Jerry lifted an old maroon-and-white striped tee, holding it against his larger frame to get a sense of scale; suffice to say, it was clear that squeezing into this thing wasn't going to be easy, but Jerry was oddly determined to go through with it anyway - guided by an intrusive impulse to put it on. So, without much hesitation, Jerry promptly took off his shirt, leaving him with the last step: putting the shirt on.
The 25-year-old took a deep breath before sliding both his arms in. The fabric stretched and contorted against Jerry's muscles, threatening to rip at any given moment as he continued to wriggle his way in - yet the vintage shirt was holding up against his herculean effort, much to his surprise.
With a few grunts and sheer tenacity, he was able to finally get his head through the collar, then lastly, squeezing both arms through the unaccommodating sleeves. It left him with a reflection, a ridiculous image of a man wearing the clothes of a boy less than half his age: the shirt's smallness accentuated his body's features, unable to even cover much of lower torso - leaving much of his abdomen exposed. The sight alone pushed Jerry out of his daze, prompting him to comment: "Welp. That was dumb..." he murmured, "What the fuck was I even thinking?"
As if to answer him, Jerry felt an odd tingling sensation washing over him, snowballing into full-out vertigo. His surroundings were caught in a shifting whirl, which spun around Jerry as he felt an otherworldly force tugging at his feet, pulling him and his line of sight closer to the ground as he became shorter; bit by bit, it shaved off years of puberty and body hair as Jerry re-entered adolescence, but with no sight of these changes halting.
Being caught between so many disorienting forces, Jerry could hardly process the fitting room around him, with its design changing to reflect past decades. Wallpapers, music, and the general ambience of the store rearranged themselves to the tune of a cacophony of men chattering, laughing, and whispering - it rang in Jerry's ears as their voices gradually took on a more boyish cast, settling on preadolescence, which signaled Jerry's voice to follow suit as his adam's apple receded. The shirt that was on the verge of tear, now hung perfectly on his smaller frame.
Jerry attempted to regain his composure, massaging his head and coursing his fingers through his hair: the boy's small, rejuvenated hands sensed his once-voluminous raven hair receding into a lighter shade of brown that was styled into a butch cut, a go-to haircut for boys these days: these days being the fifties, but for the regressed boy, that was a given - of course it was the 1950s, he thought; that's what the flood of new memories had told him. To that point, his comfy cargo pants morphed - their fabric turned into a jeans' denim, with the left over fabric that hadn't changed ringing around his waist, cinching into a leather belt.
The transformation was over. The fog that had clouded his thoughts vanished.
Jerry then took a moment to process his reflection: he saw a boy no older than eleven, who had grey eyes; a face dotted with freckles, and his former sneakers, now a pair of saddle shoes; his tee was tucked into belted jeans. All in all, he was the quintessence of a boy growing up in 1956; he was Roger Wellkins.
"Jeepers", the boy panicked upon learning his new name. "That can't be right... My name... My real name's..."
Try as he might, he couldn't quite recall ever going by any name other than Roger, but something, some part of him was practically screaming to be remembered, so to put his mind at ease, the boy stepped out of the fitting room only to walk into one of the many stores of a busy shopping mall, with Jim, its owner, being the only remnant of the store he once entered as the 25-year-old Jerry, save for the fact that he was dressed up in a neat suit -- apropos for salesman of that time.
The boy mustered the courage to call for his attention.
"Excuse me!" he exclaimed, "Sir!"
Jim, seemingly unperturbed by his customer's dramatic transformation, turned to his young customer to whom he flashed a warm smile.
"Yes, little fella, how can I help ya?"
"Uhm, there's something wrong with my clothes," Roger replied, averting eye contact with Jim. "Could you please help me, sir?"