Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories (30 page)

He was in one of his philosophical moods. The White Sox had dropped nine straight, and a losing streak like that usually brought out his fatalistic side. He leaned back in his chair, blew some smoke toward the ceiling and went on: “Yep. Too many guys settle for the first skirt that shows up. And regret it the rest of their lives.”

Ignoring the innuendo, my mother set the mashed potatoes down on the table and said, “Well, I think Wanda is a very nice girl. But then, what I think doesn't matter.”

My mother had the practiced turn of phrase of the veteran martyr, whose role in life is to suffer as publicly as possible.

“I gotta rent a summer formal,” I announced.

“Christ, you gonna wear one a' them monkey suits?” the old man chuckled. He had never, to my knowledge, worn anything more formal than a sports jacket in his entire life.

“I'm going down to that place on Hohman Avenue tomorrow with Schwartz and see about it.”

“Oh, boy! Lah-di-dah,” said my kid brother with
characteristically eloquent understatement. Like father, like son.

The next day, after school, Schwartz and I went downtown to a place we both had passed countless times in our daily meanderings. Hanging out over the street was the cutout of a tall, creamfaced man dressed to the nines in high silk hat, stiff starched shirt, swallow-tailed coat, striped morning trousers and an ivory-headed walking stick held with an easy grace by his dove-gray gloved hand. In red, sputtering neon script underneath:
AL'S SWANK FORMAL WEAR. RENTED BY THE DAY OR HOUR. FREE FITTINGS.

We climbed the narrow, dark wooden steps to the second floor. Within a red arrow painted on the wall were the words
SWANK FORMAL—TURN LEFT.

We went past a couple of dentists' offices and a door marked
BAIL BONDSMAN—FREEDOM FOR
you
DAY OR NIGHT.

“I wonder if Fred Astaire ever comes here,” Schwartz said.

“Oh, come on, Schwartz. This is serious!” I could feel excitement rising deep inside me. The prom, the engraved invitation, the summer formal; it was all starting to come together.

Al's Swank Formalwear turned out to be a small room with a yellow light bulb hanging from the ceiling, a couple of tall glass cases containing suits on hangers, a counter and a couple of smudgy full-length mirrors. Schwartz opened negotiations with a swarthy, bald, hawk-eyed, shirt-sleeved man behind the counter. Around his neck hung a yellow measuring tape. He wore a worn
vest with a half-dozen chalk pencils sticking out of the pocket.

“Uh … we'd like to … uh …” Schwartz began confidently

“OK, boys. Ya wanna make it big at the prom, am I right? Ya come to the right place. Ya goin to that hop out at Cherrywood, right?”

“Uh … yeah,” I replied.

“And ya wanna summah fawmal, right?”

“HEY, MORTY!” he shouted out. “HERE'S TWO MORE FOR THAT BASH AT CHERRYWOOD. I'D SAY ONE THIRTY-SIX SHAWT, ONE FAWTY REGULAH.” His practiced eye had immediately sized us correctly.

“COMIN' UP!” Morty's voice echoed from the bowels of the establishment

Humming to himself, Al began to pile and unpile boxes like we weren't even there. I looked around the room at the posters of various smartly turned out men of the world. One in particular, wearing a summer formal, had a striking resemblance to Cesar Romero, his distinguished gray sideburns and bronze face contrasting nicely with the snowy whiteness of his jacket

There was another picture, of Tony Martin, who was at that time at the peak of his movie career, usually portraying Arab princes who disguised themselves as beggars in order to make the scene at the market place. He was always falling in love with a slave girl who turned out to be a princess in disguise, played by Paulette
Goddard. Tony's roguish grin, somewhat flyspecked, showed that he was about to break into
Desert Song.

Schwartz was busily inspecting a collection of bow ties displayed under glass in one of the showcases.

“OK ON THE THIRTY-SIX SHAWT, AL, BUT I'M OUTA FAWTIES. HOW ‘BOUT THAT FAWTY-TWO REGULAH THAT JUST CAME BACK FROM THAT DAGO WEDDING?” shouted Morty from the back room.

“CUT THE TALK AN' BRING THE GOODS!” Al shouted back, straightening up, his face flushed.

“THE FAWTY-TWO AIN'T BEEN CLEANED YET!” came from the back room.

“BRING IT OUT, AWREADY1” barked Al. He turned to me.

“This suit just come in from anotha job. Don't worry about how it looks. We'll clean it up an' take it in so's it'll fit good.”

Morty emerged, a tall, thin, sad man in a gray smock, even balder than Al. He carried two suits on hangers, draped them over the counter, gave Al a dirty look and stalked back into the shadows.

“OK now, boys. First you.” Al nodded to Schwartz. “Take this and try it on behind the curtain. It should fit good. It's maybe a little long at the cuffs, but we'll take them up.”

Schwartz grabbed the hanger and scurried behind the green curtain. Al held up the other suit. In the middle of a dark reddish-brown stain that covered the entire right breast pocket was a neat little hole right through
the jacket. AI turned the hanger around and stuck his finger through the hole.

“HEY, MORTY!” he shouted.

“WHAT NOW?”

“HOW ‘BOUT THIS HOLE INNA FAWTY-TWO? CAN YA FIX IT BY TONIGHT?”

“WADDAYA WANT, MIRACLES?” Morty whined.

“Don't worry, kid. We can fix this up good as new. You'll never tell it ain't a new coat.”

Schwartz emerged from the fitting room shrouded in what looked like a parachute with sleeves.

“Perfect! Couldn't be bettuh!” shouted Al exultantly, darting from behind the counter. He grabbed Schwartz by the shoulders, spun him around and, with a single movement, ran his hand up into Schwartz' crotch, measured the inseam, spun him around again, made two pencil marks on the sleeves—which came almost to his finger tips—yanked up the collar, punched him smartly in the kidney, all the while murmuring in a hoarse stage whisper:

“It's made for you. Just perfect. Couldn't be bettuh. Perfect. Like tailormade.”

Schwartz smiled weakly throughout the ordeal.

“OK, kid, take it off. I'll have it ready for you next week.”

Obediently, Schwartz disappeared into the fitting room. Al turned to me. “Here, slip on this coat.” He held it out invitingly. I plunged my arms into its voluminous folds. I felt his iron grip on my shoulder blades
as he yanked me upward and spun me around, his appraising eye darting everywhere.

“Just perfect. Couldn't be bettuh. Fits like a glove. Take it in a little here; pull in the bias here….”

He took out his chalk and made a few marks on my back.

“OK. Slip outa it.”

Al again thrust his finger through the hole.

“Reweave it like new. An' doan worry ‘bout the stain; we'll get it out. Musta been some party. Here, try on these pants.”

He tossed a pair of midnight-blue trousers over the counter at me. Inside the hot little cubicle, as I changed into the pants, I stroked the broad black-velvet stripe that lined the outer seam. I was really in the big time now. They were rumpled, of course, and they smelled strongly of some spilled beverage, but they were truly magnificent. The waist came to just a shade below my armpits, beautifully pleated. Tossing the curtain aside, I sashayed out like Cary Grant.

“Stand up straight, kid,” Al breathed into my ear. An aromatic blast of pastrami and pickled herring made my head reel.

“Ah. Perfect. Just right. Put a little tuck in the waist, so.” He grabbed several yards of the seat. “And a little in here.” A sudden thrill of pain as he violently measured the inseam. Then it was all over.

“Now,” he said, back behind his counter once again, “how do ya see the shirts? You want 'em straight or
ruffled? Or pleated, maybe? Very smart.” He indicated several shirts on display in his grimy glass case. “I would recommend our Monte Carlo model, a real spiffy numbah.”

We both peered down at the shirts. The Monte Carlo number was, indeed, spiffy, its wide, stiff, V-cut collar arching over cascading ribbons of razor-sharp pleats.

“Boy, now that's a shirt!” Schwartz breathed excitedly.

“That what I want,” I said aloud. No other shirt would do.

“Me, too,” Schwartz seconded.

“OK now,” Al continued briskly, “how ‘bout studs?

Ya got em?”

“Uh what?”

He had caught me off guard. I had heard the word “stud” before, but never in a tailor shop.

“OK, I guess not. I'll throw 'em in. Because you're high-class customers. Now, I suppose ya wanna go first-class, right?”

Al directed this question at both of us, his face assuming a look of concerned forthrightness.

“Right?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Schwartz answered uncertainly for both of us.

“I knew that the minute you two walked in. Now, I'm gonna show you somepin that is exclusive with Al's Swank Formalwear.”

With an air of surreptitious mystery, he bent over, slid open a drawer and placed atop the counter an object that unfocused my eyes with its sheer kaleidoscopic brilliance.

“No place else in town can supply you with a genuwine Hollywood paisley cummabund. It's our trademark.”

I stared at the magnificent band of glowing, scintillating fabric, already seeing myself a total smash on the dance floor.

“It's only a buck extra. And worth five times the price. Adolphe Menjou always wears this model. How “bout it, men?”

We both agreed in unison. After all, you only live once.

“Of course, included for only half a dolla more is our fawmal bow tie and matchin' booteneer. I would suggest the maroon.”

“Sounds great,” I answered.

“Isn't that everything?” asked Schwartz with some concern.

“Is that all! You gotta be kiddin', sonny. How do you expect to trip the light fantastic without a pair a black patent-leatha dancin' pumps?”

“Dancin' what?” I asked.

“Shoes, shoes,” he explained irritably. “And we throw in the socks for nuttin'. How ‘bout it?”

“Well, uh….”

“Fine! So that's it, boys. I'll have everything all ready the day before the Prom. You'll really knock 'em dead.”

As we left, another loud argument broke out between Morty and Al. Their voices accompanied us down the long flight of narrow stairs and out into the street.

Step by step, in the ancient tradition, the tribal ritual was being acted out. The prom, which was now two weeks off, began to occupy our minds most of the waking
day. The semester had just about played itself out; our junior year was almost over. The trees and flowers were in blossom, great white clouds drifted across deep-blue skies and baseball practice was in full swing—but somehow, this spring was different from the rest. The prom was something that we had heard about since our earliest days. A kind of golden aura hung over the word itself. Every couple of days, the P.A. at school announced that the prom committee was meeting or requesting something.

There was only one thing wrong. As each day ticked inexorably by toward that magic night at the Cherry-wood Country Club, I still could not steel myself to actually seek out Daphne Bigelow and ask her the fatal question. Time and again, I spotted her in the halls, drifting by on gossamer wings, her radiant complexion casting a glow on all those around her, her brilliant smile lighting up the corners of 202 homeroom. But each time, I broke into a fevered sweat and chickened out at the last instant.

The weekend before the prom was sheer torture. Schwartz, always efficient and methodical, had already made all his plans. We sat on the back steps of my porch late Sunday afternoon, watching Lud Kissel next door struggle vainly to adjust the idling speed on his time-ravaged carburetor so that the family Nash didn't stall at 35 miles an hour. He had been drinking, of course, so it was quite a show.

“How ya doin' with Daphne Bigelow?” asked Schwartz sardonically, knowing full well the answer.

“Oh, that. I haven't had time to ask her,” I lied.

“Ya better get on the stick. There's only a week left.”

“Who
you
got lined up?” I asked, tossing a pebble at old Lud, who was now asleep under his running board.

“Clara Mae Mattingly,” Schwartz replied in a steady, expressionless voice.

I was surprised. Clara Mae was one of those shadowy, quiet girls who rarely were mentioned outside of honor rolls and stuff like that. She wore gold-rimmed glasses and still had pigtails.

“Yep,” Schwartz added smugly, gratified by my reaction.

“Boy, she sure can spell.” It was all I could think of to say that was good about her, other than the fact that she was female.

“Sure can,” Schwartz agreed. He, too, had been quite a speller in our grade school days; and on more than one occasion, Clara Mae had demolished him with a brilliant display of virtuosity in a school-wide spelldown, a form of verbal Indian wrestling now almost extinct but which at one time was a Waterloo for many of us among the unlettered. Clara Mae had actually once gone to the state final and had lost out to a gangly farm girl from downstate who apparently had nothing else to do down there but read
Websters
through the long winter nights.

“You gonna send her a corsage?” I asked.

“Already ordered it. At the Cupid Florist.” Schwartz' self-satisfaction was overflowing.

“An orchid?”

“Yep. Cost eight bucks.”

“Holy God! Eight bucks!” I was truly impressed.

“That includes a gold pin for it.”

Our conversation trailed off as Lud Kissel rose heavily to his knees and crawled off down the driveway on all fours, heading for the Bluebird Tavern, which was closed on Sundays. Lud always got restless in the spring.

A few hours later, after supper, I went out gloomily to water the lawn, a job that purportedly went toward earning my allowance, which had reached an all-time high that spring of three dollars a week. Fireflies played about the cottonwoods in the hazy twilight, but I was troubled. One week to go; less, now, because you couldn't count the day of the prom itself. In the drawer where I kept my socks and scout knife, buried deep in the back, were 24 one-dollar bills, which I had saved for the prom. Just as deep in my cowardly soul, I knew I could never ask Daphne Bigelow to be my date.