OK, how about this: Tom “English Cut” Mahon is giving away an old suit. No, not the shiny one, the blue one. It is, let me emphasize this, a lovely suit, and it would immediately become the favorite suit in my closet, no question. And he’s my size. Oh, not exactly, but the measurements are surprisingly close to those of Your Humble Blogger.
But ... it’s just not my style. He prefers his jackets straight, I like mine crooked. I like a little something in the shoulders (to give me the illusion of three dimensions); he doesn’t. The suit is blue; I never wear blue jackets (and have only one pair of blue trousers).
So if, unlikely as it is, I won his little essay contest and he gave me the suit, every time I wore it (which would be often and often) I would think ‘what a lovely suit, only ...’ Don’t get me wrong—I would love wearing it. And barring some change of financial circumstance not foreseeable at this juncture, I ain’t never buying a better suit. And I love suits.
You know how, when the lottery gets up into nine figures, and the lure of all that dead money gets too much, and you figure you can spend a few bucks on a dream, and then in order to get your money’s worth, you map out exactly how you would spend fifteen million a year? You know, this much put away in the savings, this much as seed money for the foundation, this much to pay off the debts, this much to buy a damn’ house already, this much for a racehorse for my father, this much for traveling, this much for a whole fucking closetful of suits. And, um, that last figure is ... well, let’s just say a fellah would be excused for mistaking it for the figure for the house.
Now, that’s never going to happen. I enjoy the little fantasy, and that’s what the dollar is for, but the truth is, I don’t want them enough to go out and work for the money to buy them. It turns out I’d rather spend my time with my Best Reader and my Perfect Non-Reader, and with you, Gentle Readers all, and with my library books and my mp3s, all the while wearing slightly irregular trousers, picked up for ten dollars at the Jos. A. Banks outlet.
But, really, do you think if I send him this note, he’ll give me a suit?
chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek,
-Vardibidian.
It’s hard to know what would convince him. But I suspect that your note would read as stressing the drawbacks in color and style too much. For those who know you, those emphasize the main point of how much fun it would be to actually wear the suit. (And I’m sure the term for that rhetorical device is out there somewhere.) But for a tailor who is used to providing his clients with a suit that is clearly Allah-offendingly perfect, I suspect it would create a nagging doubt. Particularly after reading his anecdote about a too-vocal wife of a client.
Good point. And, of course, it would be crazy to give me the suit, particularly after that fellow pointed out that the pants being cut high would work out really well for him, what with his being confined to a wheelchair and all. I mean. That’s scarcely fair, is it?
Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about the time on the crowded Red Line train, when I was wondering if it was right to suggest that the young blind woman give up her seat, since she couldn’t see the crippled nun who had just managed to get in through the doors?
Thanks,
-V.