Bob walked in the direction he hoped would lead him backstage. The hallway seemed to go on forever, with no doors on either side. He felt certain the auditorium in which the fashion show was being held was on the other side of the wall to his right, but upon reaching the end of the hallway, all he saw was a second one angling off, leading further towards nowhere.

The panic welling in his throat increased, made worse by the tight collar of the doublet, along with the second collar supporting the stomacher. He felt ridiculous sprinting in a garb so obviously not meant for running, yet glad to be at least wearing his street pants and tennis shoes.

The second hallway ended at two sets of double doors—one set leading straight ahead and another off to his right. Upon examining them, he realized that whichever set he chose to go through, they would lock upon closing behind him.

"Augh!" he cried in anguish at his predicament.

What are we doing? his wife thought into his brain.

"Seas!" he said out loud, practically cheering. I'm lost!

No kidding, she scolded. The link broke. Where are we?

I used a different door to get back in. Where's the auditorium?

Good Lord, Love. How do I know?

He looked closely at both sets of doors, giving his wife a full sense of the choice.

Okay. Let's peek through and see what's there.

Bob opened one of the two doors in front of him. It led to a continuation of the deserted hallway. He tried the set of doors to his right, but both were locked. They looked to be more like service doors, unlike the decorative ones leading down the public hallway. He pounded on the locked doors as hard as he could. When no one responded at first, he pounded again.

A maintenance man in blue hotel garb opened the door a small crack. "I'm in the fashion show," Bob said, relieved to find a living person. "Which way is it to backstage?"

"¿Qué?" the man replied. It was obvious he didn't speak English.

Bob referenced the doublet and stomacher with his hands. "The fashion show!" he said. "I'm a model!"

The man stared at Bob in confusion, not moving to get out of the way, or opening the door any further. It seemed clear he was not letting Bob pass.

Ach! Cecilia scolded again. You need to learn Spanish.

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"I'm a building contractor," Bob said out loud, while brainboarding to his wife. I don't need foreign language.

Well you do now. Say this: Estoy en el desfile de moda. ¿Qué camino es detrás del escenario?

"Ester desfile de moda," Bob said, mangling most of the words. "Kay camino destress..." I can't remember all that!

The man smiled a bit at Bob's street pants and tennis shoes. "¿De modelo?" he asked. "¿De moda?"

Say yes! Cecilia thought.

"¡Sí! ¡Sí!" Bob said, referencing the doublet again.

Say 'detrás del escenario!'

"Backstage!" Bob said at the same time. "¿Detrás del escena?"

The man understood. "Ah! ¡Sí! ¡Sí!" He let Bob through the door and guided him down the hall.

"Gracias," Bob said in thanks.

"¡Sí! ¡Sí!" the man repeated. He pointed to another door. "¡Aqui!"

Bob opened it and peered through. Inside was another hallway, meant strictly for non-public access. The floor was bare concrete instead of carpet, with walls made of cinderblock.

"Backstage?" Bob asked, concerned.

The man showed confidence. "¡Sí! Backstage! ¡Aqui!"

Bob entered the hallway further. Stacks of risers lined one side, with other metalwork that looked like spotlight catwalks. Scattered throughout were other items, mainly chairs of various kind.

"Which way?" Bob asked as he walked slowly.

¿Por dónde? Cecilia thought into him.

"¿Por dónde?" Bob asked, turning to look behind him.

The man was nowhere to be found. Bob was again alone.

"Great," he said to no one.

Keep walking, Cecilia suggested. This looks right.

Bob spoke out loud with exasperation. "What choice do we have?"

After passing a stack of risers higher than his head, a series of long folding tables appeared, with some chairs in place around the few tables that were set up. Seated in one of the chairs was Steph, with the bombasted men's hose on the table before him.

Unaware of Bob's presence, he feigned banging his head on the table. Bob sprinted towards him with joy. "I'm here!" he called upon approach.

Steph eyes grew wide as he stood. He seemed frozen and still in a panic. "You're on in, like, a minute," he said.

Despite being in a hallway, Bob stripped off his tennis shoes, white socks, and pants. "Then let's go!" he said, putting on the grey socks.

Steph helped Bob into the hose, cinching them to his waist with a thin leather belt. He looked at the shoes that went with the outfit and again froze.

The shoes were made of floppy pigskin, brocaded and meant to be laced up to a point near Bob's shins. Each one had at least twenty grommets, half of which had not been laced.

"You're on," was all Steph said, staring at the shoes.

Cecilia took control. She had her husband whip off the grey socks. Then grabbing the shoes, he/she tied the laces together.

"What did I need the grey socks for?" Bob asked, as Cecilia had him toss the shoes over his shoulder like a hand bag. "You can't even see them with these things on."

"You're supposed to have grey socks," Steph repeated, nearing a panic again.

"Oh well. Let's go!" Bob/Seas looked for which way to head.

"You have to put on the shoes," Steph said. "The designer will be mad."

"He's going to have to get over it," Bob said, nearly grabbing Steph by the throat to force him to react.

"It's Ché," he said of the designer. "She's a woman."

Bob/Seas grit their teeth. "Show me where to go," he/she snarled through them.

Steph guided him/her to a door. It led directly backstage. Beyond a set of black curtains lay the runway.

"We look like Aladdin in this get-up anyway," Bob/Seas said to Steph as they watched the model ahead of them walk out on the stage. "He's barefoot in the movie. No one will care if we're not wearing the shoes."

"Ché might," Steph said, pushing Bob/Seas into position.

Screw Ché, both Bob and Cecilia thought, as she made her husband strut his stuff out onto the runway.