Line Them Up and Weigh Them All

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I walk from the dentist to the suit store. Only about eight or nine New York Blocks. Not a real bother at all, but I only make it to five or six before the growing pain in my back is so great that I have to stop and bend over just to pull at the ever tightening and cramping muscles. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me, but my back is going to be the death of me. Honestly.

I struggle the rest of the way  to the suit store and walk in, finding it deserted, except for one salesman, deep in the store, off in the corner, stuffing a sandwich into this face. When he saw me he raised his hand and mumbled that he would be right there. I roamed the store until he did appear. "Need anything?" He asks. Yeah, a black suit for a funeral. "What size are you?" I don't know. He walks me to a rack that he thinks is my size. Flipping through the suits there, he finds no black ones. "Hold on," he says and then disappears. I wait. This is going to be a helluva lot of fun.

Minutes later he returns with an arm load of suits. He goes through a couple and pulls out a snappy looking black one. He takes the jacket off the hangar and drapes it over my shoulders, allowing it to fall across my body. "How does it feel." It feels good, I nod. I feel the fabric, look at its patterns, check the inside lining. Perfect. I'm not one to shop. I normally can tell what I want in seconds, and when I have something as simple as getting a black suit, that's even easier than shopping, it's a no brainer.
   

He pulls the slacks off the hangar and slips the jacket off my shoulders. "Put these on," he says. I do. I entered the dressing room, which is little more than a fucking closet and come out with the suit on. It almost fits in the waist, but I don't want it taken in any. Then he marks the cuffs and then puts the vest on me. It's a little tight, but it'll do. Next comes the jacket and he marks the sleeves. "Take a look at yourself!" He says with a smile.

The man that walks up to the three way mirror is not me. It's a wheelbarrow with a black tablecloth draped over it. I stop in shock and awe at my bulbous reflection, so appalled was I that I stagger back from the mirror, my mouth agape. I turn to the salesman and tell him that I'll take his word that I look good in the suit. I needed to get out, to run away from my reflection. I removed the suit, paid the man, got a shirt and he stretched out four ties across the suit and shirt. I pick the tie instantly. That was one thing that I was very good at, and that was picking out ties to wear. At one time I had such a collection that I was immensely proud of. I called a group of them 'power ties' because they jumped out of the suit like wild cobras, they were so loud. But they got you noticed, especially in a board meeting, where you were pitted against other consultants and you needed to have your presentation stand out. I would always pick one of these ties because I held the client's gaze locked on me and what I was saying.

Well, I paid the man, and got my receipt and darted out of the store, happy to erase that image of me dressed in a black suit. I thought black was supposed to trim you down, but I can see that it doesn't. I take my depressed ass back home and head to the post office box. I'm hungering for more books, more books. I want them all. I have another four or five coming in the mail, but the mail is so slow. You can turn into an old man waiting for something to make it across the states.

But whatever.

Hobobob