| Someone upstairs was singing. If I had my way, dear, forever there'd be a garden of roses . . For you and for me. A lovely voice – it was longhair stuff, but the guy had a nice tenor, the kind of voice you wished you had in case you were at a highbrow party and everyone, to your horror, congregated around the piano. “Who’s that?” Joe asked. “One of the guys,” the tailor said. “Stand flat, if it’s not a bother? Thank you.” One thing Joe admired about tailors: they knew that if you’re going to put your hand in another man’s groin, you’d better be quick about it. The tape went down, the chalk came out: two white lines, and they were done. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” the tailor said. He was a short fellow, bald on the top, a neat moustache. He moved with light grace; he had glasses sitting on the end of his nose. He never made eye contact while he measured you. “That was a few years ago,” Joe said. “I’m surprised you remember me.” “I don’t. I remember the suit you had on when you came in. We didn’t sell many of those.” “You’re saying it was ugly?” Joe grinned. “No, no. Arms up, please.” Two flicks of the chalk. “Ugly suits we don’t sell. But some are more . . . distinctive than others.” “Uh huh. I had a blind date a few years ago. Friend of a friend of a friend. Most distinctive looking young lady I’d ever seen.” The tailor smiled. “Well, that buyer has moved along. What can I say? It was the style. But this, now, this: timeless. You could die in this suit, God forbid, you should live a thousand years, but you know what I mean. Like iron it wears. Trust me, my friend, you’ll go through three sets of tires before this suit starts to show a shine.” “Good.” Joe looked in the mirror. It was a decent suit – grey, stylish lapels, thick enough for winter but not punishing for summer wear. “Of course, you guys sold me the last one, and probably said the same thing.” “Did you hear it from me? No. Hands down . . . thank you.” “I probably wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten the hairy eyeball from a hotel desk clerk in Ashtabula. Looked at me like I should be running around a ring kicking up sawdust and squirting the other clowns with a seltzer bottle.” “Ashtabula? Eh. I’ve been. They should put on such airs. You know, it’s a funny thing. I had a kid in here the other day, nice kid. In sales, like you. He says the boss gave him a stipend to buy a suit. He’s all pleased because he thinks it means he’s coming up in the company. Poor kid. Didn’t have the heart to tell him that money is probably coming out of your paycheck, and the boss is trying to make the kid look good so he doesn’t embarrass the company when he goes on calls. Not to say you did. Okay, we’re done.” He looked Joe square in the eye. “What line did you say you were in? None of my business, I just like to know.” Again the singing upstairs, this time exaggerated and theatrical: Tell me true, I stand here now, my fate is in your hand! Brother. “I sell matchbooks. Sell and design them.” “Matchbooks. Huh. I never thought of that. As a job, I mean." “I never think of a tailor until I rip my pants open,” Joe said. “Can I change now?” “Sure, sure. Take your time.” Joe closed the fitting room door and put his old suit back on. It felt comfortable and familiar, but just like every other time you try on new clothes, it somehow felt shabbier. You walked out of a tailor’s the same you looked walking in, but you felt like you looked a little worse. Same with cars. “STOP SINGIN’, FOR GOD's SAKE!” someone shouted. “HOW MANY TIMES?” Joe froze: what the hell? Everything was quiet on the other side of the fitting room door. He put on his shoes and went back into the store. A beefy man was standing at the bottom of the steps that led to the mezzanine, glaring up the stairs. “Told the man,” he said to himself, and he turned and walked to the back of the store. “What was that about?” Joe asked the tailor. He rolled his eyes. “It’s Mario Lanza, upstairs. The boss takes a dim view of people singing on his time. Figures it distracts from sewing. Like we sew with our lips. Okay, you want that on the 10 pay, or cash?” “Cash.” “Okay, cash. Thank you, it’s been a pleasure.” He handed Joe a matchbook. “This one of yours?” “Nope. Not bad, but I could do better. Maybe I could talk to your boss, pitch him a –“ “Save yourself the trouble. If he got ‘em, he got ‘em cheap, and if he got ‘em cheap he worked out a trade, and I guarantee you’re not going to change that arrangement with anything less than dynamite or a 75 percent markdown.” “Well, maybe you get your own shop some day, I can do matches for you.” “Sure. Sure. You get your own shop, I can do a suit in trade. Then neither of us will make a dime.” He grinned. “Pleasure doing business with you. Hope I’m here Monday when you stop back for the suit. I’ll sell you a tie.” “I don’t need a tie.” “I’ll sell you two.” Joe left the store, and headed towards his car. He sang softly to himself – no melody, no words, just random notes. You get your own shop, the tailor had said. Joe sat behind the wheel for five minutes, looking out the windshield. Then he turned the key and put the car in gear. Friday night, home again. He turned on the radio and sang along. He didn't know the words, but it hardly seemed to matter. ---- background info: here. And please note that the above is a work of fiction; any relation to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. |
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c. 2005 j. lileks