New Suit

           

The wedding was three weeks away, and the last day for procrastination had finally arrived, therefore it was time to drag my bones on a humiliating journey to the closet and check THE SUIT. This was the suit which had covered me for weddings, funerals and miscellaneous family gatherings for some time. I was never foppish by nature; it had served me well in less corpulent times. Not unlike Magellan’s journey, circumnavigation would be a challenge if the garment did not rip itself asunder long before that. As expected, the expedition was not successful and it was time to start shopping for a new suit.

Early the next morning I ushered out into the world, fully aware of the arduous task ahead. Pierre Cardin laughed in my face.

Perry Ellis would not make eye contact.

Barney was apologetic.

Vera simply threw her hands up, turning away in frustration, covering her face , and pointing towards the exit.

Paul Revlon said straight out, “there is nothing here for you!”

Joseph A Bank blocked the entrance to the store, waving his finger to and fro while exclaiming, “don’t waste your time!”

Michael Strahan diplomatically referred me to his old friend, so there I stood facing the

entrance to the SHAQUILLE O’NEILL BOUTIQUE. I pondered stepping over the saddle with reservations not knowing what my reception would be, possibly bounced out the door like a regulation NBA basketball.

A sudden flush of confidence or courage emboldened me to enter the store in spite of my past rejections. It was as if I was carried in by the well dressed spirits of Beau Brummell and Dapper Dan, lifting me up and through the massive wooden doorway of thick oak reinforced with strong cross bracing, making  one feel small and slight while entering into this sheltered safe haven from the cruel world of undernourished fashion icons, a bastion of comforting repose, protected from the gauntlet of polite, vain, affected, posturing, fashionable high society.

Inside, the walls were lined with tie and belt racks hanging down from seven feet aloft, their wares missing the floor. Dress shirts stood at attention on hangers to size 7XXXX, while dress shoes were moored like yachts in their cubbyholes. The carpets were of a plush magenta. Comfortable, wide, strong reinforced seats were dispersed throughout the store for those feeling fatigued. Well designed, the effect was that the men who entered here felt that they were part of a club, accepted  for who they were, not freaks, but normal people a few standard deviations from the mean, and packaged more generously.

Up ahead stood Shaquille O’Neill like a mountain, not unlike John Henry, The Steel Driving Man. His huge muscular chest, his bald head gleaming and shiny, he looked down on me as I gingerly entered the cavernous room. He smiled from ear to ear, indicative of his gregarious nature. Sensing my trepidation, he unfolded his hairy, tree trunk arms, opening them for a warm embrace, scooping me up as one would a small child. In a warm tone he bellowed, “welcome Jim, I have been waiting for you, and don’t worry there are no European cuts here!”

Shaquille deposited me in front of his squad of tailors who immediately went to work scaling short ladders measuring, chalking, tucking and pinning. I stood like Gulliver after his travels, tied up and tethered by this pit crew or the Scarecrow being  gussied up in The Emerald City. Next, the swarm disappeared to some hidden work area to do their magic, the  eventuality being a well fitted suit for a reasonable price. I thanked the tailors and Shaquille who shook my hand vigorously as it disappeared into his fist, my shoulder feeling as if it would dislodge from its socket.

Afterwards on returning home and hanging the suit in my closet, I noticed the label designating that at Shaquille’s Boutique, I was a Petite!

Everything is relative.

Jim L.

Jan. 2020