haberdash

Walk into a men's clothing store - eh, meh, bleh.  Drowsy employees, dreary picking at clothes in the clearance section.

But walk into a nice men's clothing store with a serious intention to buy a couple of good suits and - zowie - the place springs to life.  The salesman that gets you turns on the charm, suggestions - surprisingly good ones - flow, and when he goes down to the storeroom to bring you your size, the other salesmen look at you a bit longingly.  Their eyes suggest "I would have taken such good care of you, you know?"  Which is probably all part of the play.  You know it's a play, but real too - you want a good suit, they want a commission.  It's the play of reality, the slicking of rails meant to carry real cargo.  The masculine compliments - "that looks nice on you," "the seat of those trousers don't need a thing," "I saw this down there and thought you'd like it."  And - whoa - the grey haired asian tailor in his beautiful tweed sportscoat, expertly marking alterations.  Playing his role too - the same basic compliments as the salesmen but in a quiet, almost priestly tone.  He half intones, half whispers, "it looks right."  And you half feel, half think: it is true - this suit on me is good.  The tailor has uttered it.  It all feels great - almost a congratulations for hard work and success.

Affluence, in moments like this, feels almost as good as a shoulder rub from a good friend.  Innocent?  For the moment, sure.  But one senses a snake in the garden.  Brooks Brothers has a line of suits called the "Golden Fleece" and I thought to myself - that's a rather brazen double entendre.