clockwork snaked out of a trouser pocket. Benedict was about thirty-five, but his clothes and accessories gave him the appearance of someone much younger whose confidence, grace, and abilities gave him the appearance of someone much older, about thirty-five.
“It’s too smart,” Benedict said at last, to Mr. Morton. “We don’t want anything this sophisticated. We don’t want him to look like some mastermind.”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Morton agreed.
“May I suggest gray flannel?” The salesman had a sweet, clear voice. He showed them the way with a grand sweep of his arm. “It’s versatile. It shows purpose. Many young men find it rather suitable.”
Gerard trailed, trying to keep his face out of the store’s mirrored landscape. He had seen enough of himself the day before at the hair stylist, where his long and straight brown hair had been replaced by some blown-dry coiffure that revealed a rash of pimples along the line of his jaw. His stringy mustache had been erased in
less than a minute. He thought the haircut highlighted his thick, bony nose and made him look even nastier, but he did not complain, for it was his own carelessness that had delivered him, virtually bound and gagged, into Benedict’s hands.
The salesman discovered a light gray single-breasted suit, European styled, he noted, to fit Gerard’s angular frame. He proudly showed them the roll of the lapels. Although it was clear that he would never select the first suit he was shown, Benedict rubbed the material between his fingers and said, “Let’s see how it fits him.”
Gerard obediently donned the jacket. Benedict studied it briefly and scowled, but sent him anyway to a dressing room to try on the trousers. Gerard was surprised when the store’s elegance ended at a swinging shuttered door: down a linoleumed corridor was a tiny cubicle with a single loose hook on the wall. The faded carpeting was littered with small papers, staples, and plastic clips. Life. You passed through one facade after another.
He checked the suit’s tag, an anemically inked card rectangularly perforated to make it legible to a machine, and it took a few moments for him to pick out the price from among the other numbers on it. Inspection at last revealed the suit cost $999, eliciting a snorted, strained laugh from the youth, who would have guessed three hundred dollars was very expensive. And then a thrilled chill ascended from his belly to his chest, numbing his diaphragm. He missed a breath. The price tag was yet another indication that he was in big, big trouble.
His immediate problems, however, were merely ones
of mortal annoyance. The trousers’ unhemmed legs trailed on the floor. To wear them with his shoes—actually, they were his father’s old black oxfords; footwear was next on Benedict’s agenda—he had to roll them up. Walking through the store, he looked as if he were about to go clamming.
“No, it’s too old,” Benedict told Gerard’s father. “We have to use his youth. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a nice suit. I’d like you in it. You’re a successful businessman. That’s the last thing, however, we want it to do for him.”
Mr. Morton nodded his head with great seriousness, acknowledging the compliment. Then, disgusted, he reached over and roughly unfastened the bottom button of the jacket, which Gerard had absentmindedly closed while thinking of his shoes. “Goddammit. Act like an adult.”
“How’s the fit?” the salesman asked him.
“It’s sort of like Macy’s ballroom.”
The salesman didn’t respond. After waiting in vain for another taker, Gerard answered on his own: “There isn’t any.”
No one laughed, the sons of bitches. Macy’s didn’t have a ballroom. If his father, the guy with the dough, had told the joke, Benedict and the salesman would have been rolling on the floor. In fact, it was his father’s joke. Gerard had heard it from him ages ago. Anyway, the pants fit all right.
The three other men
“It’s too smart,” Benedict said at last, to Mr. Morton. “We don’t want anything this sophisticated. We don’t want him to look like some mastermind.”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Morton agreed.
“May I suggest gray flannel?” The salesman had a sweet, clear voice. He showed them the way with a grand sweep of his arm. “It’s versatile. It shows purpose. Many young men find it rather suitable.”
Gerard trailed, trying to keep his face out of the store’s mirrored landscape. He had seen enough of himself the day before at the hair stylist, where his long and straight brown hair had been replaced by some blown-dry coiffure that revealed a rash of pimples along the line of his jaw. His stringy mustache had been erased in
less than a minute. He thought the haircut highlighted his thick, bony nose and made him look even nastier, but he did not complain, for it was his own carelessness that had delivered him, virtually bound and gagged, into Benedict’s hands.
The salesman discovered a light gray single-breasted suit, European styled, he noted, to fit Gerard’s angular frame. He proudly showed them the roll of the lapels. Although it was clear that he would never select the first suit he was shown, Benedict rubbed the material between his fingers and said, “Let’s see how it fits him.”
Gerard obediently donned the jacket. Benedict studied it briefly and scowled, but sent him anyway to a dressing room to try on the trousers. Gerard was surprised when the store’s elegance ended at a swinging shuttered door: down a linoleumed corridor was a tiny cubicle with a single loose hook on the wall. The faded carpeting was littered with small papers, staples, and plastic clips. Life. You passed through one facade after another.
He checked the suit’s tag, an anemically inked card rectangularly perforated to make it legible to a machine, and it took a few moments for him to pick out the price from among the other numbers on it. Inspection at last revealed the suit cost $999, eliciting a snorted, strained laugh from the youth, who would have guessed three hundred dollars was very expensive. And then a thrilled chill ascended from his belly to his chest, numbing his diaphragm. He missed a breath. The price tag was yet another indication that he was in big, big trouble.
His immediate problems, however, were merely ones
of mortal annoyance. The trousers’ unhemmed legs trailed on the floor. To wear them with his shoes—actually, they were his father’s old black oxfords; footwear was next on Benedict’s agenda—he had to roll them up. Walking through the store, he looked as if he were about to go clamming.
“No, it’s too old,” Benedict told Gerard’s father. “We have to use his youth. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a nice suit. I’d like you in it. You’re a successful businessman. That’s the last thing, however, we want it to do for him.”
Mr. Morton nodded his head with great seriousness, acknowledging the compliment. Then, disgusted, he reached over and roughly unfastened the bottom button of the jacket, which Gerard had absentmindedly closed while thinking of his shoes. “Goddammit. Act like an adult.”
“How’s the fit?” the salesman asked him.
“It’s sort of like Macy’s ballroom.”
The salesman didn’t respond. After waiting in vain for another taker, Gerard answered on his own: “There isn’t any.”
No one laughed, the sons of bitches. Macy’s didn’t have a ballroom. If his father, the guy with the dough, had told the joke, Benedict and the salesman would have been rolling on the floor. In fact, it was his father’s joke. Gerard had heard it from him ages ago. Anyway, the pants fit all right.
The three other men
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