The Viceroy of Vintage

The Boss skirts trouble all the time. Often he takes me downtown to one of his favorite vintage stores and sneaks me in. He knows the owner so I guess the law that says dogs ain’t allowed in retail establishments don’t apply so much. The Boss says I’m his “consultant”.

Man, oh, man, I’m here to tell you, this place rocks. The smells. Damn near heaven. I’m about to pass out from inhaling decades old perfume and lobster sauce stains.

Then the Boss starts doing his crazy thing.

“This would look great on you.” He says to some twenty-something trying to go Goth.

“Dude, if it ain’t black, she’s not gonna be into it too much.” I send out a little warning ‘ruff’ just to let him know I’ve got his back.

He ignores me. So does the young lady. I guess I can call her that. Her get-up makes fashion wanna get up and walk out.

He’s right, though, chicky-do. The boy’s got an eye. That white lacy forty’s nightgown cinched up with a belt, the bell sleeves, some gladiator slippers and watch out. ‘Course, you’ll have to spend $100 on that mop of yours to get the cut and color right.” Listen to me… soundin’ as snooty as the Boss. Thank God, you can’t get fat on fashion.