Pack Street Mini: Transformation

Half an hour till sundown. Most of the building is still asleep. What was it Thomas Gekker called it? "That golden chain that ties health and our bodies together".

But me, I slept sparingly. No matter how many times I go through it, it's always fresh. Always exciting. Anticipation kept me awake. Almost giddiness. Today is the day I've been waiting for all week. A red letter day.

Time to get ready. I crawl out of bed, sneak to the door, creep out into the front room. Empty. Good. I haven't been caught doing this yet and I'm not about to start now. Making every effort not to wake my roommate in the other room, I slip across to the bathroom. With the door solidly locked behind me, sealed inside like a chrysalis, it's time for my "morning routine".

My transformation.

I stare long into the stained mirror, at a familiar face. Dark bags under the eyes and a grumpy frown, like some weary troll of myth, biding a resentment of the world as deep as the molten stone from which it was hewn. Not a pretty face. Not a delicate face. And one that I'm not so arrogant to think has never worn on my friends and neighbors. A face even I've grown to resent at times.

Well, not today.

The locked cabinet beneath the sink beckons like a secret treasure trove from any one of a number of fantastical tales strewn across the apartment, in tomes of immortal paper and stately pleathers, but its contents are worth more to me than gold and jewels. I know in my heart that its meager lock could never keep out a truly interested party, but peace settles on me, a blanket of calm called trust. The only mammal who would ever have a chance to pry into it is the one I know respects me enough not to look in the first place.

Oh, Charlie. If only I could trust you that blindly.

They say the man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep. I say only a dead man has no secrets left, and even then I wouldn't wager.

A quick rummage reveals a bevy of beauty products fit for a queen. I wonder for a moment if our resident Egyptian wouldn't love to get her claws on these, but knowing her sharp tongue, I think she'd prefer to leverage them into taunts against me than employ them for herself. Not that I haven't grown used to her barbs, but on a topic this sensitive, I don't relish the thought of her knowing.

Jar by jar, bottle by bottle, my countertop collection grows to its full glory. I've gotten quite handy at applying eyeshadow -- a light touch. I'm a lady, after all. Not a whore. Mascara blooms my meager lashes into swooping, gorgeous black wings. Lipstick too, but just a whisper. I even it out with a practiced kiss.

A quick spray of Musk Mask to the necessary regions is quickly followed by a misleading mist of Pomegranate Passion, and at once the old odors are hidden for a new and feminine fragrance. I slip into a stylish tanktop, and I must admit, its smooth comfort is strangely enthralling. I can feel the change building. A peachy skirt the color of a warmly remembered spring fits me well, and though I (rather plainly) don't quite have the hips for it, its loose, airy fit invigorates me and its girly flair is a strangely-welcome change.

At last, I move to the final piece. I need to do my 'hair'.

From beneath the sink I retrieve the crown jewel of my collection: a hairdresser's mannequin-bust with flowing, wavy hair as glossy as the dew. The wig calls to me, eager to take its familiar position, and I am more than happy to oblige. Like whispered breath, the auburn waves fall around my head, and I girlishly bat my locks out of my face.

I close my eyes. A youthful energy spins me, and my skirt flits out, a swirling cloth punctuation mark ending one chapter and beginning another.

When I open my eyes, the old "me" is completely gone. I barely recognize the girl staring back at me.

I can't help but smile. It's a cheerful, unguarded smile. Not like the old "me" at all. Peppy. Fun. Girlish and charming. I giggle, involuntarily. I bat a paw at the mirror with a dismissive chirp.

"Oh, sir!" I whisper in a tone much higher than my throat is used to, "You're going to make me blush!"

"What? Oh, tee-hee! I'm just out here for a fundraiser, that's all!"

"Would you mind walking a delicate girl like myself home?"

A sudden noise in the other room jolts me to reality. I was so caught up in my imagined conversations I didn't realize how loud I was getting. My heart begins to pound. I'm not even out and about yet and I'm already fearing discovery.

Get a grip. Take a breath. Calm down. You've been through worse scrapes. And besides, if anyone were to catch you like this, there's no mammal who'd be more understanding. Your secret might even remain that way.

The bathroom door creaks open under my paws and I peer out into the silent room beyond. I don't move. I don't breathe.

Another sound. From the other bedroom. I've still got time, then.

With lightning quickness and a careful, steady focus that stops well shy of panic, I stash the cosmetics and the bald bust beneath the sink and lock them up. I bolt from the bathroom and I'm out the front door before I can be spotted.

But once out in the hall, I freeze cold. I didn't check for passers-by. A quick glance calms my nerves and confirms I'm alone. But this was careless. Sloppy. Could've caused problems. And I wasn't even accounting for our on-and-off wildcard more commonly known as Remmy Cormo. Fortunately for me, our resident nocturnal grazer is nowhere to be seen. At this point I'm more or less in the clear. If anyone spots me in the lobby, I can just do what I've planned from the start. What I do every time.

Pretend I'm someone else.


"What? Oh, tee-hee! I'm just out here for a fundraiser, that's all!"

The sharply-dressed mountain of a mountain goat before me laughs politely, scooping an hors d'oeuvre off the platter-display at my table and nibbling it so lightly I wonder if he'll even leave a trace.

"Well," he drawls, slowly placing a twenty into my metal donor box with all the subtlety of a plane crash, "Perhaps after this is all over, you and I can go get a coffee together somewhere."

"Oh," I titter, bringing a paw to my mouth, "That sounds lovely! But I don't really drink coffee."

He winks down at me. "Neither do I."

"Oh, sir! You're going to make me blush!"

He smiles broadly, flashing flat teeth, and with a confident nod, turns back to the party, disappearing into the crowd.

Quite a haul already, and that's not even counting "extra" donations I'm poised to be tallying up in my own personal afterparty, such as it is. At this rate, I'm starting to wonder if I've brought enough snacks. It's going to be a good night.


And that's when he shows up.


I can feel it -- feel the smile on my face slowly fading, the girlish giggling dying on my lips. My eyes track him as he shuffles through the crowd, some pale phantom drifting in and out. A cold omen. A bad dream. The darkest cloud, condensing above my bright and sunny night.

But despite all my silent pleading, the puffy white fluff drifts my way.

"Hey, how are you," he mumbles. He doesn't even say it, so much as excrete the words out the front of his face, leaving them sitting in a fetid pile on my table, in my once-quiet corner. A whole gym-turned-ballroom, a whole party, and he had to come here.

To be perfectly clear, my resentment, my hostility -- they're not symptoms of my personal feelings. How I feel about the sheep before me is not the problem here. But the last thing I need right now is someone who knows me well enough to blow this for me, but not well enough to know they should keep their mouth shut.

"Good evening, sir," I return, through my teeth. My mouth is tight. My fur is nearly bristling. Even when I get angry, my fur never bristles.

His bug-eyed gaze trails over the appetizers I've laid out, sampling them in his mind. His broad, soft, triangular nose twitches like some alien organ. "How much for the bagels with, uh, is that salmon and cream cheese? Oh man, that looks f-- uh, that looks really good." His strange, hooved hand hovers over the table, ready to snatch.

Well, that course suits me fine. I'd just as soon he get his food and move on. Don't give me a reason to regret this.

"It's free," I explain, focusing all my will to keep my delicate tone. "The appetizers are all complimentary, but if you like, I'm accepting charitable donations as part of an ongoing fundraiser. Whatever you can give is more than generous enough."

"Seriously?" He looks up at last, meeting my eyes, and my pulse quickens against me. "So I can just help myself, then?"

"That's what complimentary means, sir!" I bite my tongue. Literally. I worry for a moment that came out more harsh than cute, but it seems to have gone over his head.

Looking satisfied, the ram uses a napkin to pick up the half-bagel he was eyeing, taking a deep whiff of the thin-sliced fish atop it. I'm not a cook. I don't know my way around a kitchen. But I worked hard on these. Perhaps it's a weakness in me, but if I'm going to do something, I've learned to do it right. And judging by his reaction, my hors d'oeuvres are more than worth the donations I've been earning.

The look is just an added bonus.

Satisfied with what he's got, he half-turns back to the party, pausing only to fish into his pocket. He pulls out a clumsy, hoofed fistful of change, but as he moves to drop it in my lockbox, the coins slip and come clattering onto the table.

He sets his bagel down quickly and fumbles for the dropped coins. "Oh, shit -- ah, I mean -- sorry. Sorry, here, let me--"

I can feel heads turning. Even that slight din was enough to get attention at this celebration. Wanting this over as quickly as possible, I lean forward over the table and scramble to help collect the change.

"It's all right, sir," I smile as pleasantly as I'm currently able, gathering up the spilled currency and waving a paw towards the rest of the gym. "Please, go enjoy the festivities!"

"No, no, I'm not gonna just leave you to clean up my mess, here, let me--" His hooves repeatedly slip, clicking together audibly, unable to pick up the last few coins off the table.

I try to push past him to get them. "Sir, please--"

"No, I can..." He can't.

"Let me just get--"

My eyes dart past him, over his white, puffy shoulders. People are starting to stare.

"I got it! I can do it, you don't have to--"

"It's not a problem, really!"

"Cormo!"

He stops, outstretched hoof hovering over the last coin. Slowly he lifts his head, looking up at me with an expression of wide-eyed trepidation. "...How do you know my--"

I've made a mistake.

Half the room is looking this way.

He squints, studying my face. "...Wait a minute, is--"

I lean across the table, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and with sudden force I yank him towards me, shoving my lips into his.

His eyes go wide as I lock him into a deep kiss. I can feel the fuzz of his wool against my face. It tickles faintly.

Opening one eye, I see the room has mostly returned to its business, many of my ex-onlookers now bedecked in blushing, sheepish smiles. I even spot a certain mountain goat looking to the floor, dejected. Guess I can write that one off. Thanks, Cormo.

I pull off just enough to break the kiss. He blinks, stunned, and his mouth moves noiselessly, trying to create words his brain hasn't yet had time to find.

"Fix my wig," I whisper pointedly, in my normal voice.

He reaches up automatically and obliges me, in a smooth and subtle motion disguised as cradling my head. Reluctantly, I'll admit, I have to give him credit there.

I lock eyes with him. "Meet me behind the gymnasium in two minutes."

He understands.

I watch the ram toddle off for a moment, biting my lip. I have no time to dwell on this. I snatch up the rest of my things, toss most of them into the lockbox, and make a quick but subtle getaway from my little corner.

Damn.

So much for the afterparty haul.



Bricks hued in the soft, dreamlike blue of early evening greet me as I round the corner of Packer's Gym and dip into the shadows, hidden from the streetlights like so many prying eyes. I'm back in my element, such as it is -- and yet I find I'm still wearing my makeup and wig. Maybe it'll make this easier.

I spot the dim ball of wool without trouble. He's mulling about in the center of the alley like a lost child waiting for his mother at the supermarket. I clear my throat to get his attention.

"Oh!" He startles, peering hard at me.

"There's no need for such a hard look," I sigh.

"What?"

I glance down at myself, gripping the hem of my skirt in the darkness, as if it'll fix this. "The way you're looking at me. I understand what you're feeling, believe me. I know you must think--"

He steps forward suddenly, and in a response unlike myself, I startle -- just a bit.

"No! No no no, no, it's -- no, it's not that. It's not like that. I just -- I was just squinting." He waves his hooves quickly, as though trying to clear the air in the most literal way possible. "Sheep, uh, sheep have poor night vision. I wasn't..."

For a moment, silence overtakes the alley again.

I sigh, looking back down at my feet. "I wasn't here for... what you might think."

He starts to speak, but then stops himself, reconsiders, and slips his hooves into his pants pockets. "It's none of my business why you were here."

That's the best answer I could have hoped for. I look back up at him and almost smile.

"So does that mean...?" I start.

"Don't worry," he shakes his head, blushing lightly. "I won't tell anyone. Your secret's safe with me."

I admit, I hadn't planned for this possibility. I'm not used to being surprised -- at least not like this. I try to respond, to find the words to explain why this matters, but for once, I think he's got the better plan. There's not much further that needs to be said.

I take a step forward, retrieving my lockbox, and spring it open. The ram peers down, curious as I'd expect, as I draw out something wrapped in a napkin.

"You forgot something," my words are colored with the same practiced feminine tint I used inside, and as I offer my blushing neighbor his bagel, I add a showy little curtsey. "I'm afraid some of the cream cheese got smeared off on the napkin, though."

When he leans down to take it, I give him a quick peck on the cheek. He turns redder, laughing in his shy, nervous way.

"Th--thanks. I'll uh," he thumbs dumbly towards the back door. "I'm going back inside."

I nod, fixing my top slightly. "I'm heading home."

"Oh, then, do you need me to walk you home, or--"

I shake my head, stopping him mid-stride. "I'll be fine."

He smiles. "Thanks, Charlie."

"And you might want this, too," I offer, holding up his wallet.

He pats his empty pocket in surprise, then shoots me a look of faux-anger as he swipes it back. "Why you-- thanks."

I turn on my heels, heading for home.

"Enjoy your night, Cormo."

"Yeah. You too."



As I cut through the alleys leading back home, I flip the lockbox open, fishing through the loose bills, change, and billfolds until I find the wallet I'm looking for. Popping the brass clasp open, a photo of a smiling mountain goat greets me.

No credit cards. $7 in cash.

Bust.

With a flick of my wrist, I pop an hors d'oeuvre in my mouth, pull off my wig, and wipe the taste of sheep off my lips.

Well, I suppose the night wasn't a total waste.