Rebel Glory
“It felt even stranger to wear a wig.“This won’t work,” I told Cheryl, “not in a million years.”She was in blue jeans and a nice blue jacket, and she carried a heavy black purse.“Relax,” she said, “you look perfect.”Perfect? Cheryl had glued a false mustache into place. My wig had a ponytail, and I was wearing a baseball cap. I wore greasy jeans with holes in the knees and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt beneath an unbuttoned red flannel hunting shirt. I had rolled the sleeves up to show the tattoos o...n my forearms. They were new tattoos, the kind you put on with water. In my shirt pocket I had a package of cigarettes.“Try to walk more floppy,” she said.“What?” I looked to see if anyone in the crowds around us had heard her. “Floppy?”“You’re walking tight, like an athlete,” she said. “Headbanger rock-and-roll types don’t walk that way. Make your head and arms floppy, and walk with a slouch.”“Like this?” I took a few goofy steps.Cheryl giggled. “Exactly.”We walked up the steps toward our seats.MoreLess
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