Groovy

Roll collar granny prints epaulets mitotic paisley double-breasted checks shiny hankie serpent tie four buttons bouffant Tom Jones sleeves French cuffs wide leather belt suede spade polka dot high rise plaid low rise dress non-dress stovepipe pinstripe bell-bottom subtle trumpet blaring--these clothes are moving, the whole store is moving. The music pounding out from the radio baby baby baby while these clothes whirl you around and around.

"Can I help you?" asks the salesman Larry. A little guy, about the size of a jockey, with brown hair that flows down his head and wraps around his ears. A thin colorless face. But it's the clothes you look at. His pants. Unbelievable. A garden of paisley. Blue for the background. Quietly blue. And then WATCH OUT. Silver paisley and red and gold, all at once. Moving when he moves. Moving when he doesn't move. Baby baby baby says the radio.

Mod. Modern. "It's high fashion," say Boston's dedicated following of fashion who flit from shop to shop on Washington Street. "It's Nowness. Newness. It's anything new and different." We send men towards the moon, elect movie stars, build neon Babylons, make music with electricity and look at the planet through telescopic, microscopic drugs--so why not have clothes to match?

Never mind this classical staff, say the dedicated followers. "Still, stable, traditional--like a wall." Out to the Establishment go the catalogues in pristine cream envelopes, full of offset smugness. "Our custom department gathers the finest of fabrics for every type of wear. We are famous for maintaining expertise of the highest order in cutting and journeyman tailoring to individual order." Sure. All that hoary tradition. Sir, would you like to look at our Steep Rib Cavalry Twill pants or West of England Poacher's Tweeds? I see, sir. Well, here's our British Warm in the Snug British Officer Double Breasted style. The Crombie Pebble Finish is especially nice.

Who are you kidding. Grosvenor Town Coats for the modern man? The fabulous Navy Blue Cashmere Blazer at Howdy's Beefburger Drive-In? A Shaggy Pullover of Finest Shetland Island Wool at a Stones concert? So into the breach steps Mod. "Like, it just happens to correspond to my thought patterns," says Larry, "you know, the way I think."

Mass Marketing charges the tweedy set, looking flashy in their Olive/Bracken/Buff glen check suits. Sure, it's Mass Marketing. Picture this concrete factory in Southern California turning out millions of Mod pants a day. Just like cars, or skateboards. Teeny-boppers Inc. But are those herringbones that come from Brooks and J. Press and the A. shop, so different from one another? And those button-down shirts. All right, so one has a flap on the pocket and the other doesn't have a pocket at all.

Mod is real freedom, according to the Mods. "Like, everybody should have a couple of different bags," says Larry. So clamber out of the tweed bag, baby. Mod can be creative. "I don't believe in this color combination bit," says Larry as he touches his wide tie, blue polka dots on a green background. "The other day I had on a plaid vest, a granny print shirt and paisley bell-bottoms. Everyone knows you don't wear plaid and paisley and granny print together. But it was groovy. I was digging the patterns all day."

Mod may seem groovy in Life but it's not that simple in reality. "Yesterday," recalls Larry, "I was walking down the street in these pants. I had on boots that came to my knees and a green Tom Jones shirt. Everyone looked at me like I was a bomb or something. It used to bother me. These people out here don't accept anything they don't know. Like, they come in here and say, 'Do you really wear those clothes?' I tell them, 'No, I wear a grey flannel suit and then I change when I get into the store.' These people don't know anything about me. But, like, they figure, 'If he's not the same as us, he must be a faggot.' What can I do? All I say is, 'Look, man, you don't even know me.'

"I've got two closets happening now. About ten pairs of bell bottoms, and then eight suits. You know, double-breasted, four buttons--some with epaulets, some with bell bottoms. Both three piece and regular. About thirty shirts, I guess--like, with roll collars or ferociously high collars. Three or four pair of shoes, four or five pair of boots. And, like, I don't think I can count the ties."

Girls have a hard time matching Larry's wardrobe. "Some chicks won't even go out with me any more because I have more clothes than they do. But why should the cat always stay in the background?

"You see, you can dig these clothes all the time. In your closet. On your back. It's the colors. Like, colors are beautiful, you know? That's the first thing people who take LSD talk about. The colors. Look at these pants. The blue background is happening. And then the red and silver and gold. I think it's groovy. God just didn't give anyone pants like that. Some guy worked hard to think this up. And nobody appreciates it. Everybody should accept everybody else. I mean, what right have they got to judge my clothes? I like Mod. I like the freedom. I don't want to be the same. So what right have they got?"

The radio is saying baby baby baby. And Larry seems sad. But just for a moment. "Stay there," he says as he goes over to a shelf. "We just got these in." He comes back holding a pair of furry pants. "Yetti pants," he explains. "Yetti is another word for the Abominable Snowman." I stroked the pants. "Just like a rug," he grins. Groovy.