This afternoon, I picked up a shiny new suit from Brooks Brothers. After they re-cut the pants, hemmed the cuff, lifted the sleeves, and brought in the sides, it fits me like a…well, a tailored suit. The suit grants me über-confidence, remarkable powers of persuasion, super-human strength, movie star good looks, and x-ray vision. I am a better man for owning this garment.
The suit makes its world début from the Miss America Pageant next Monday in Las Vegas (Keryn’s doing, I swear). Program your TiVo / DVR for CMT and look for me in the balcony.
In the process of acquiring this suit, I learned one important lesson: the folks at Brooks Brothers are assholes and they will never get another dollar of business from me. (Here’s hoping their corporate people read this and comment).
For too many years to admit, I have wanted a real Brooks Brothers suit to replace the bargain basement ones in my closet, but I never had the money (and frankly, I don’t wear suits often enough to justify the expense). A few months back, though, while transitioning out of my prior job, I set about analyzing options for redeeming my Amex Membership Rewards Points before they cut my corporate card into wafer-thin strips. “Ooh,” I said, “here’s my chance to get that magical navy blue two-button suit!”
One day later, the gift cards arrived by UPS (which means Brooks Brothers got my/their money six months ago, the ungrateful bastards). Keryn and I finally made the shopping excursion the week after Christmas, just in time for their semi-annual sale.
It may have been busy that day, but there’s no excuse for letting us stand in the middle of the store with our hands raised like schoolchildren without so much as a someone-will-be-with-you-shortly wave. Gift cards burning holes in my pocket, fifty years of potential suit-shopping ahead of me, not a single salesman stopped by…
Bad move.
I took matters into my own hands. Picked out a suit and marched into the fitting room. The tailor tried to ignore me, but once we were the only men in the small mirrored room, he had little choice but approach me, tape measure in hand. He advise me to pick a bigger size and asked “who was helping you?” When I answered that nobody was, I don’t think he believed me. I could see in his eyes (remember, ye tailors, that you’re measuring us in front of a mirror—we can see your face) that he thought I was trying to cheat some hard-working man out of his commission.
Brooks Brothers should go ahead and write out that commission payment to me… PayPal preferred.
Let this be a lesson to all you readers in the market for a new suit. May I suggest your favorite department store instead?
Labels: Miscellany
You totally got the "Pretty Woman" on Rodeo Drive treatment, Shaffner. Commission fucks. That's what I love about Vegas --(and have a great time next week!) they're so money hungry they treat everyone like a king, hoping for that tip.
01-15-2007: Contacted first agent with my novel.
01-06-2007: Revamped home page launched!
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