My question sounds personal and maybe it is. For all I know, he could have been personally responsible for the ruin around me.
Raffe stays quiet for the rest of the drive.
In the middle of this charnel, a few blocks of the financial district stand tall and shiny in the sun. It looks almost completely undamaged. To my utter amazement, there is a makeshift camp in the area of the city that used to be South of Market, just outside the undamaged portion of the financial district.
I weave around another car, assuming it is dead, until it suddenly lurches in front of me. I slam on the brakes. The other driver gives me a dirty look as he drives past me. He looks about ten years old, barely tall enough to see over the dashboard.
The camp is more of a shanty town, the kind we used to see on the news where refugees flocked by the thousands after a disaster. The people—although they aren't eating each other as far as I can tell—look hungry and desperate. They touch the car windows like we have hidden riches in here that we could share with them.
“Pull over there.” Raffe points to an area where a pile of cars are stacked and spilling onto what used to be a parking lot. I drive the car there and park. “Turn off the engine. Lock the doors and stay vigilant until they forget about us.”
“They're going to forget about us?” I ask, watching a couple of street guys climb onto our hood. They make themselves at home on the warmth of our car.
“Lots of people sleep in their cars. They probably won't make a move until they think we're asleep.”
“We're sleeping in here?” The last thing I feel like doing with all this adrenaline rushing through my veins is sleep under glass surrounded by desperate people.
“No. We're changing in here.”
He reaches to the back seat and grabs his pack. He pulls out a scarlet party dress. It’s so small that at first, I think it’s a scarf. It's the kind of shapely and tiny dress that I once borrowed from my friend Lisa when she talked me into going clubbing with her. She had fake IDs for both of us, and it would have been a fun night except that she got drunk and went home with some college guy, leaving me to find my way home on my own.
“What's this for?” Somehow, I don't think he has clubbing in mind.
“Put it on. Look as good as you can. It’s our ticket in.” Maybe he did have clubbing in mind.
“You’re not going to go home with some drunken college girl, are you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I take the skimpy bit of fabric, along with the skimpy matching shoes and to my surprise, a pair of silky pantyhose. Whatever Raffe doesn’t know about humans, women’s clothing isn’t one of them. I shoot him a piercing look, wondering where he learned his expertise on the topic. He returns my glance with a cool look of his own, telling me nothing.
There’s no private place to change away from the prying eyes of the homeless guys on our hood. Funny I still think of men like that as homeless even though none of us have homes anymore. They were probably South of Market hipsters back in the day. The day being only a couple of months ago.
Luckily, every girl knows how to change in public. I pull the dress over my head and under my sweatshirt. I pull my arms out from the sweatshirt’s sleeves and wiggle into the dress using my sweatshirt as a personal curtain. Then I pull it down to my thighs, and then take off my boots and jeans.
The hem doesn’t go as far down as I’d like, and I keep tugging it to make myself more modest. Too much of my thigh is showing, and the last place I want this kind of attention is where I’m surrounded by lawless men under desperate conditions.
When I look at Raffe with anxiety in my eyes, he says, “It’s the only way.” I can tell he doesn’t like it either.
I don’t want to take off my sweatshirt because I can feel the skimpiness of the dress. At a party in a civilized world, I might be comfortable in it. Might even be excited at how cute it is, although I have no idea if it’s cute or not since I can’t see myself. I can tell, however, that it might be a size too small for me because it’s tight. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be this tight, but it only adds to the sensation of being naked in front of savages.
Raffe has no qualms about stripping in front of strangers. He pulls off his t-shirt and slides out of his cargo pants to button on a white dress shirt and black dress slacks. More than anything, it’s the feeling of being watched myself that keeps me from blatantly watching him. I have no brothers, and I’ve never seen a guy strip before. It’s only natural to have the impulse to watch, isn’t it?
Instead of looking at him, I look forlornly at the strappy slippers. They’re the same shade of scarlet as the dress, as though the previous owner had one custom made to match the other. The high, thin heels are made for accentuating legs while sitting cross-legged. “I can’t run in these.”
“You won’t have to if things go according to plan.”
“Great. Because things always go according to plan.”