LILEKS (James) Matchbooks

	Someone upstairs was singing. Something about a garden of roses. 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. “Mario Lanza,” the tailor said. “He sews, he sings. You get used to it. 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. “It’s been years,” 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. 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 grease monkey 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, that is." “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 a trip to the car lot if you don’t buy anything. Sometimes all it takes is a look at something better to make you tired of the things you like. The tailor was standing by the cash register, tape around his neck. He lit a cigarette with a Zippo. He looked up, saw Joe, looked at his lighter. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s okay. I buy my socks at Sears.” “Fair enough. You want that on the 10 pay, or cash?” “I’ll pay for it when it’s ready.” “That’s fine. Well. It’s been a pleasure.” He handed Joe a matchbook from a box by the register. “This one of yours?” “Nope.” He studied the back. “You guys have a union?” The tailor shrugged. “They meet once a month and complain. They vote to send fruitcakes to widows at the end of the year. Then they argue about which bakery to use. The dues are light, we never strike, and I get ten dollars a month when I retire. So call me a Wobblie. You?“ "There isn’t a union for what I do. Not enough of us, I guess. We use Union printers, though. Speaking of which – this isn’t a bad book, 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, humming. Maybe you get your own shop some day Joe sat behind the wheel for five minutes, looking out the windshield. Time to think about that again, wasn’t it. Brother, talk about loyalty. Why, I’d be stabbing the hand that feeds me in the back. Nah. Wait. You strike out now, what do you have? An office so small you can’t open a copy of Life without opening the window. A phone that doesn’t ring. Rent. Three man union, me myself and I. He couldn’t take the boss’ client list; it wasn’t his to take. He couldn’t get clients on the side while he worked for Midwest; you never felt right about things after you started with that. Nah. Wait. The house was free and clear, thanks to the nut he got from Dad’s estate. Give it a few years, take out a mortgage, ask the boss if he could go in on the shop. By then he’d be invaluable. By then he’d be forty. But I’ll be forty anyway. Wait. This isn’t so bad. You get paid to draw and people see your work. Van Gogh never had it so good. He turned the key and put the car in gear. Friday night, home again. He turned on the radio and hummed along. He didn't know the words, but the songs never seemed to care.

c. 2005 j. lileks