Uniforms

Apparel oft proclaims the man. So said Polonius to his son. In other words, stay away from Ross Dress for Less. And try not to wear a red tie.

No matter what we settle for as guys, it becomes a sort of uniform, like it or not. I have one obligatory suit in my closet. I got married in it about forty years ago. Since then, some moths made a meal of one sleeve, but it is still serviceable for funerals, bar mitzvahs and weddings, but then again thank god for zoom.

Before Zuckerberg’s t-shirt or Steve Jobs’ turtleneck, there were suits. Three-piece or gray flannel or those you could buy at Sears with two pair of pants, all wool gabardine. People wore them to see a play or fly from here to there. I wore a smock, on and off, for over fifty years as a dispenser of assorted remedies and assuring words. Mine disappeared along with Sears.

Maybe they’ve been replaced by tattoos. We’re not our job anymore; we are individuals each making his/her own major statement. Egalitarianism allows us to dress down, to slum or choose a wardrobe out of thrift stores. Designers have lines of scrupulous sloppiness with ventilation at the knees. There are friends I have never seen in jeans and others who always wear them. To each his uniform.

All of which leads me to remember vanished uniforms along with the jobs themselves. Whatever happened to that young woman with her bright jacket and flashlight patrolling the aisles as she hushed us and ushered us kids in the dark movie house, darker still because it was Saturday afternoon and we always came in the middle of a film. Was she dreaming of being discovered, projecting herself on the big screen. Or did she fade to black?

Gone, too, is the doorman with his epaulets, our peacetime commander who lived on tips. He waved, whistled and launched a thousand taxis. Doormen disappeared or did they just live in movies set on 5^th Ave? I imagined these quasi-aristocrats fled Europe as professor or mayor and had to settle for the ignominy of brass buttons.

And where is the elevator operator, in authority for the length of his or her shift, traveling vertical miles on one spot from Icarus to Orpheus as each, alone, contracted and expanded those wrought iron lungs?

The usher had no name but saw plenty of wandering arms in the balcony. Maybe the other two wrote novels in their heads from snatches overheard. They answered to first name only and remembered to speak politely to Mr. and Mrs. …. on the 23^rd floor.

They slipped away unnoticed, loud uniforms, shiny buttons and all. Jackets and caps now in vintage shops, dignity and pride embedded in the fabric. In one pocket dried lipstick and a stick of gum. In another an empty flask and a check for two bucks, uncashed.

 

 

Channeling Raymond Chandler

The sun was just a rumor. It disappeared like a corpse in Edgar Allen Poe's basement. The sky had a battered look as if it got kicked in its vitals. The western sun fought its way through the cloud cover as it was setting, the way a washed-up middleweight let his bling shine as he called it quits fighting youth in slow motion.

Last night was part of that haze. The goon hiding behind the lamp post had been following me since I left Santa Anita. He had a face like the pony that got stuck in the starting gate. I waited for him when I turned the corner at Alvarado and 6^th, pulled the straw hat over his face and frisked him.

The next thing I remember is waking up inside the G.I. rubbish tank in the alley behind Izzy’s Deli smelling from week-old whitefish and pickled herring.

Izzy was a friend of mine since I let him take me at poker. When I paid him off in two-dollar bills, he put me on his menu under lamination. A Norm Levine: Lox and cream cheese on a bagel with heirloom tomato and cucumber for $2.75, including a Schlitz beer.

I staggered home at midnight and took the longest shower since Noah’s flood. When I got to my feet today for another round, my left eye mirrored the bruised sky. The phone rang louder than the buzz in my head.

The voice in my ear warned me to lay off investigating the dame. That’s all I needed to keep going even if there was less to it than met my knuckled eye.

A forgettable man of mediocre mind had popped into my office last week. I was a sucker for his Peter Lorre eyes and Sydney Greenstreet guffaw. When he announced himself as Murray Hill, I already had his number. He said he wanted me to keep an eye on his sister. I knew he was lying behind a bogus smile like William Buckley's and the way he wiped his sweaty palms with his pink tie. But I was getting ten bucks a day plus expenses, and I needed the dough for my rent, due on Monday.  

I trailed his so-called sister to the Spitfire Grill behind a hangar at the Santa Monica airport. The place was swarming with gumshoes, hoods and undercover cops spying on each other. If you had money to launder, you’d come to the right place.

Looking up from behind my Look magazine I started to ponder the meaning of life in a godless world forgetting that I already did that in the shower last night. If I came up with an answer it disappeared into my oatmeal this morning.

But nothing else fits in this cockeyed world, like what I'm doing here with my good eye on the blonde who turned out to be the twin of a redhead that took the rap and did a stretch up the river for packing a rod. Her face curled the bacon in my BLT. She blew me a kiss that could launch a thousand props on Piper Cubs.

I was ready to blow this joint when I felt something heavier than a double cheeseburger landing on my head. The world is spinning, and I'm deciding to quit this racket and enroll in pharmacy school, recalling my mother's words about finding something I can always fall back on.

I was just a soft-boiled guy in a hard-boiled world.