My husband Tom took a suit coat back to Norstroms last weekend to see if they could repair the damage done by his shredder. He had the coat over his arm while he emptied his pockets after work and leaned too close to the cross-cut shredder in his home office. The shredder was on automatic, so it reached out and grabbed the corner of his coat and shredded about an inch and a half of the left front bottom edge. Vincent, who had sold him the suit 6 months ago, is a tall, thin, impeccably groomed and suited, gray-haired gentleman. He has the quiet reserve of a butler, or maybe an undertaker. He listened to Tom's story of sartorial accident with only a raised eyebrow, but when Tom asked to have the coat shortened by an inch and a half, a small twitch of the lips gave away Vincent's true opinion. Vincent took the coat back to consult with the tailor, another exemplary gentleman. They both murmered about proportions and style, while trying their best to hide their smiles. Finally they agreed to see what could be done to salvage the poor coat. Vincent offered to sell my husband another suit - something in a 39 or 40 short, he thought. But Tom said he was waiting for a 40 extra-short.
So, of course, I thought of these lines from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
