Get On Your Glad Rags

Get On Your Glad Rags

Taylor blinked her eyes, trying to reconcile the previous moment with the one she was currently experiencing. Minutes ago, she had been staring at the computer screen before her, trying to hold her eyes open, but now she was on a bustling city street.

               Taylor looked down at herself to check for decency. She had been in her favorite flannel pajama bottoms and a bright pink hoodie when she’d last checked. Thankfully, she was in a dress, but Taylor was startled by how wildly disproportionate the style was to her usually conservative wardrobe. The sequined frock had no sleeves and a high neckline; though the material was sheer from just above her breasts to her throat. The relatively tight bodice continued to her upper thighs where the sequins were lost and transformed into hundreds of tassels.

               Either it was Halloween and she was dressed as a flapper, or it had happened again. Taylor glanced to her right and found a dapper male in a dark grey suit with notched lapels. At first glance, Taylor thought his hair was brown, but the light color of his hair was camouflaged by the grease he used to keep the relatively long hair on the top of his head parted over his left eye and slicked back out of his face. Taylor did not recognize the man.

               “Ready, doll?” the man asked her. “The faster we get inside, the sooner we’ll be hitting the jag juice!”

               Taylor had no idea what ‘jag juice’ was, or if she wanted it, but she was now sure she was off on another trip through the past. She was happily amazed to find her footwear well-strapped to her feet as she stepped from the curb with her arm linked to that of her companion. The heel was sturdy too. On one of these escapades, she had found herself wearing a pair of stilettos and her left ankle still bothered her from the fall she took as a result of those pumps.

               Strutting across the street, her tassels swirling around her, Taylor wondered which ancestor she was tonight. Lately, when researching her family tree, Taylor found herself walking in her ancestors’ proverbial shoes. It was no longer as jarring as it had been in the beginning. At this point, Taylor was almost comfortable spending a few hours walking through past lives and seeing through the eyes of her dead family members.

               Tonight, Taylor had been investigating her father’s family line. She had uncovered a secret. Her great grandmother Caroline Miller had not been married when she gave birth to Taylor’s grandmother. That had not happened until four years after Grandma Evelyn was born. Considering the dress she was currently sporting and the Model T Speedster pulling up to the curb before her, Taylor guessed she was strolling through the mid-1920s.

               Her chaperone led Taylor to a place in line behind the elegant couple who had exited the Speedster. The woman appeared to have been dipped in glitter. If one were not careful, the reflections from her silver dress could be blinding.

               The man with Taylor stooped to whisper in her ear. “Cary, stop staring at that zozzled bird’s mol. I’m not looking for a kiss on the mug. With my luck he’s a button man or something.”

               “Sorry.” Taylor ran through all her knowledge of the Great Gatsby, trying to find an appropriate response. “Her dress is just the bee’s knees. I couldn’t help looking.”

               “Just keep your eyes low. We’re here for the hooch, not the swank.”

               Taylor did not miss the second mention of alcohol in less than ten minutes. She was beginning to suspect her date was an alcoholic in the middle of the prohibition period. Caroline had married Francesco Morgante, an Italian who immigrated to the United States only three months prior. The booze hound attached to Taylor’s arm did not have an Italian accent. He was not the man Caroline married, but it was likely that he was the answer to Taylor’s genealogical brick wall. Taylor might not know who the man was, but she was beginning to understand why this man had not eventually become her Pop-pop.

               As Taylor and her nameless date approached the bouncer at the door, she felt the arm holding hers stiffen. One glance at her escort’s face and Taylor knew he was terrified. He was going to turn and run. Sturdy heels or not, there was no way Taylor wanted to test their durability on a run through the streets. Thankfully, the strong hand of the bouncer came down on her companion’s shoulder, pinning him in place.

               “What are you doing here, Doonan?” the burly man grumbled at Taylor’s date.

               “My girl claims she was once a hoofer. I’m looking to get her out on the dance floor so she can prove it.”

               “You really are a Goof. Do you think I’m sucker enough to believe Daniel Doonan is at this joint to hear the music? Take your dumb Dora and scram.”

               “I― I was hoping to see a man about a dog,” Taylor’s date conceded.

               “Every doorman of every gin mill this side of the city knows you’re just a four-flusher with no dough. Tommy still has your last bunch of Orphan paper behind the bar. He didn’t even bother taking them to the bank!”

               “I’ve got cash tonight,” Daniel said. “I had a good day at the track.”

               Taylor was surprised to see her date pull a wad of bills from his billfold. The bouncer looked just as startled, but he moved to the side and permitted Taylor and Daniel to enter the club. Now that Taylor had the information she wanted, she wasted no time before making an excuse to go to the restroom. Daniel did not even seem to notice as he made a bee-line for the darker corner of the room.

               Taylor entered the ladies’ room and leaned up against the closed door. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was not a doubt in her mind that her grandmother’s life had been better for having never known her biological father. The man was a cornucopia of terrible habits and a billboard for future bankruptcy.

               Taylor welcomed the sight of her office when she re-opened her eyes. She was still staring at her computer screen and was still in her mismatched pajamas. The cat had curled up on her lap since she’d last inhabited her own body. The feline did not stir when Taylor leaned over him to type “Daniel Doonan” AND “New York” into the search bar of her Genealogy web site.