Free Bird

Another Monday.

Casey passed 34th street on her way to work and stopped for three seconds in front of the Rara Avis Thrift window. Her lips curved as she gazed at the chic yellow blazer and lavender trousers.

Around her the crowd of morning commuters threatened to sweep her away, marching relentlessly toward their offices.

Three seconds was all it took her to cycle through her thoughts:

What a remarkable ensemble, she'd think, admiring the unique color pairing and the way the structured blazer complimented the draped slacks. She saw her mother picking her up from high school dressed in an extravagant pink dress. Her mother had always had great style.

Then: Where would I ever wear that? She'd picture herself in a lounge, sipping a martini, or on some vague European vacation with a silk scarf tied over her hair and Jackie O sunglasses. She tried to picture herself wearing it at the office, lavender pants swishing down the aisle of grey, dull cubicles. Her female colleagues might tell her how great it made her look. She tried to envision how her male colleagues, particularly her senile and very traditional boss, would react. It reminded her of the time she wore a pink cardigan over her usual white blouse. All day they teased her, calling her Barbie. She shivered.

With a frown, she'd arrive at her final thought: Yeah, right, not in this life.

Wearing such an extraordinary suit, even buying it, was as unrealistic as finishing the novel she'd been "working on" for the eight years since she'd graduated college. Despite her English Literature degree, she was no closer to being a published author than she was to being a millionaire.

So she pivoted on her heel and marched dutifully around the corner and into the beige lobby of her office building.

She rode the elevator silently, giving tight smiles to her colleagues dressed in cheap grey poly-wool blend suits. Jim from Facilities and Maintenance glanced not too subtly at her chest, and she regretted unbuttoning her collar for a more relaxed look underneath her blazer.

Then she sat at her miserable cubicle and wrote colorless marketing copy that never really lead to any sales, but managed to tell the world exactly what the company wanted to say. They were a regular, safe choice for regular, safe-choice-loving people. Nothing garish or uncomfortable here.

It must have worked though. She'd been awarded Employee of the Month at least once a year, for her "exemplary writing, creativity and team spirit." She cried about this on the train home.

At home, she couldn't wait to strip out of her suffocating corporate clothes and remove herself from that sad environment.

Some days she imagined an older version of herself would reach out her hand from the future and grab hold of Casey and pull her out of this dreadful cycle. They would climb to the rooftop of her office downtown and leap into the sky, the yellow blazer her wings carrying her to something better.

But the vision ended before she saw what came next. And in the end it was safer just to keep her head down and march in line with the others.

The one splatter of color in her days was lunch, where she ate with Marisa, a former college basketball player who now worked in Human Resources. They shared a love of books, and often chatted about them over a bowl of salty soup that the company served subsidized in their overpriced cafeteria.

"Did you hear what happened to Keisha?" Marisa said that day as she exhaled a puff of steam. The soup was served either cold, if a meeting kept them from making it to the cafeteria before one p.m., or scalding. Casey suspected it was poured from one of those industrial plastic bags and merely heated in the metal vats. By the time today's "Mexican Corn Soup" (what made the corn Mexican?) slid down her throat, the vegetables were pulpy mush, the soup viscous and clearly re-heated too many times.

Casey frowned as she searched the broth for the supposed corn. "Who?"

"You know the new hire in marketing who wore those skimpy little dresses?" Marisa continued, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. "She's no longer with the company."

Casey glanced down at her white shirt. It was the same one she wore three days a week, only replacing it with a similar blue and white-striped shirt on Tuesdays and Thursdays so no one would notice she wore the same two shirts all week. She also alternated between a classic navy blazer that did not fit her well but was "office appropriate" and a thin grey cardigan that made her look frumpy but was also "appropriate."

"Because of the way she dressed?" Casey asked.

Marisa just raised her eyebrows. "Let's just say we weren't the only ones who noticed."

As she looked, she noticed there was an orange blob of soup soaking into the collar of her shirt. The fact that it would leave a permanent stain nearly gave her relief. At least she'd have a reason to get a new shirt.

She merely smiled at Marisa, who had already returned her gaze to her phone. She did know Keisha, and her dresses were youthful and maybe a little shorter than Casey would have worn herself, but not scandalous.

"Wasn't Keisha our growth marketing manager?"

"Yup," Marisa said distractedly.

"So now we have no one driving targeted content to the hottest markets." She said this quietly, more to herself.

Marisa laughed at something on social media and Casey looked down at her gruel, watching as a layer of oil slide over her spoon.

It was only one-thirty in the afternoon. Her shirt suddenly felt stuffy, her pants itchy against her legs, despite being another well-worn pair she'd had for years. She couldn't find the energy to go back to her desk and finish the day's work.

On the train home, she cried behind the cover of her paperback book.

***

Tuesday.

Casey climbed the stairs to street level and her eyes fell on a beautifully colored bird she thought might be a goldfinch. It fluttered around a blossoming row of hedges fencing the boutique on the corner. She slowed her steps, trying to get closer without scaring it away. But she was jostled by the commuters coming off the train and a horde of grey-clad office workers who'd just rounded the corner up ahead and were headed downtown. Before she could decide whether the bird's feathers were gold and black or lemon and charcoal, it chirped and flitted off above the brownstones.

Carried by the crowd, she longed to do the same. The welcoming glass window enticed her again this morning, and she glimpsed the manikin wearing her favorite yellow blazer. She startled as she realized the lavender pants had been replaced by an even more exotic combination: a pair of flowing silk jacquard trousers in a floral print of plum, vibrant green and shades of blue. It was outlandish, and she stopped to stare.

But she stumbled forward as the man behind her bowled on down the sidewalk, pushing into her shoulder.

"Keep it moving," he shouted, as he tumbled onward to his own office. A few others shook their heads or looked pointedly away, a sea of miserable faces in their grey and navy suits.

Jostled to the side, Casey sought refuge on the bottom step leading to the thrift store, to admire the pants a bit longer.

There was no visible tag she could see announcing the price. The way they hung draped over the manikin's legs, she was certain they were fine silk. Who would discard such a gorgeous pair of pants at a thrift store, she caught herself thinking. But the answer already lived in her own mind. Someone like her. Someone given to fantastical notions about her personal style, who splurged recklessly on an outfit that caught her eye but was impractical and not office appropriate. She could see the outfit hanging lonely in a closet, right next to the grey, navy and black uniform of corporate closets. She saw the owner open the closet door and glance at it each morning, then look past it to select a more practical choice. Dust gathered on the collar of the blazer, the chic pants loosing their sheen. Every now and then their owner tried them on, admired herself in the full length mirror, and considered wearing them out. But then she shook her head and changed into a regular suit. And the jacket and pants were discarded.

Casey felt hollow and cold. She blinked, realizing a petite woman had appeared in the window, clasping a few clothes pins in her mouth as she adjusted the manikins.

Her fingers twitched, and she half turned toward the door. It wouldn't hurt to see how much they cost. But just then the street fell silent, the rushing crowd slowed to reveal a small gap between the suits. Now was her chance. Feeling hopeless, Casey turned away from the impossible outfit.

"Excuse me," she said as she slipped back in line with the rest of the crowd heading around the corner to the corporate buildings.

***

"It's time to put your goals for the year in the system," Donny, her boss, told the marketing team that morning. "At a high level, I want us to get more website traffic this year."

Later, alone with Casey in his office, Donny said "What do you want to achieve this year, Casey?"

She glanced outside the window beyond his shoulder as she thought about that. I want to read a book that makes me laugh and cry,, I want to finish the first draft of my own novel, I want to tour Rome and Morocco, I want to wear an outfit so fashionable paparazzi surround me with cameras on the streets and brands beg me to be their ambassador...

Casey blinked and turned to look at Donny. She hadn't heard what he'd just said.

"Sorry-what was that?"

"Do you think a 25 percent increase in website clicks sounds realistic?"

Realistic. She thought about that word. "Realistically," she said, though she hadn't thought through the rest of the sentence. What did an increase in web clicks even mean, really? And how much was a 25 percent increase? Was it twenty-five percent more people reading her marketing copy, or twenty-five percent more ad revenue going into making sure her copy showed up on social media platforms? What impact would that possibly have on the company, who so carelessly let go of valuable employees over something as ridiculous as their sartorial choices?

It's not like she would ever see a twenty-five percent bonus or raise. It was impossible to do anything significant here. The numbers they measured to set their goals were nothing more than arbitrary symbols strung together to make Donny and his boss and his boss's boss feel like the company was making progress.

"Realistically, I can..." she tried again. "Real-ist-ick-ly." Now the word sounded silly and began to lose all meaning. Donny raised his eyebrows and steepled his fingers against his wrinkled lips. She shifted in her seat to hide the grimace that sprung to her face.

"What do you want to achieve this year, Casey?" he prompted again, less kindly.

She hated looking at him, she realized. It wasn't because he offended her, but because she was lying to him.

Eventually, Casey gave in. She saw no alternative, not if she wanted to keep her job.

"Twenty-five percent. I can do that."

"Now, Casey." His voice lowered as she stood to leave. Immediately she sat back down, not liking the tone of it. "I've been getting some feedback about your recent choice of... clothes." His lips curled and his eyes narrowed. They scanned her body.

"I'm sorry?" Molten lava pooled in her stomach. "In what way?"

"Well some of the staff feel your... shirts... have been less than appropriate recently."

Casey looked down at her regular blue striped button-down. The cuffs were rolled up and the collar folded over the lapels of her blazer. It revealed a modest triangle of skin below her collar, which she had attempted to cover with a silk scarf tied neatly around her neck. The scarf was bright fuchsia.

"I see." When she was dismissed from his office, she went to the bathroom and untied the delicate silk scarf. Folding it neatly, she tucked it into her purse and smiled at reflection sadly. Then she buttoned her shirt all the way to the stop, so that she could hardly breath as the collar pressed against her neck.

On the train home, she cried while scribbling "realistically" over and over on a note pad.

***

Wednesday came fast and slow.

Casey couldn't breathe.

Casey stared blankly ahead as she shuffled in step with the crowd pushing off the train. They climbed the stairs to the sidewalk mechanically, rushing but always in their place. No one broke free to push past the others, except for those who were always running late.

Outside, birds chirped the arrival of spring. Casey instinctively looked at the row of hedges fencing off Rara Avis Thrift, but then she heard Donny's words in her head. Today she wore her frumpy grey cardigan buttoned up over her most basic corporate shirt. It felt heavy and scratchy, and too tight wherever it pressed against her skin.

Today, she did not linger to glance in the window. She squared her shoulders and marched onward to her office.

"Excuse me, pardon me... 'scuse me." A woman in a feathered hat and wearing a garish pink faux fur jacket pushed against the crowd, turning sideways to squeeze between the force of bodies.

She paused just in front of Casey and cut across her. "Thanks, darling," she said as she stepped out of the crowd and onto the steps of the thrift store.

Curious, Casey craned her neck to watch the gaudy looking woman climb the stairs and enter the store. Suddenly a wave of panic seized her. She had never seen this woman at the store before. She was sure the pink-coated woman did not work there, which meant she was likely to be a customer.

The thought settled heavily in Casey's mind. Before she could stop herself, or even realize what she was doing, she thrust out a hand. "Wait!" she shouted. A woman behind her stumbled over her foot and nearly broke her nose on the sidewalk.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Her shrill voice drew the attention of others as she struggled back to her feet.

"Keep it moving, lady!" The crowd was getting angry, and she felt it closing in around her as those behind her pushed forward while those in front turned to look at the scene.

"Haven't you ever heard of street manners?" a third voice called.

"Come on, we gotta get to work!" But they suddenly all looked the same, they all wore Donny's face beneath dull grey hats and the scratchy cheap fabric of their dull grey suits suffocated her until she could not catch her breath.

"No!" she shouted. "I don't have to go to work, not like this!"

At once, she was pushed from the crowd, staggering and coughing for air. Angry voices continued their volley, but she no longer heard the words. For she had realized something profound.

No one was holding her prisoner. No one forced her to dress in the drab little clothes that made her feel sad. No, it was her holding herself hostage, all because she'd been afraid to break free from the corporate grind that had sheltered her for eight years.

A soft fluttering by her ears made her turn. There, hovering over the hedges again, was the pretty yellow bird. And then she remembered what she had been about to do.

"Wait," she called again, racing up the stairs. She barely heard the bell chime as she entered the thrift store, but somehow it made sense that it was that kind of store. The petite staffer she'd seen Tuesday greeted her with a friendly chirp. But Casey looked around wildly.

The yellow blazer and silk floral pants were nowhere in sight. When she asked about the display from the window, the petite woman shook her head and frowned.

"I'm sorry, you've just missed it."

Just then, the woman in the feather hat and pink coat came out from behind a dressing room curtain, donning the fantastic ensemble. It looked exactly as Casey had pictured it would on a real woman-- like she belonged at a high-end hotel bar in Monaco or touring piazzas in Rome.

"You look incredible in it," Casey exhaled.

"Why thank you, darling," the woman drawled.

The suit swished toward her. The woman wearing it appraised Casey with her head tipped at an angle. Her red lips parted. "I think this would look better on you."

She unfastened the blazer and draped it over Casey's shoulders. Then she nudged Casey toward the mirrors. "Don't you think?"

The transformation was immediate and whole. Feathers burst from Casey's arms, which bent into elegant wings that carried her outside and up, up, up over the city skyline. The hearty spring air filled her lungs and she laughed with joy.

Far below, she could not even make out which of the identical metal blocks was her building, and it did not matter anymore. All that mattered was the blue horizon that stretched endlessly before her and this feeling bubbling up in her gut that she could be anywhere and do anything, so long as she kept true to herself.