Mr. J.

They say that men, for the rest of their lives, dress the way they did in college.  That may or may not be true, but as for me,  I'm wearing the descendants of the gray flannels, blue blazers, and buttoned-down shirts that clothed me when I was an undergraduate.  So two years ago, at about this time of year, when I spotted one of the haberdasheries on Madison Avenue  that specialize in that style, I remembered I needed a sports jacket.  I walked in and was greeted by Mr. J.

Mr. J. was an old man beautifully dressed in a three-piece suit whose expert tailoring could not disguise the fact, that, like me, he had lost, to a bent back, several inches in height . When I told him that I would like a tweed sports jacket, he  ushered me to the rack of jackets containing my size. Alas, it was the end of the season, so the selection was limited, and none of the jackets I tried on appealed to me.

“Why don’t you consider a made-to-measure jacket?” Mr. J. inquired, leading me over to a large desk at the front of the store.  “Yeah, sure,” I said to myself, “but what the hell, it won’t hurt to look.”  How little I knew myself.  I sat down at the desk, and  examined one after another swatch of fabric, none of which excited me enough to make me willing to pay for a bespoke garment.  And then I saw it, a sumptuous, blue Harris tweed, and I fell in love.  “Well, why not?” I asked myself.  “You only live once."

Indefatigable and irrepressible, Mr. J. then suggested that I needed made-to-measure flannel trousers to accompany the jacket.  “What’s wrong with off the rack trousers?” I asked him feebly.  “They won’t be like these,” he answered. “They’ll be fully lined,” he continued, showing me one luxurious fabric after another.  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I told myself and so I found myself being measured for both a jacket and trousers.   Not content with these sales, Mr. J. then sold me suspenders, three bow ties, three silk squares, and a summer hat with a blue and red band.  The cost did not equal the national debt.  It only felt that way.

I returned for a second fitting, at which the location of the button holes as well as other niceties were to be determined.  I stood on a raised platform as the fitter fussed with his measurements.  In the three mirrors that arced around the platform, I looked at my reflection with profound satisfaction.  “Now I want you to come back here even if you only need a handkerchief,” Mr. J. told me when I took final possession of the jacket and trousers.  “Not on your life,” I said to myself, “not if I want to maintain my bank balance.” 

In fact, the jacket’s shoulders were too wide.  They were not the natural shoulders I wanted.  They were the shoulders of a line backer. Why hadn’t I seen it at the second fitting?  I guess the material so dazzled me that I refused to acknowledge what would have been plain to an uninfatuated eye.  As a result, for the past two years I’ve hardly worn that jacket.  “Take it back and ask that it be altered,” advised my sensible wife more than once.  

Finally, the other day, when I was walking up Madison Avenue on my way to an appointment, I ventured into the shop.  Surely Mr. J., who was 80 when he waited on me two years ago, would be retired by now, but no, there he was, still beautifully dressed, if even more stooped than before.  I asked him if I might bring back the jacket to have the shoulders adjusted.  “Of course,” he said, “just come on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, or Thursdays, when my fitter’s here.”  So I will.  But I have a terrible feeling that when I do, I will again succumb to the blandishments of beautiful fabrics and a superb salesman.  Well, nobody's perfect.

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