Excerpt from Meggs

Ailish had seen it in many big cities, particularly in the US. The small, slightly tacky, dishevelled shopfront. Aluminium window frames showcasing a variety of equally tacky, dishevelled product. Budget Crimplene and poly-cotton dresses; a haberdashery, perhaps. The pavement outside is grimy, pock-marked with hardened, grey gum, and an ammonium smell of piss hanging in the close, heavy air of the city.

The door has a standard-issue, yellowing 'We are open' sign hanging crooked on the door. The window features a veneer of smudges, smears, a vain attempt at an inviting shopfront,and metal bars should anyone decide they want Crimplene dresses as loot. A cloak of dust, the odd corpse of a fly decomposing on the cheap, red fabric swathing today's specials.

This is New York. Upper East. A shabby shop in a not-so-shabby 'hood.

Ailish would never have ventured through the door; nothing in the window, nor the window itself shows the promise of anything that could possibly meet her needs or desires. But here she is, clutching an airmail envelope in her fist, wandering through the hangers of bargain basement summer dresses and kiddies' polyester sweaters and playsuits. “Who wears these summer dresses?” she ponders incredulously. They're upholstered in a great-aunty-like easy chair print. “Someone clearly wears them,” else how does the proprietor pay the rent in this upscale neighborhood?

She'd scribbled the approximate whereabouts of the shop on a Post-it note as she grabbed her bag to leave her Downtown office that afternoon: 3^rd Ave, between 84^th and 85^th. It had taken some doing to find anything on the internet about this man she'd made a post-humous promise to her mam she'd unearth. He was not of the age or inclination to have any type of profile on the web. Ailish found that quite astounding; that there remain people in the world with no internet presence.

Whether this address was the right one, she couldn’t be sure. She knew nothing of his looks, his full name, but she knew he'd been special to her mother. They'd taken very different paths in their lives – that's all her mother had written on the front of the airmail envelope. Quite for whom the note was intended wasn't clear, either. As well as the short note, just a name on the airmail envelope: Meggs, dress shop, Upper East, on or near 3^rd Ave.

The inside of the shop is dark, hazy with dust specks, stale and musty on the nose. Ailish hears a shuffling of paper - some invoices, a shadow becomes obvious in the back of the shop.

She smiles and chirps, “ 'Morning.”

“ 'Mornin' Ma'am.”

His voice is gruff, a wet, phlegmy cough follows shortly thereafter. Then silence again; no offer of “ Something I can show you today, Ma'am?” or “Today is the last day of our specials”. If she did want anything in this strange pit of a shop, it was up to Ailish to find it. “How does he make any money?” she wonders again, as his heavy, labored breaths carry through the darkness.

At once, he eases himself from his stool, leaning fully on his left arm to haul his solid frame to stand. Grunting, a painful effort draws lines across his features.

Ailish guesses the figure stands about six feet two and he doesn’t seem full height. Stooped, his broad chest caves. Moving towards the back office, she notices the left leg drag slightly behind the right, like a small dog trailing behind its owner. Crab-like, he scuffs towards the black curtain that hides God-knows-what. It's only when he gets to the curtain that the body re-assembles itself, reaching full height and breadth. He is strong, or at least, once was.

As she moves toward the counter, a black-framed photograph on the wall catches Ailish's eye. The frame is beaten and chipped; like the rest of the shop, a film of dust rests there. Inside, a black and white image of a young man, perhaps early twenties, dark skin, dark eyes. He is surrounded by high-quality leather goods; briefcases, fine men's shoes. The suit is perfectly cut, Italian styling, Ailish reckons; the quality of the fabric shines, casting shadows against his well-made body. He wears it minus the jacket, as if he's been hard at work all day, but maintaining that 'urban style' magazines favor.

The beauty of the model is astounding, causing Ailish to gasp. Noble, proud, statuesque and damn fine. It was a literal response – her breath had been truly taken away.

“Who's that?” she asks on the out-breath.

From the curtain, the raspiness speaks, “That's me,” matter-of-factly.

Ailish's cheeks flush uncontrollably – this man was fine in his day.

“Wow!” the exclamation clears a path through the dustiness; embarrassment continues to rise in them both.

“I used to model back in the seventies; in the days of Studio 54. Crazy times”, he scratches, a reminiscent smile forms on the corner of his lips.

Ailish surveys him, “Well - you still got it!”

Sheepishly, he replies, “Thank you, Ma'am.”

“You must have seen some really crazy things in Studio 54. I've only ever read about the place – celebrity legends creating legendary tales, the way I understand.” Ailish felt she was trying a little too hard to impress him with her knowledge, hoping her eagerness wasn’t as obvious to this slightly crumpled but majestic man as it was to her.

His chuckle is deep, gravelly and full of catarrh, “Oh, I'm tellin' ya',” his head shaking slowly, as images of the urban wilderness return to him.

Words take their time to form and be heard, the accent still strong with a Southern lilt, nurtured along the Mississippi's abundant banks with the cotton and sugar cane.

“Yeah, I seen some sights no God-fearing son of a cane toad should see. We tore up Jake in those days.”

“Were you always a wild child?” Ailish teased with a crooked smile.

“Hell, no! Damn near lived out my years in a seminary!” A high-pitched giggle escapes like a child let out in the yard after the rain. A slow shake of his head again, “The choices we make...”

At that point, Ailish feels disoriented, synthesizing the snippets of information she's just heard, comparing them with the small amount she knows from her mam. Unclenching her fist, she unwrinkles the airmail envelope, catching the spidery writing, again. Recognition finally spreads across her face, her eyes widen as she looks back at the shopkeeper.

“Meggs?”

“Yes Ma'am.”

Ailish hesitates, opening her mouth to explain who she is, why she is in this funny little shop in the Upper East, when she stops. Fumbling in her handbag, she pulls the Hermes scarf out; it floats to the counter.

“I...”, she starts.

Meggs stares at the scarf, crumpled and beautiful on the counter. His eyes grow glassy with memories, a warm smile gathering pace. He simply nods slowly.

“I'm Ailish, Caoilinn O'Riordan's daughter.”