I think I bought a suit when I was younger, or it may have been a rental, I don’t remember, but this feels like the first time. I’m not in a hurry, so I start with a tour of a few menswear departments, Bloomingdale’s, Saks, Barneys, just to get some ideas. Then I sit with my phone for a while in a coffee shop and scroll through the websites of various magazines, GQ, Esquire, Details, looking for advice, tips, the basic vocabulary I’ll need if I’m going to do this.
Within minutes I’m all over it – cuffs, vents, lapels, gorges, folds, quarters. I also search around to see if I can find out what – or who – Teddy Trager wears. He seems to go for a classic look, two-button, slim fit, charcoal grey or navy. No brand names are mentioned, but he has to be a Tom Ford or Brioni type of guy, I’m assuming. Anyway, by mid-afternoon I’m ready. I decide to take my chances with a small menswear place on 53rd Street that I come across on Yelp. It does off-the-rack and bespoke and gets a lot of five-star reviews. I go in and don’t pretend I know more than I do. There are two assistants, one older, probably in his sixties, but he’s on the phone, so I get the younger guy, which is fine. It’s stupid, but I feel intimidated by the atmosphere. I catch sight of myself in a couple of different full-length mirrors and realise how scruffy I look. But then . . . what does that matter? For all these guys know I could be a billionaire.
The young guy is attentive and knowledgeable. He takes my measurements, gets me to try on a few things, and then calls out a tailor from the back room, who adjusts, tugs, smooths, and before I know it I’m actually buying a suit. There are a few minor alterations needed, with the hems, which will take about two days. I’m impatient about this, but I want the damn thing to look right.
Oh, it will, the tailor reassures me, standing back, nodding his head, making all the right noises.
I have no doubt that whatever exorbitant amount of money I’m about to shell out here (money I don’t have), it’s only a fraction of what someone like Teddy Trager would be prepared to spend on a suit.
And of course that’s not all.
As I’m taking out my credit card (the only one I have left that works, thanks to Phil Coover), I hear myself asking about shirts, ties, and accessories.
When I’m outside again, on the sidewalk, I take another look at the credit-card receipt, and as I walk to the nearest subway stop, the number keeps turning over in my mind, continuously, as though on a loop . . . three thousand two hundred seventy-nine dollars, three thousand two hundred seventy-nine dollars, three thousand two hundred seventy-nine dollars.
Holy shit.
And that – it suddenly occurs to me – is without a proper pair of shoes.
A couple of days later, after I pick up the suit (plus two shirts, a tie, and a pair of cufflinks), I go to a place on Fifth for shoes (another four hundred bucks) and then take the whole lot home in a cab. Kate is in Brooklyn at some coding study group, a new thing she’s taken to doing. I hide the stuff under the bed, stand there like an idiot, and almost immediately take it all out again. I put on the suit, with one of the shirts and the tie. I go into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. The suit looks fabulous, but I feel very self-conscious in it. Maybe I need to shave and do something about my hair.
I usually only shave every three or four days. It’s a look, I suppose, and one that in my case is probably due more to laziness than anything else. I do a proper job of it now, though, and it definitely works better with the suit. But still, my hair . . .
I carefully fold and bag everything and put it under the bed. Then I head out to a barbershop I sometimes go to on Avenue A. When I’m in the chair, I’m not sure what to say, what instructions to give . . . a bit shorter, tidier, part on the right? Again, I’ll bet Trager pays a fortune for a haircut, and that he probably flies to Paris or Milan to get it done. Nevertheless, I come away with at least some approximation of his look. But only as I’m walking back up the stairs to the apartment does it occur to me that I’ll have to have a conversation about it with Kate.
She notices all right, but I wouldn’t exactly call it a conversation. She makes a face, does a weird thing with her eyebrows, and mumbles something. I’ll talk about your haircut, she seems to be saying, I’ll talk about anything, but you’ve got to talk to me first.
Fair enough . . . but where would I begin? I end up saying nothing.
The next morning, I shave again, and really take my time over it. I’m not sure what Kate’s exact plans are today, but when I come out of the bathroom I see that she’s already gone, with her laptop and a folder of notes – I’m guessing to Brooklyn again. I feel like this can’t go on, but I don’t know what to do about it. The worst part is that we’re caught in an economic rat trap. To put it at its baldest – and I’m not saying I want this to happen or anything, I don’t – but if we were to split up, and I were to leave . . . Kate would no longer be able to afford the already modest rent on the apartment, and she’d have to leave too. Her outstanding student loans would stymie her at every turn, and she’d probably end up living back with her folks, getting turned down for cashier jobs at the local Walmart. And fuck knows where I’d end up. So, whatever we do or think or feel now is polluted by this knowledge. It’s driving us apart and turning us both into liars. She can’t call me a coward for not standing up to Gideon, in case that drives me away, and I can’t tell her I’m now effectively dependent on Gideon, in case that drives her away.
It’s fucked up.
And doubly so if you count the fact that I’ve just spent our rent money for the next couple of months on new clothes that I don’t need. I mean, maybe I think I do, but I can’t tell Kate that. It’d be easier to tell her I spent the money on blow and tequila or lost it playing online poker.
I’m in a bad mood now. I take out the suit, put it on, go into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror for a few minutes, adjusting my hair, straightening the tie. I’m already frustrated, but when I try out the voice and do a couple of the gestures, I begin to feel really awkward.
Maybe I shouldn’t be doing it here.
Leaving the apartment is hard. I feel incredibly self-conscious, like a kid dressed up for his grandmother’s funeral, so the last thing I want is for someone I know to see me and start a conversation – anyone, the guy down the hall, the mailman, that lady from the nail salon next door who spends half her life taking cigarette breaks. But I keep going, and by the time I get to Union Square, and down onto the platform, I’m invisible, just a guy in a suit on his way to work.
I get out at 51st and Lex and wander for a bit. I steer clear of the general area around the Tyler Building at first – the risk of exposure, I decide, is too great. Of course, I wouldn’t know anyone there, but the potentially terrifying thing is that someone there might know – or think they know – me.
After a few minutes, I relax and start to enjoy it. There’s an undeniable thrill involved in this, an adrenalin kick from pretending to be someone else – or maybe it’s just from being dressed differently, I don’t know. But isn’t that a thing? You see it in the army. Put a uniform on a guy, and he changes, he puffs up, gets a little cocky. With this suit on, I find it’s like that, I’m walking with my chest out, not quite strutting, but . . . I catch my reflection in a store window and can imagine being that guy – a venture capitalist, a fund manager, a Teddy Trager.
But for how long? At what point do I either give up or decide that this simply isn’t enough? I’m not sure, but when I look around me now and realise how close I’m getting to the Tyler Building – circling the area, stealthily, like a predator – I have to concede that I probably have no intention of giving up at all. At the same time, the closer I get to Trager, to being in a position where I might bump into him on the street, the less confident I feel – the intense thrill of earlier giving way to a confused flush of anxiety.
The closest I get is to the fountain in front of the building next to the Tyler, the spot where I based myself on that first day. I sit on the edge of the fountain, phone in hand, and just . . . wait.
Thirty, thirty-five minutes pass, and nothing happens. I suspect that a part of me is almost relieved, but then I glance over and see Doug Shaw emerging from the revolving doors of the Tyler. My heart starts to race. I track him as he walks across the plaza. At one point he turns and looks in my direction. I could swear that our eyes meet, but at this distance it’s hard to tell. In any case, I have a nano-sized panic attack and look down at the ground. When I look up again, he’s gone.
Fuck.
But what would I have done? Gone over and spoken to him? The impossibility of this, the ridiculousness of it, strikes me now with considerable force. What do I think I’m doing? Not just here and now, but generally? My behaviour, the stalking, the suit, my attitude at work, the way I’ve been treating Kate? All along, as this has developed, I’ve had a growing sense that something in me is unhinged, or broken, and that feeling now surges through my body, stirring up concomitant feelings of shame and inadequacy.
I stand up from the edge of the fountain and move away. I cross Sixth and go south. The pace I’m walking at now is different, slower, more self-conscious. I’m reluctant to go home, but at the same time I can’t wait to change out of this suit.
Twenty minutes later, I’m on First Avenue, approaching 10th Street, for the most part staring down at the sidewalk in front of me. But then I look up. On the next block, coming in the opposite direction, coming towards me, is Kate, carrying her laptop case. After a second, she too looks up, and I’m pretty sure we make eye contact, but she doesn’t seem to recognise me. She doesn’t react at all. What she seems to do is stare right through me, as though I’m not even there. At the corner, she turns left onto Tenth. I turn right, and cross over. When I’m a few feet behind her, I call out her name.
Tensing immediately, she spins around. It takes her a second to focus, her face registering confusion, recognition, then shock. I’m aware, obviously, that I look different, but it’s only now that I realise just how different, and how weird this must be for her.
‘Danny . . . ?’
‘Hi.’
We’re standing there, facing each other, half a block from our building, from our bedroom, and it feels as if we’re total strangers.
‘Jesus—’
‘I had a job interview,’ I say quickly, ‘and I . . .’ This is horrible. ‘I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’
‘But—’
She doesn’t know what to say, torn between obvious incredulity and even more obvious irritation.
I stumble through some improvised details, saying it’s a front-of-house thing, sort of a . . . managerial position, in one of Barcadero’s sister restaurants, a new one opening soon . . . downtown. I can’t believe I’m saying this stuff, because it doesn’t add up, and Kate has to know that. I’m a kitchen guy, not FOH, I work prep, I work the line, I work with knives.
But she’s barely listening anyway.
It’s the suit. With her free hand, she takes the lapel of my jacket between her fingers and feels the material.
‘Holy shit,’ she says, ‘this is . . . what is it, cashmere?’
‘Yeah.’ I swallow. ‘And wool. Merino. It’s a mix. A guy at work lent it to me.’
She looks into my eyes, holds my gaze. I can tell that her mind is racing, that she might even be a little afraid and is no doubt asking herself . . . what kind of fucking PTSD is this?
‘Come on, Kate,’ I say, ‘let’s go. I want to get this damn thing off me.’
As we walk the half block to our building, go inside, collect the mail and make our way up to the fourth floor, the tension between us is palpable. The obvious thing would be for Kate to ask me how this supposed job interview went, but she can’t bring herself to do it.
I get the suit off, have a shower and change into normal clothes. As Kate chops up some fruit to put in the juicer, I sit at the table and open the mail. Most of it’s junk. One piece is a reminder from the debt-collection agency – another in the regular series that Kate has been receiving for over a year now.
I slide it across the table, so she’ll see it when she turns around. Which she does almost immediately. She picks the letter up, glances at it, then steps on the pedal of the trash can beside her, and drops the letter in.
Without saying a word, she goes back to her chopping.
I sigh. It’s deep, and audible, probably louder than I intended. It’s not directed at Kate in particular. I’m tired. I’m confused. It’s a sigh.
Clearly not how it sounds, though.
‘What?’ she says, turning around, knife up.
‘Nothing, I—’
Seeing me notice the knife, she rolls her eyes and puts it down.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘you’ve got a job now, this Barcadero thing. I can get something too, I’m trying, I’m out there.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘In fact, just today, I heard of a possible thing, part time to start with, but maybe more, it depends.’
‘Kate—’
‘I met with Harold Brunker again, and he was saying he could put in a word with some people he knows, movement people. There’s a website they run, and there could be an opening. It wouldn’t be much at first, but we could use the money.’ She pauses. ‘I mean, obviously we could. Right?’
Put in a word? What has she been saying to this guy?
‘Well, Danny, couldn’t we?’
I shift in the chair. Squirm, really. ‘Yeah, we could, sure, of course . . . but come on, Kate, a fucking website? Jesus Christ, what about your dreams? What about law school?’
‘I don’t know, Danny, what about it? I’m twenty-five years old and already drowning in debt. And why?’ She throws her arms up. ‘Because I took out a student loan in order to get a worthless degree from some shitty college no one’s ever heard of. That’s why. It’s a debt I can’t repay and that will always show up in credit checks. It’s a debt that ironically means I’ll probably never be able to get a decent job, certainly not one as a fucking lawyer, that’s for sure. So, I don’t know, working for people who want to change things, and make a difference? That actually sounds pretty okay to me. But working for people who want to make companies like Gideon Logistics accountable? To expose their hypocrisy? To make them bleed?’ She pauses. ‘I’m all over that, Danny. Bring it fucking on.’
I shift in the chair again. ‘But—’
She waits to hear whatever it is I’m going to say. The only problem is I’m waiting too.
After a while, I just shake my head.
Kate turns around, picks the knife up, and starts chopping again.
*
I’m due back at work the next morning, but I can’t bring myself to go in. I don’t even call in sick. I just don’t show up. And when my phone starts vibrating, I ignore it. Also, with no help from me, Kate eventually works out that I don’t appear to be going anywhere, so she gathers up her stuff – laptop, notes, phone – and heads out herself.
I stand in the emptiness of the apartment, but only for about ten minutes. As fast as I can, I put on the suit. I go down to the street and hail the first cab I see.
Fifty-seventh and Sixth.
The city passes in a quickening blur, its sounds merging into white noise.
I pay the driver, get out of the cab, and there, right in front of me, pulling into sudden and sharp focus, is the Tyler Building, this vast, refractive slab of crystal and gold. I step onto the plaza and walk across it. I hold my head up and make eye contact with anyone who cares to look my way.
And, as I’m approaching the entrance to the building, I hear a voice behind me.
‘Teddy?’
I don’t react.
‘Teddy?’
I can’t quite believe I’m hearing this.
I slow down and come to a complete stop. Then I turn around, ready for whatever weirdness is about to unfold.
Before me are two guys, one burly, one slim, both about forty. They’re both in suits which aren’t unlike mine but not quite as nice either. The burly guy has red hair and a pasty complexion.
‘Hey Teddy,’ he says, ‘that was so great yesterday. I just wanted to say.’
I swallow and nod at the same time.
‘I mean, man, you really crushed it with those guys.’ He laughs. ‘And I think you may have crushed their spirits too.’
‘Well, that’s possible,’ I say, acutely conscious of my voice now, but more worried about how I sound than what I might say. ‘It was never my intention, though.’
‘Oh, for sure. Of course. And listen, I can’t hear that stuff too many times, either, you know.’
The slim guy nods along, as if he’s agreeing, but then says, ‘Hear what?’
‘I told you,’ the burly guy says, trying to stifle his irritation. ‘That pitch meeting yesterday.’
‘Oh yeah, you said . . . don’t . . . what was it again, don’t . . .’
The burly guy looks at me now – half embarrassed by his friend, I think, and half fishing for permission to continue.
I shrug my assent, though it’s barely perceptible. We’re moving now, in any case, towards the revolving doors. One by one, we spin through them and into the lobby.
‘. . . it’s the baseline for any start-up,’ the burly guy is explaining. ‘Don’t go looking for a problem to tackle, because that way you’re already compromising the solution . . .’
‘Oh, that’s awesome,’ the slim guy says. He looks at me. ‘That’s awesome, Mr Trager.’
Just then, an older man passes us on his way out. He’s clearly in a hurry, but, as he goes by, he pats me lightly on the arm. ‘Teddy,’ he says, delivering the word softly, half in a whisper. Almost like an invocation.
I watch him slip out through the doors.
When I look back at the two guys, I become aware, for the first time, of where we are – inside a vast multi-storey atrium, a marble and brushed-steel echo chamber teeming with corporate execs. ‘You know what fellas,’ I say, suddenly feeling queasy, ‘you head on up . . . I’ve . . . I’ve just remembered something.’
I mumble this last part as I turn around. I go back through the revolving doors and straight out onto the plaza. Before I get to the sidewalk, I glance over my shoulder at the building. It’s not that I’m escaping or running away or anything.
I love this. I fucking love it.
The whole thing.
But I’m not an idiot. I know that if I want to pull this off properly, I need to be prepared.
I need to have some coherent shit to say.
I need to do more homework.