Clothes Make the Man
I went out on the terrace to get away from the gabbing cocktailers.
I sat down in a dark corner, stretched out my legs and sighed in complete boredom.
The terrace door opened again and a man reeled out of the noisome gaiety. He staggered to the railing and looked out over the city.
"Oh, my God," he said, running a palsied hand through his thin hair. He shook his head wearily and gazed at the light on top of the Empire State Building.
Then he turned with a groan and stumbled toward me. He tripped on my shoes and almost fell on his face.
"Uh-oh," he muttered, flopping into another chair. "You must excuse me, sir."
"Nothing," I said.
"May I beg your indulgence, sir?" he inquired.
I started to speak but he set out begging it immediately.
"Listen," he said, waving a fat finger. "Listen, I'm telling you a story that's impossible."
He bent forward in the dark and stared at me as best he could through martini-clouded eyes. Then he fell back on the chair, breathing steam whistles. He belched once.
"Listen now," he said. "Make no mistake. There are stranger things in heaven and earth and so on. You think I'm drunk. You're absolutely right. But why? You could never tell.
"My brother," he said, despairingly, "is no longer a man."
"End of story," I suggested.
"It all began a couple of months ago. He's publicity head for the Jenkins ad agency. Topnotch man.
"That is," he sobbed, "I mean to say . . . he was."
He mused quietly, "Topnotch man."
Out of his breast pocket he dragged a handkerchief and blew a trumpet call which made me writhe.
"They used to come to him," he recalled, "all of them. There he'd sit in his office with his hat on his head, his shiny shoes on the desk. Charlie! they'd scream, give us an idea. He'd turn his hat once around (called it his thinking cap) and say, Boys! Cut it this way. And out of his lips would pour the damnedest ideas you ever heard. What a man!"
At this point he goggled at the moon and blew his nose again.
"So?"
"What a man," he repeated. "Best in the business. Give him his hat-that was a gag, of course. We thought."
I sighed.
"He was a funny guy," said my narrator. "A funny guy."
"Ha," I said.
"He was a fashion plate. That's what he was. Suits had to be just right. Hats just right. Shoes, socks, everything custom made.
"Why, I remember once Charlie and his wife Miranda, the missus and me-we all drove out to the country. It was hot. I took off my suitcoat.
"But would he? No sir! Man isn't a man without his coat, says he.
"We went to this nice place with a stream and a grassy plot for sitting. It was awful hot. Miranda and my wife took off their shoes and waded in the water. I even joined them. But him! Ha!"
"Ha!"
"Not him," he said. "There I was, no shoes and socks, pants and shirt sleeves rolled up, wading like a kid. And up there, watching amused, was Charlie, still dressed to kill. We called him. Come on Charlie, off with the shoes!
"Oh, no. A man isn't a man without his shoes, he said. I couldn't even walk without them. This burned Miranda up. Half the time, she says, I don't know whether I'm married to a man or a wardrobe.
"That's the way he was," he sighed, "that's the way."
"End of story," I said.
"No," he said, his voice tingling; with horror I suppose.
"Now comes the terrible part," he said. "You know what I said about his clothes. Terrible fussy. Even his underwear had to be fitted."
"Mmm," I said.
"One day," he went on, his voice sinking to an awed murmur, "someone at the office took his hat for a gag.
"Charlie seemed to pretend he couldn't think. Hardly said a word. Just fumbled. Kept saying, hat, hat and staring out the window. I took him home.
"Miranda and I put him on the bed and while I was talking to her in the living room, we heard an awful thump. We ran into the bedroom.
"Charlie was crumpled up on the floor. We helped him up. His legs buckled under. What's wrong, we asked him. Shoes, shoes, he said. We sat him on the bed. He picked up his shoes. They fell out of his hands.
"Gloves, gloves, he said. We stared at him. Gloves! he shrieked. Miranda was scared.
She got him a pair and dropped them on his lap. He drew them on slowly and painfully. Then he bent over and put his shoes on.
"He got up and walked around the room as if he were testing his feet.
"Hat, he said and went to the closet. He stuck a hat on his head. And then-would you believe it?-he said, What the hell's the idea of taking me home? I've got work to do and I've got to fire the bastard who stole my hat. Back to the office he goes.