I asked for a suit for Christmas, among other things. Much better than a Christmas present, my dad gave me an old suit, without ceremony. And I'm being serious here. My uncle Ellis used to run a men's clothing store called Trumbo's. There was even a Trumbo building, right next to Blockbuster. That's prime real estate. Anyway, the suit my dad gave me has the Trumbo's label on the left inside pocket. Very cool.
I had to get it tailored; my dad is a few inches taller than me, and his suits are like big balloons. When I wear them, I feel like I'm working in an investment firm thirty years ago. But before I left for Custom Tailoring this morning, my mom caught my arm and said, "Be aware - the two women who run the tailor shop are not very nice." Are you afraid I'm going to fight them? "No, I just don't want your feeling to get hurt." Mom, I'm twenty one. I've been able to see PG-13 movies now for like four years. Girls can't hurt me - not since she left.
The two tailors are not quite grandmothers, but their waiting; they're the kind of women whose children have grown up and moved away, and they sew because it keeps them busy. One went to school with my relatives - there's an entire generation in Fayetteville who graduated high school with a Trumbo. My dad had four brothers, and they were all under a year apart. That is how I define hell.
The one who put the needles in my sleeve, Martha, worked without small talk. Our conversation was mostly about how comfortable I was, and her guessing at physical deformities. "Let me guess - one arm is shorter than the other. Am I right?" No. "You broke this leg as a kid. Right?" No. "This birthmark - you're royalty!" She was right about that one. I paid her to keep her quiet.
The only digression we had was when I described the fit I wanted - tight and modern. The woman at the desk, Sheryl, who was older, showed recognition and said that was how all the young men wanted it. What can I say - I follow. It all started with that one young man, she said. You know, the singer. He wears his suits very tight. All the boys want to be like him. Since I wouldn't see these women anywhere outside the shop, I decided to humor her and guess. I named a few celebrities who I thought dressed well, and she said no. He's hispanic, and very handsome. He sings that song, about the crazy life.
Ricky Martin? Yes. All the boys want to be like him.
Later, when I was getting dressed, Martha was running over my contact information and, on a whim, asked my major. "English," I said - never Creative Writing. Too many questions, too much incredulity - "and...Classical Studies?" No one ever knows this last one.
"Of course! So you've had Dr. Levine." He's my thesis advisor; I've taken several of his classes. "I had such a crush on Dr. Levine twenty years ago. I even changed my major for a month."
I made an appointment to get my other suit tailored next week. It doesn't need tailoring - I just want to hang out. Anyone who used to crush on Dr. Levine is okay in my book.
On my way out, I picked up my receipt (which spelled my name Kss, with no vowels, like I was an acronym and not a person) and Martha told me I had scoliosis. Nothing serious - a mild form, really - but I'd probably had it since childhood. That's the reason I walked funny. I left quite self conscious.
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