“Well Officer, the man you are looking for is a 50 year-old-ish white man about mid-height, with a slight, scrawny build. He was wearing a shirt and tie and a well-fitting suit, however his trousers did seem to be a little on the short side.
Facially, he has sharp, not unattractive features (7 out of 10, on-a-good-day), prescription spectacles that sat on a bigger than average, angular nose. Mousey-blonde-going-grey unruly, thinning hair, worn in a style that would perhaps be more suitable on one of the members of Duran Duran. Oh yes, his accent, it was British, as were his tombstone-like teeth.”
So, now that we have that out of the way, I shall begin.
I was alone in the store one afternoon, when two gentleman came in enquiring as to whether or not we made custom pants.
The main enquirer was unmistakably a body-builder and it looked like he had just come from the gym. He was dressed in very baggy sweatpants and a loose fitting (almost shirtless) singlet. I told them that we did indeed make custom trousers. There followed a little bit of my usual preamble about us, the approximate time-frame and a ball park figure of the cost.
All seemed agreeable and he expressed a need to do "custom" due to the physical manifestations resulting from his diligent work-out routine.
I explained that I understood and that an appointment would be best, as I would like him to come back when my wife would be in the store, as she took all the measurements and that her skill set was going to be needed for his specific body type.
He told me his name was Dave and that the gentleman accompanying him was Robert, his husband.
We confirmed an appointment for the same time the next day and I asked that he bring some closer fitting trousers so that Betty could get a better idea of his true physique, thus ensuring accurate measurements could to be taken.
This was pre-iPhone days so it was customary for us to write down forthcoming appointments in our desk diary. If it were a new client, the name was usually accompanied by a brief description of the person as we found that it helped us identify them quickly and greet them by name when they came in. Always a good start in our book.
But in this case, I just wrote “Dave”.
Later that afternoon, Betty saw the diary and asked, “Who’s Dave?” I explained he was a potential trouser client and that he was easily identifiable by the following characteristics:
Extremely ripped body builder, mid-thirties, buzz-cut blonde hair with theatrical mannerisms. Also highly distinguishable as a person with albinism and quite severe exotropia in one eye.
Exotropia is the condition that causes the eye to turn outward.
The following day, Betty immediately recognized Dave as he bounded into the store, alone this time. We greeted him warmly and after a little pleasantries and small talk, we all agreed on two fabrics choices that would be suitable for multiple purposes.
The exotropia made things slightly tricky as he had to contort his head sideways to look closely at the fabric swatches, which was a little surprising at first, but the conversation flowed well and we knew it was our job to make him feel relaxed and at ease.
Excited with his choices, Dave seemed to be enjoying the process and all the attention. His theatrical mannerisms shifted up a gear as the formal measuring process began and he bounded off to the changing room to put on his own dress trousers.
He emerged confidently, albeit topless, asking if we had a shirt that he could borrow. He was in incredible shape, a mass of flexed muscle that he was obviously very proud of.
It turned out his initial shirtless reveal had diverted our attention from yet another highly impressive physical attribute this man possessed. It soon became evident to us the true reason he needed custom tailoring, for as he emerged the second time and stood before us in his own tightly fitted dress pants, there for all the to all the world to see, like a caged mammal in an exotic pet store, was what appeared to be an absolutely enormous penis.
Dave was no doubt quite used to the effect his friend was causing and gave me a knowing glance.
Ever the professional, Betty measured all three legs and spoke to him, quite matter-of-factly, about the task at hand and how best to address his unique, personal needs.
Dave left the store delighted, presumably knowing that he had certainly given us something to talk about. (Or as it would seem, even write about many years later.)
Later that day, Betty debriefed our tailor on the project. The conversation sounded more like a site manager briefing a contractor on a building site. Our tailor was experienced in such matters and advised on a couple of tailoring tricks that would be useful under these circumstances.
A few weeks later, Dave returned for his fitting and we proudly presented him with the highly flattering custom trousers our tailor had made. He was thrilled with his commission and left the store positively skipping, or possibly pole vaulting.
It felt good to have helped him out and we hoped that from that day forward, this delightful and highly unique man would perhaps add one more descriptor to his list: Dave, the guy with the nicely fitting trousers.
Over the years, Dave had not been the only owner of an oversized organ that Betty had had to navigate during her many trouser fittings. And whilst he definitely held the champion's belt, one other gentleman also comes to mind.
By contrast, he was a rather ordinary, middle-aged gentleman.
He was having a blazer made with us and during his first fitting I mentioned that he could do with a pair of trimmer, better fitting trousers, as his new "tailored" blazer was highlighting the fact that his current trousers seemed way-too generous in the “family jewels” department, giving the impression that he was a lot heavier-set than he actually was.
“I’d love to,” he said, “but I find it very difficult to get trousers that fit in that area.”
Betty knowingly reassured him that she was more experienced in that matter than she’d like to admit and that our tailor knew what to do, to which he replied that whilst that was very comforting to know, he was unfortunately “big in the wrong area”.
“Big balls?” I enquired rather candidly. (I always thought it best to confront the elephant in the room, so to speak.) “Afraid so.” he replied and then went on to quite comically explain that his offending “two veg” were not even marginally out of proportion and that their size was made worse by a seemingly smaller-than-average “meat” department.
I’m pleased to say that once again we triumphed and delivered a pair of beautifully tailored, highly flattering trousers.
I actually can’t remember his name, but I’m guessing that he’s probably listed in the desk diary somewhere with the descriptor:
I was sitting at the main desk in the middle of the store waiting for closing time, when the doorbell rang. Our entrance hall was quite long, about 30 ft, and without my glasses on, anyone entering was ever-so-slightly blurred.
I always tried to make our arrivals feel welcome with a warm greeting, and ever the consummate professional, I made it my goal to recognize regulars, or even previous visitors. People love to be recognized.
On this particular occasion, despite the blur, I felt like I recognized the two gentlemen making what can only be described as a theatrical entrance. But when I say “recognized”, I knew I had seen them before, but couldn’t quite place who they were.
I realized quickly the reason I recognized them: I was in the company of fame.
In contrast to the dark winter's night, our famed guests were both draped from head to toe in in ivory, beige and light tan. A sure tell-tale sign that these gentlemen were not New Yorkers, who only ever wear dark colors in winter.
Long flowing coats of sumptuous cashmere and silk seemed to carry them down the hall as if they were floating.
Placed atop the cream creations were the quaffed, bouffant heads of two senior gentlemen with suntans that looked not only out of place in January, but of the current decade. They made George Hamilton look positively anemic.
They were accompanied by another familiar face, although this was a guy I’d met a couple of times in the neighborhood. He was very good looking and apparently was a model. By contrast, he wore dark Manhattan-appropriate clothing. Despite his youthful good looks, he almost disappeared in their presence.
My model acquaintance, with an air of casual familiarity, told me he was showing his friends around town. It was now clear to me that they were indeed famous, but the combination of my professionalism and lack of popular culture references was were beginning to frustrate me. Then it clicked.
The more tanned (if that were humanly possible) of the two was none other than fashion legend Valentino. The other gentleman was his longtime partner and business manager, Giancarlo Giammetti.
Trying not to show my excitement, I excused myself for a moment and went to get Betty from the back office. Having studied fashion at London’s Central Saint Martins College, Betty had always admired Valentino’s work and I knew that she’d love to meet him.
I stuck my head into the back office and instead of calmly telling her who was in the store, I was now “panic-miming”. Even though I knew who they were, my brain had gone into “mush-mode” and I simply could not remember Valentino’s name.
We had only recently watched the film “The Last Emperor”, a fly-on-the-wall documentary about Valentino’s final fashion show, and so in my frenetic half-mime, half-village idiot babble, all I managed to blurt out was “The Emperor, fashion guy, you know, pug dogs??? Video last week! He’s here!!! Come out!”
Fortunately after many years of marriage, Betty deciphered every word I was attempting to say and asked “Valentino?”.
She calmly left her desk and entered the store. “Hello, my name is Betty, it’s an honor to meet you Sir, welcome to Lord Willy’s.” she announced as she confidently walked up to The Emperor with her hand outstretched. They shook hands and the atmosphere immediately resumed its normal service of elegant gentleman’s haberdashery.
Both Valentino and Giancarlo began looking at our offerings in a manner that you’d expect from such industry veterans. The word “bellissimo” could be heard coming from Valentino’s mouth on several occasions, which filled us both with great pride.
The clothes had so impressed our guests that Giancarlo now decided that he would like to try on one of our blazers. They mentioned they were hosting an Oscar party and that he needed something new.
Not one, but two blazers seemed to be in the running, a pale beige (of course) and a classic navy, both with our signature grosgrain trim. After a short discussion between the two of them, and with a few more “bellisimo’s”, Giancarlo simply said, “We’ll take these two”.
What an honor!
Alterations were going to be required and so Betty and Giancarlo began fitting the pieces, while Valentino chose to make himself comfortable and sat down.
Shortly after doing so, our shop dog, Bailey, a high-energy, slightly-nutty Jack Russell, presented The Emperor with a smelly old dog toy that she insisted he entertain her with.
Having seen in the documentary that Valentino loves dogs (he has 6 pugs), I felt relaxed about Bailey’s insistent demand for a game of “tug-of-war” and it made it easier to make small talk with him.
He was pretty much how you might imagine. A man who had spent his life surrounded by beautiful things and adored by many. He carried himself with all the majesty of a man who had absolutely nothing to prove to anyone.
I can’t really remember what we discussed, but in between Bailey growling and badgering him to grab the now soggy dog toy, somehow the discussion of skiing came up.
Their guide, the model, was standing nearby, he was wearing a black Moncler, puffer-type, jacket. Valentino looked at him, and tutted.
“I do not understand Moncler, why is everything black?” he said, “When I ski, I wear red! I wear yellow!” He exclaimed. Of course you do I thought as images of 1970’s St. Moritz ran through my mind.
Fitting complete, the jackets were purchased and an address, where they wanted the items to be delivered (within 24 hours), was provided. Courteous handshakes proceeded, I think I might have even bowed. And then, as magically as they had arrived, they floated out of the store and into the darkness of night.
It was only after they had left that I told Betty of the near disastrous blunder I had nearly made when our esteemed guests had first arrived.
The truth was when I first saw the two of them, I was so “blurry-eyed” and keen to address their fame, I genuinely thought they were “Siegfried and Roy”.
Worse still, in an attempt to break the ice, I was all set to make an incredibly lame joke and ask “How’s the tigers?”, a greeting I’m pretty sure would not have elicited many “bellisimo’s!”, let alone any purchases.
Having not learned my lesson, a similar blunder was only just avoided a couple of years later when an another gentleman came in. He also looked equally out of place in New York City, but with no grandeur this time.
He was dressed more like a “bike-less” Hells Angel and talked loudly with a Southern, raspy drawl. “You make tails?” he almost bellowed. Before I could even address his seemingly bizarre request, he dropped to the floor and began playing excitedly with Bailey, who yet again had decided that a game of “tuggy” was well overdue.
All interest in his initial request vanished as he continued playing as manically as Bailey. Loud growls and a lot over-excitability (not just from Bailey this time) were beginning to disrupt the elegant ambiance of the store. It crossed my mind that it might be best to ask him, politely of course, to leave; then I realized he was Don Johnson.
I really need to get new glasses.
]]>Mainly because we did everything in our power to make an item as good as it could possibly be, but also because we realized quickly that it seemed to be a certain type of person that was going to have an issue of some kind or another and we became pretty good at spotting them.
If we did spot them, we then did our best to discourage them from shopping with us, which was very amusing to watch. “What do you mean you won’t make me a suit?”, “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t think we will be able to make you a suit that we are both happy with.”
Sometimes however, they were unavoidable.
On this occasion, a nice enough guy in his late twenties, quite humble and fairly middle-of-the-road in appearance, who had bought a few ready-to-wear pieces from us over the years, informed us that he had met his future wife online, that they were to have a beach wedding on the beautiful island of St. Barts and that he wanted us to design and make something special for the occasion.
He’d always paid with a Black Centurion Amex Card, which always surprised me as the usual bearers of those particular cards at the time tended to be more seasoned or less humble characters, but the fact that he had the means to carry one meant that he was obviously doing very nicely in his finance-related career.
Aside from creating something for his big day he also wanted us to make something for his father, who he said usually shopped at Brioni, the incredibly expensive Italian brand usually frequented by New York’s “old school lawyers” and Russian billionaires.
The design process for our client's outfit was simple enough. His incredibly glamorous fiancé had good taste, although she was quite opinionated, but she loved what we presented. We had listened to her brief and the outfit was to complement their color scheme of lilacs and purples.
Our client informed us that he would be bringing his father down later that week to meet us and that apparently Snr. was looking forward to us creating something a little different for him and that he was thinking about an ivory blazer.
Sure enough, father and son arrived one evening to discuss. The atmosphere was immediately less fun than it had been with the fiancé and it was pretty clear that father, a bombastic, self-assured New York City lawyer, was amused by his sons choice of tailor, but wanted us all to know that he could afford better and usually did so.
It was also very clear that despite his son's apparent success in finance, he had not lived up to his father's high standards and he took every opportunity to belittle him in front of us. Very unpleasant to witness and even more unpleasant for the son to endure on what was meant to be his turf.
The “red flags” were everywhere, but over the years, we had learned how to navigate all types of people and we usually knew how to win them over. We found that a good glass of Scotch usually helped the bonding process and in this case it seemed to work wonders.
A cream, lightweight fabric was selected and his son encouraged him to include some of our more playful details that were a signature of ours that would make this piece a little more special than the clothes he typically bought at Brioni. After all, it was his son's wedding and he wanted to be in charge of the aesthetics.
It was on his second or third glass of Scotch that Snr. declared that “This store really is very beautiful, you know, I’ve always fantasized about having my own haberdashery.”. We were a little surprised he thought running an establishment such as ours was so easy, but we were pleased to be winning him over and thought we may even convert him into a future client.
The second fitting came around and again he seemed to really enjoy not just the setting, the conversation, the Scotch, but also how nicely the piece was coming along.
We had instructed our tailor that the cut should be more on the conservative side, he was a big man and we knew that Brioni famously allowed its patrons a more “generous” fit, but he was liking the way he saw our other pieces in the store and in fact his son's jacket and asked if his piece could also be a little closer, “of course, that’s actually how we prefer to cut” Betty replied and she pinned it accordingly.
Very pleased with how things were progressing, it was all hugs and kisses as he left and was excited to schedule a time in a couple of weeks to come and pick-up.
With just a few days to go before the wedding, the lovebirds turned up to pick-up his outfit. They were ecstatic. He looked great and even the fiancé, who was well-used to being the belle of the ball, was a little surprised at the transformation.
He informed us that his father would be coming soon, but that he needed to get going as they had a lot of running around to do. He hurriedly settled his balance and almost seemed to run out of the door. A little strange we thought, but we saw grooms getting a little overwhelmed all the time as the big day got ever nearer.
Shortly after Jr. had left, father arrived. Kisses and hugs were again in abundance and there was of course a glass of Scotch on hand to keep the mood celebratory.
We brought out the impeccably tailored white jacket. Our tailor had done an incredible job. From the matching grosgrain detailing on the cuffs to the beautiful white mother of pearl buttons, it was truly a piece of art.
He looked astounded. He removed his big baggy suit jacket and we helped him into this majestic creation.
As the jacket found its place on his shoulders, I watched as his face, expecting to see a look of joy that I was commonly used to seeing as someone put on their tailored piece for the first time. But this one was different, he began to swell and suddenly took on the appearance of a hemorrhoid on an elephants backside. He was incredibly angry.
“I can’t possibly wear this!” he bellowed, “It’s too tight, it’s too short, it looks ridiculous!”.
It didn’t, it looked stunning. It was stunning.
Betty tried to calm the situation down and said that we could let it out a little, but that this was how it had been requested at the fitting a couple of weeks earlier.
I could see that the “New York City lawyer” had now fully overtaken this man's personality and that there was no way he was being told that he had requested it or that it was nothing other than a complete waste of his valuable time.
Very unlike me, I instantly said, “Not to worry, we will just refund you.”
Expecting a big argument/trial he was a little surprised at how quickly we had calmed the situation down and he begrudgingly handed me his credit card to refund (Black Amex, of course).
As soon as I finished the transaction, he had his suit jacket on and was stomping out of the store, no doubt cursing his son for yet another failure on his part.
No hugs and kisses this time.
A little shocked from the outcome of what we were expecting to be another convert, we sat down for a moment to rewind what had just occurred.
As we did so, the store phone rang, it was his son. I explained what had just happened and he rather timidly said “I’m so sorry about that, he always does this.” I was more angry at the son who had brought this opinionated bully into our fine establishment, but I soon realized that this poor boy had spent a lifetime being humiliated by his father and even at his own wedding, it was clear that he was not to be the man of the day.
We never saw either of them again. But thankfully, that’s not where the story ends.
As I have mentioned, cases of refunds for custom pieces were almost non-existent for us, but there had been a couple. Those pieces went to the back store room in the hope that one day we might be able to find a suitable candidate to sell them to and recoup our losses, but Betty and I both knew that this one was going to be a problem. Not only was this jacket made specifically to fit a large, irregular sized, bloated man, it was also white!
Over the years, the white jacket had become an in-store joke and I would occasionally emerge from the back room looking like a cross between an Ice Cream Man and Tom Hanks from the movie Big.
It always made us laugh, although I’m not sure at who’s expense, as I wondered, would I ever find someone to buy it?
Fast forward to a winters evening, several years later. It was a Saturday, just before closing and already dark outside when a rather animated gentleman in his early fifties came bounding into the store.
He didn’t look like our typical type of client, but in the world of online reviews I have learned never to judge and everyone gets my full attention and as much charm as I can muster at that particular time.
He was looking hastily at our blazer collection, but obviously was not seeing what he was looking for. “You have any seersucker in my size?” he asked. “I’m afraid not,” I replied “our summer collection isn’t in store for a couple of months and to be honest, I’m not sure our ready to wear pieces are going to fit you.”. He looked like he was probably about a 46R, but it was hard to tell as the combination of what he was wearing and his frenetic energy was throwing me off my game a bit.
He came straight over to me and began to launch into a story about how he needed to go to a big presentation in Alabama next week where his family was being honored for a big charitable contribution and that he needed to “look the part”. He also added that he didn’t even own a jacket.
He was a real character and had a way of talking that was part mad, part wonderful and always demanded full eye contact.
“You don’t have anything?” he almost pleaded. “I’m sorry,” I said, “if we’d had more time I could have made you something custom, but we can’t do anything in a week”.
As I said those last words, I suddenly had a flash of inspiration. I was famous within the store for selling just about anything. If something was in the backroom, it was like a thorn in my side, I had to sell it to someone, somehow.
“Hang on one second,” I said, “this is a long-shot, but hey, it’s worth a try”. I swiftly disappeared to the storeroom where hanging next to a couple of other orphan garments was the white jacket. It had been there that long that the plastic cover was beginning to disintegrate.
When I returned to the store, our new friend was deep in conversation with my manager and hardly even seemed to remember what he had come in for.
I managed to get his attention, which wasn’t easy, but as soon as I had, his eyes were locked on mine again as I explained that this probably won’t even fit, so rather than put him in front of the mirror, I’d just like to see him in it first. “Okay” he said, nodding enthusiastically.
Without taking his eyes off me, he hastily removed several items of winter clothing, leaving him in just a t-shirt as I took the jacket off the carrier and proceeded to help him on with the piece.
The jacket was now in place and I stood back to look at the fit. I couldn’t believe it. It was a perfect. Not just close, perfect!
I looked at him and expressed my joy. I said that he should go take a look at himself over in the full length mirror to which he replied, still with eyes locked on mine, “Do you like it?”, I said I did, “Then I’ll take it.” he said.
“You really should go take a look” I said, “No, I don’t need to, if you like it, I’m good” he said.
Shocked at not only his trust, but also the fit, I said that this was indeed his lucky day. That the jacket should have been $3,500, but that he could have it for $1,500 cash.
“Done!” he exclaimed and proceeded to pull out a bunch of hundred dollar notes that miraculously seemed to be exactly $1,500.
I was as giddy as he was by this point as we bagged up his new jacket and he asked for my email so that he could send me a picture next week.
We laughed, we shook hands, we hugged and he left.
Sure enough an email arrived a few weeks later from a name I didn't recognize with a short note saying he had never been so complimented on an article of clothing in all his life, that the day's celebrations had been a huge success and that I should see the picture attached.
Attached was a fantastic shot of him in the jacket, looking like a combination of Mike Myers and Robert Redford, he looked like million dollars, with a grin the size of Alabama itself.
I didn’t know this man well, but I could tell that the man in the picture had never looked that good in his entire life.
The "retail gods" had sent us an angel, evil had lost and good had prevailed, which is always nice.
]]>"We were a little caught off guard, but Betty opened the door and welcomed him inside. He made his entrance with a fair amount of showmanship whilst the two goons waited outside."
]]>At that time, the neighborhood was only just embracing its real estate marketing persona of “NoLita” (a fashionable way of saying North Little Italy) despite the fact that most of Mott Street fell under the category of Chinatown, but north from Kenmare up to Bleeker was Italian and had been quite the center of organized crime back in the day.
Mott Street ran parallel with Mulberry, which was the street that the notorious Dapper Don, John Gotti, ran his famed operations from, but by the time we moved in there wasn’t a lot of “activity” still going on in the neighborhood, but a few of the guys were still around and they made their presence known, especially at their “Social Club” at the Houston end of Mott.
They seemed nice enough and most of their respect seemed to come from a handful of the older local male residents, who now took great pride in parking their cars for them and talking about how “De Niro was going to have a word with Scorsese about getting them some acting work”.
Any conversations with the local hangers-on were to be handled cautiously, as any over familiarity usually ended with a request to borrow money. Non-returnable, of course.
In the first couple of weeks, we had store visits from several of the guys, offering to “try us out on a couple of suits”. It felt more like they were just feeling us out to see if there was any room for a little-old school protection, but being English served us well and we played dumb to the whole process. It seemed to do the trick and I heard one say under his breath on his way out, “They ain’t gonna last long.”.
However, there was one guy that seemed to carry himself a little differently than the rest of them and it didn’t take much to realize that he was the main guy.
Unlike the others in the crew, who all cultivated coiffed hair in some form or other and wore “Sopranos-esque” velour track suits and sneakers, his head was cleanly shaven and he always wore tailored slacks, leather jacket over his 70’s style knitwear and crocodile shoes. This was all accompanied by gold rimmed tinted glasses, way more jewelry than required, a year round tan and a lot of aftershave.
One morning he appeared at our doorway accompanied by two rather assuming, leather-clad, guys that I hadn’t seen before.
Foregoing the usual doorbell, he choose to bang loudly on the glass door.
We were a little caught off guard, but Betty opened the door and welcomed him inside. He made his entrance with a fair amount of showmanship whilst the two goons waited outside.
There were no pleasantries, he immediately cut to the chase and announced, “You do custom drawers?”. Betty and I looked at each other wondering what on earth he was talking about, “Drawers??” Betty asked, almost jokingly, before she luckily remembered that “drawers” was actually an old fashioned term for underwear, “Oh, you mean underwear?” She replied, “No, I’m afraid we don’t.”.
His frustration was beginning to show and it didn’t help that not only did we not seem to understand what he was talking about, when we did, we didn’t offer the service either.
Two things immediately ran through my mind. Firstly, who on earth needs custom underwear? Was it because of some “unusual apparatus” that needs to be navigated? And secondly, who the hell wants to be in charge of measuring the undercarriage of a Mafia boss with special needs.
Sensing the atmosphere changing at an uncomfortable pace, I thought quickly and remembered an old-school British tailors in midtown called Turnbull and Asser. They were owned by the billionaire that bought Harrods, Mohamed Al Fayed and they claimed they could make anything. They probably could, but it would cost a fortune and probably take about six months, but that would be their problem and I wanted our problem gone.
I told him of the place and that seemed to talk him off the ledge. He told me to write down the name, address and telephone number, which I then had to go and Google, with him waiting impatiently.
I handed him the details like a nervous schoolboy handing in my homework. He begrudgingly thanked me and headed the front door which goon number one opened for him and they left.
I’d all but forgotten about the encounter until one morning a few months later. Being a small business, we had to wear many hats and one of mine was window dressing.
I’d always found the task creatively rewarding but also slightly sad. People look at you differently when you are in a store window. It was almost like I could hear them saying “Awwww, look at that little old man, still dressing windows at his age.”.
I was in my mid-forties by this stage and I thought that anyone who’d been doing it for 25 years should have at least been Creative Director of Visual Display at Barney’s or something, not still dressing a small store in NoLIta.
I wanted to explain to onlookers, “It’s alright, it’s my store, I’m the owner!”, but unfortunately I always seemed to be dressed more like a middle-aged theater set designer on the days I needed to change the window. So I decided it was just easier to give myself an alter ego, Gavin the Window Dresser. Not to be confused with Nigel the Photographer, another imaginary staff member.
On this occasion, Gavin was just adding the finishing touches to the display, which usually featured some form of headless mannequin in shirt, tie, blazer and boxer shorts. No trousers. It was a deliberate attempt to mimic our logo (a man holding and umbrella wearing no trousers), when there was an almighty banging on the glass door.
Poor old Gavin nearly jumped out of his skin, ever the consummate professional, he had been accustomed to keeping his eyes on the job and not paying any attention to the outside world just a pane of glass away.
He was back and this time he was visibly fuming.
Gavin climbed unceremoniously out of the window and nervously opened the door.
“I thought you said you don't do underwear!” He balked as he pointed to the new display. “We don’t,” replied Gavin, “these are ready to wear.” unnecessarily adding, “They come with a matching shirt and pocket square.”.
“Huh” he replied and surprisingly, this time he seemed to calm down, but he was obviously not a man that you lied to under any circumstances. “I gave you the name of that company in midtown, did you try them?” Gavin quickly added. “Give it to me again.” he demanded.
Gavin scurried to the back office and began to frantically Google “Turnbull”. Once found, the address and number was again written down and handed to him.
I don’t know if Gavin had had some sort of ‘calming’ effect on him, but this time he looked at me/him a little more affectionately, his eyes softening behind the tinted shades and a veil of uncharacteristic sincerity came over him. “You’re a good kid, if you ever need anything, we have the Social Club just up the road.” he said nodding to the North. He shook our hand, gave us a knowing nod and left.
Thankfully, I never did find the occasion to use the 'free pass' I had been offered, although I did get rather cocky with a shoplifter one time and warned him he was “in the wrong neighborhood" and should probably not come back if he knew what was best for him, but it was strangely nice to know that both Gavin and I had been accepted.
]]>