forearms. He wore slacks and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. That's how a tailor should dress, he thought. Marcellus spent twenty five years building up a reputable business. Working hard. Charging honest prices. Putting in the best work he could. But Marcellus had an underground business as well. For some of his wealthier clients he worked as a designer. He designed custom corsets and occasionally formal skirts to match them. He designed the new Mrs. Buckingham's wedding dress, though she had to promise not to tell where she'd gotten it.
Marcellus reveled in his corset making. He loved the idea of these women willfully walking into the restraints of corsetry for him. He enjoyed listening to them talk about what kind of fabric they were looking for, what they wanted done with their waists, their breasts, what they wanted the overall effect to be. He enjoyed measuring them, around the waist, from nipple to navel, from navel to groin. He most enjoyed presenting them with the final product, lacing them in, pulling them tight as they grasped a column in the fitting room, gasping for air, eyeing their own reflections.
Marcellus so enjoyed his corset making that he began to make a few corsets on the side, his own designs. These corsets were more extravagant than the ladies of his suburb could rationalize. They didn't sell. They became part of Marcellus's private collection. One was made entirely of layers of purple crinoline. Save for the strategically placed boning it was quite see through. One had the boning extended quite a ways down from the bottom. Marcellus was able to twist the boning in its black casing using pliers into spirals and sew red silk gauze across all of it along the bottom. Yet another, a dull pink leather corset with brown trim was sewn with pockets, a belt and buttons down the front to look like a sleeveless jacket.
Marcellus lived a simple life. His alarm rang at six in the morning. He showered, shaved his entire rounded face, coiffed his hair carefully, meticulously with disdain and a tinge of shame, trying to cover up every inch of scalp with what little hair he had left. Finally he sat down for breakfast. He lived alone above his shop. He ate eggs and bacon. A hearty meal for a hard day's work, he thought. He worked from eight until eight at his shop and usually made a dinner of meat and potatoes.
He did his tailoring in the back room of his shop. A bell rang in the back room when the front door opened. It was in this manner that Marcellus was able to work on clients' orders and sneak away time to work on his private collection of corsets. The bell rang. Mr. Tvaris straightened his hair and walked out front, self assuredly with his right hand sticking out far too soon.
"Mr. Buckingham! It's wonderful to see you. What can I do for you today?" Marcellus asked.
"How are you, Mr. Tvaris? I wanted to thank you," said Mr. Buckingham.
"Thank me. Whatever for?"
"My wife made me swear not to tell. But she told me her wedding dress was made by you. She looked stunning. You are a real talent. You should market your design skills. Really. I think more women would like to look like that," urged Mr. Buckingham.
"Oh that's just the fun stuff. I save that for my most discriminating clients," flattered Mr. Tvaris. Really he secretly found corset making seedy, repugnant, disreputable. Not at all like tailoring suits or hemming dresses.
"Well she felt very special, very beautiful. She was glowing all over that day. I'd like to say it was because of me, but I think the dress had something to do with it." said Mr. Buckingham. Very restricted, thought Mr. Tvaris. He had made a white overbust corset a size too small so one could see the lacing up the back. Mr. Tvaris had fashioned a voluptuous skirt, floor length in the front and with a train in the back. He continued the lacing of the corset all the way down the back of the skirt to accentuate Mrs. Buckingham's hourglass figure. The lacing stopped just at the back of her knees, folds of raw silk bursting from beneath the restraints of the lacing. The fabric fluttered as she walked as a result of this effect and gave her the appearance of floating.
"I'm glad she enjoyed the dress. Now what is it I can do for you, dear Sir?" asked Mr. Tvaris.
"Well. I bought the spectacular slacks that fit perfectly in the waist but are too long. Do you think you could..."
"Consider it done. I have your measurements on file. Your waistline hasn't grown in the last month, Mr. Buckingham?" asked Mr. Tvaris looking at Mr. Buckingham over the rims of his reading glasses. Mr. Buckingham laughed.
"No, it hasn't. Still trim."
"Good. Your measurements should still apply. I'll have these ready for you in two days," said Mr. Tvaris.
"You're the best tailor, Mr. Tvaris. Thank you. I'll pay at pick up?"
"As always."
"Thanks then," said Mr. Buckingham on his way out. "See you Wednesday. What time is a good time?"
"They'll be ready in the morning," said Mr. Tvaris. "See you then." And Marcellus took the two pairs of slacks into the back room. He set aside his current corset and got to work on the slacks. They took him a very short while. Two days was an overstatement. The fact was that after twenty five years of steady business, business was now slow. Sure, Marcellus had his usual clients, the usual men and women who needed things altered regularly. But there was little walk in business. Marcellus wracked his brain about how to get more walk in business. Maybe business from the city. Maybe he should advertise. Maybe that was too ostentatious. Advertising. He had always relied on good word from his clients to get around. But it seemed, in these rough economic times, that wasn't enough, though it used to be.
As Marcellus was removing the cuffs from Mr. Buckingham's pants the door rang again. It was a busy day, he thought. When he walked up front the nearly stopped dead in his tracks. There stood a beautiful freakish creature. She had soft locks in her hair which were died a purplish black. Her skin was very fair, almost white. She wore high heeled boots and hip hugger leather pants. She wore layers of multicolored mesh tops of varying sleeve lengths. Her makeup was elaborate. Her skin, powdered. Her eyes covered in black shadow with an accent of red at the tips. She wore red lipstick with purple liner and no rouge. She was just closing her black umbrella from the rain as Marcellus walked in from the back room. She was fussing with it. She was colorful. She was outrageous. She was dressed in a way most of the women in this town would not be able to rationalize. She was like a living, breathing personification of one of Marcellus's own personal corsets. She had long shapely legs, full breasts, and an already corseted waist. He could see that through her mesh tops. The strings of her corset hung beneath her tops onto her rear. They tapped her rear as she walked. She was holding a garment bag under her arm and having significant trouble juggling it with the umbrella.
Marcellus was also appalled by this new customer. She was a scallywag. A low life. He didn't want another customer to walk in and see them together. The Great Mr. Tvaris and this sordid character. He wanted to get her out of his store as soon as possible. He'd tell her he didn't work with her fabric. He'd tell her he didn't accept her form of payment.
"I'm sorry. We're swamped," he said, noting the garment bag. "I wouldn't be able to get to whatever you have for a month."
"That's okay," she said in a high pitched voice. "I live in Ferndale and I've tried all the tailors in town and none of them can do this for me. Or want to. But you have such high reviews online and-"
"Wait a minute. I'm reviewed on the internet?" Marcellus didn't own a computer. The girl giggled.
"Yes. Very highly. And I was hoping you'd take a look at a costume dress of mine. I've recently lost weight and it doesn't fit quite right anymore." Marcellus sighed.
"Okay, let's have a look."
"I warn you. This dress is a bit eccentric," said the girl.
"My girl," said Marcellus, thinking of his private stash of corsets, "You don't even know what eccentric is."
"Well, okay. You're all right, old man," said the girl as they walked back to the second room of the shop. The second room was a small octagonal shaped fitting room lined in mirrors save for one wall which served as a doorway into the third room, the back room, where Marcellus did all his work. Marcellus showed her into the fitting room and instructed her to put on the costume so he could pin it. He disappeared into the back room and moments later shouted.
