Wellington Napoleon Dowd - 4. Chapter 4 - Coming Together

I reflected on the status of my life. I had Clark Gable for my spirit guide and transport. I had the body of a man, well at least nearly so. I had the opportunity of renewal each school year brings. I continued my personal inventory. As I anticipated my return to school and the world, I thought it prudent to examine my wardrobe.

I had spent the summer clothed in the cast offs and rags appropriate to the backyard mechanic. These adjusted to my rapidly changing physique, appearance was unimportant. But even as I opened the closet door I realized that the clothes of my youth would never again fit my new person. I had already consumed all available cash in outfitting Clark Gable, he did have expensive taste. And it was but a few days until the start of the school year. I was bereft, unable to eat or sleep.

Cook Cooke recognized my malaise, observing that the incredible volume of food I now typically required was pushed away untasted. “What is it Deary? I mean Master Wellington.”

I pushed through the choking tears, lamenting, “I have nothing to wear and school starts in two days.”

She paused, eyeing me up and down and up and down again. “Go to your father’s room. Not his studio mind you. In the cedar closet you’ll find something that ought to do.”

I went to the long abandoned room, the furniture covered with sheets. I crossed the space, entering the attached dressing room, going past empty shelves to the door at the back. Pulling back the heavy door I realized that Cook Cooke had given me the secret of entrance to King Solomon’s Mines. The sweet scented space contained a trove of exquisite clothing, my father’s wardrobe from his wedding suit to yachting attire to safari gear to sophisticated lounge wear. Most never worn. And hats, shoes and all the furnishings a gentleman could require. As I tried on shirts, pants, jackets, I felt it was destiny. I could easily have outfitted a production of The Great Gatsby with the vast period wardrobe. My body had not yet filled out with the man’s form the next few years promised until my age aligned with that of my father when he was outfitted, but I wasn’t too far behind. A few extra tucks here and there would do.

Out of fashion? In my heart I depended on the same timelessness of Clark Gable and the trend to vintage attire to complete the persona that came into being that summer. The first day of school would be a trial by fire.

I fussed and planned my clothing over the remaining time. I settled on a soft gray cashmere suite, a silk shirt of a lighter shade of gray, gray suede shoes, and a silk tie and pocket square of purplish hue, matching the body paint of Clark Gable.

Thus attired, I mounted Clark Gable and set off down the drive. To my surprise, Gardener preceded me and had opened the gates, saluting as I passed into the street and thence to the world. I cruised along Main Street, Clark Gable drawing attention much like his fabled namesake. I don’t know if the looks were in envy or just seeing the anachronism I was driving, but I choose to think them as raw, green envy.

The entrance road to the High School was congested with a wide variety of cars. Some clearly the family sedan, others aged and decrepit vehicles and occasional souped up and auditorially enhanced hot cars. Among this melee I inserted Clark Gable, powerful, lean and elegant. The cars parted like the waters of the Red Sea. I drove to a parking place of honor. I stepped out of the car, resting one foot on the running board, posing for all to see.

From the back of the crowd that had gathered I heard the question, “Is that Well Dowd?” I smiled beneficently to all and proceeded into the school. I had arrived in style, at least in my own mind. The first days were a typical jumble as school took on this year’s unique rhythm. I took pleasure in being mistaken for a teacher in my luxurious attire. I was teased for a short while, but that seemed based in envy.

I began to attract a small group of friends made up of others from the fringe of school society. At our lunch table, we must have made quite a sight: the flamboyantly gay me, the depressedly grim goth, the sullenly plain dike and her pert girlfriend and one poor chap who had remained pre-pubescent even longer than me. We could be open with each other, freely trashing all the other groups of jocks, preps and other popular groups and desperately hiding our jealousy.

Odd stares from some of my teachers began to unsettle me. It wasn’t until some weeks into the term that I learned the reason why. I sat in one of those odd corners that are clearly architectural mistakes concealed as ‘study nooks’ in high schools. I was more napping than studying when my ears perked at the sound of my name.

“Wellington Dowd, yes that’s the one. He’s one I never thought would grow up.” Teacher One.

“I know what you mean. It does catch up with some of them in an awful hurry. I’ve been teaching Phys Ed for decades and am still amazed. They leave at the end of the school year little boys and come back men. Hits some harder than others and, what do the kids call him? ‘Well N. Dowd?’ He is now.” Their hearty chuckles faded as they walked out of earshot.

“Damn,” I said to myself. I had been too fearful to look at anyone else in the after gym showers much less compare myself to others. Perhaps I had caught up at last. I resolved to linger in nature’s state at the next opportunity.

Gym class came again. As I slowly changed from that day’s period ensemble into the requisite gym uniform, giving the ‘boys’ time to breath, I heard a small voice. “Are you well endowed?”

“Excuse me?” I said, spinning toward the source. It was my still pre-pubescent friend.

“I know why they call you that now, Well. Jeez.”

“All in due time, my friend,” I tried to comfort, knowing well the anguish he felt but feeling all the more comfortable in my own skin, maybe even a little proud.

Otherwise the school year plodded along when in class. I reveled in the trip to and from school in Clark Gable. Even gave rides to a few of the friends who made appropriate noises of amazement. Of course for a free ride, the relative marvelousness of the car was not a major factor. Mostly, it was the life of a high school student. So much for being special. Threads and wheels have short-lived impact. I still longed for romance, or at least someone to snog.