The backdrop’s a barn.

The audience buzzes like a busted speaker.

Judge Roy Hay says howdy. “Get ready, folks. Here comes the Grand Ole Opry’s brightest star—and do I mean bright!”

Spotlights big as milk cans. Hank steps on stage. Suit stitched with a farm scene. Sequined steeds. Beaded barbed wire. A Swarovski crystal creek.

The audience stands. Flashbulbs flash. He starts into his single tout de suite. I warned him. Flashbulbs fade fine fabric.

I’m watching from the wings.

“You’re the tailor, right?” Ernest Tubb says.

“‘Couturier,’” I say. I size up Ernest’s ensemble. His collar’s unstable. The pants are odds.

“How’s about making me a suit like that?” Ernest says. “Not exactly like that. I’m thinking maybe something with Texas.” He tips his ten-gallon. “I’m the Texas Troubadour.”

“I work exclusively for Hank.” I walk away.

“What’s he paying you?” Ernest yells. “I’ll pay double! Triple!”

Hank and I duck out the stage door. Flashbulbs bleach the alley. Girls wait. They make a ring around Hank, waving autograph books. Pages pink and yellow.

Hank signs. I stand to the side. Out of the heel of my eye I spy them. Boys. They’re loitering around the Cadillac. Tinfoil taped to the yokes of their shirts. Duct-tape piping. Their boots painted orange. Their mothers’ scarves around their necks.

“They’re being you,” I say.

“I’ll be damned,” Hank says.

“Well?” I say.

The store’s a shell. Drywall daubed with undercoat. Dust like a splatter sheet. “What is it?” Hank says.

I direct him to a drawing tacked to drywall. “HANK’S CORRAL.” Letters resemble ropes. The perspective’s impeccable.

“The artist’s conception,” I say. I’m the artist.

“A store of me?” Hank says. In the drawing, he’s stylized, sketchy, like people on patterns. The decor’s dude ranch. A chuckwagon checkout. Saloon doors swing on change rooms. A chandelier of branding irons. Dangling.

“What do I sell?”

“Prêt-à-porter.”

“Pretty poor what?”

“Hi,” Hank says.

We’re in a sweatshop. Seamstresses sit at satin stitch machines. Pumping foot pedals like they’re playing pedal steels.

“It’s done piecemeal,” I say. “This woman’s stitching sleeves. This one’s doing cuffs. At the end of it we have these.”

Mannequins model. The shirts are stallion print. The prints bleed. Hank strokes one. Gets a spark.

“The thread count’s negligible,” I say. For ladies there are gauchos. “A blend. The sequins are store-bought.” I pinch one. It creases. “If your fans are going to dress like you, you may as well profit.”

Hank rubs his neck. “You really think they’ll buy it?”

“Show me something showy,” Ernest Tubb says.

A men’s store. Might as well be a bank. Mahogany and mirrors. Ties displayed in wickets. Dust swirls like paisley. A clerk leads him to herringbones.

“No, no, no.” Ernest runs his hand along hangers. They clink. Brown blazers flecked with grey. Grey blazers flecked with brown. He waves a page torn from Hillbilly Fan. Hank’s glossy suit. “Don’t you have something like this?”

Ernest steps outside. Empty-handed. He walks upstreet. He steps into Gentry Esq. Menswear. He tries the Olde Suit Shoppe. Same story.

Then he sees it. In a store across the street. It sparkles. A suit. He dodges cars. He runs for it.

(Originally published summer, 2002.)