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Uncle Robert picked pieces of clothing from the Salvation Army’s donation pile, draping them casually over his arm. I followed him with my eyes, waiting for him to tell me this was a joke. Never in my life had I ever worn hand me downs. I’d worn pieces of clothing from my brother, but that had been my choice for clothes that I liked. And those clothes had been rare pieces from the designer.
“This will have to do,” Uncle Robert grunted, tossing a t-shirt in my direction.
“What’s this, Uncle?”
He turned to me with a frown. “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I thought we were going to a store. What’s all this?”
“You will have to dress the part, my boy. You can’t go in there in a fancy suit from Italy.”
I shook my head. “I know but wearing people’s old clothes isn’t my style.”
“You’re just gonna have to deal with it. OK?” Robert walked over and rested a hand on my shoulder speaking in a lower tone. “Listen, the people that will help us are no joke. You can’t go in there dressed in brand new clothes that’s never been worn, or those fancy brands you brought with you. They’ll think you’re Babylon (police). Can you handle this?”
“It’s just clothes uncle, I can handle anything that’s got to do with Neeky.”
“I know you can. Now, come choose what fits.”
