The Jacket

s Frederick Baumgartner, racetrack tout known to his fellow practitioners as Froggie B. and a few close friends as Toutie, entered his apartment he heard the not so sweet tones of his ex-wife recording on the answering machine.

��and do not forget your check this month you poor excuse for a horses behind.� The phone wend dead with a loud crack. Toutie peered around the doorway to be certain the voice was on the machine and not in the room, then slunk in. His hand reached out to push the play button, then hesitated. He pulled it back. Later was too soon he reasoned.

�This is a woman could put sex back 50 years all by herself,� he mumbled as he undressed and threw a frozen dinner into the micro. The phone rang and he picked it up. �Frederick Baum��

�I knew you were there, you talent scout for the morgue,� the shrill voice of his ex said. �It is my bet you were there the first five times I make a call but did not have the courage to pick up the phone.�

�No, I was not,� he answered the voice, �and I see the answering machine has the good sense to hang up on you, cause the last message is the only one.�

�Well, never mind,� she shrilled, �I got an important message for you. Your son, you know, Melvin, is going to graduate from High School this Friday and requested you be at the proceedings. I do not wish this to be what happens, but since Melvin asks this should occur, I will not say no.�

�Melvin? Is he not the one you sewed lace to the tails of his shirts so he keeps them tucked into his pants?�

�That was Marvin, you loser. Melvin is the boy you used to wrap his school lunch in a road map, he should know the way out of town when he runs off.�

�Good kid, but not all there on the smarts. How is it he makes it through school�

�I tell him if he does not, he grows up just like his daddy. It is all I need to make him finish.�

�Then why, I ask again, does he desire I should make an appearance at his graduation?�

�He does not give me a reason. He just says to me tell the old man to present his face at the festivities. Maybe it is his wish to show you up for the louse that you are. I ask you to dress like a mensch when you come to the affair. Do not embarrass your little man and show up dressed in one of your comic outfits. And do not forget the check that is already ten days late.� The connection went dead.

Toutie stared at the receiver a moment. �If Moses had known you there would definitely have been another commandment,� he shouted at it, then slammed it in its cradle.

The track was crowded the next day and Toutie was having difficulty scouting up a pigeon. His eyes fell on a knot of regulars hanging on the rail and he shouldered his way through the crowd to reach them.

�Is there someone who has an in with a tailor?� he asked when he drew near. �I suddenly develop this need for a new jacket. Maybe of broadcloth.�

�I thought broadcloth was used to make skoits for ladies of the opposite sex,� one of the group said.

�I thought you had an outfit for every day of the year,� another asked.

�I do,� Toutie said. �This is it.� They all eyed his checked jacket in numerous shades of tan, his gray striped pants, and for contrast, a day-glo green shirt. Tan and white saddle wing-tips completed the ensemble.

�I know a guy who is so good, he sells you a suit with built in gravy stains,� another said as he perused the scratch sheet.

�I know who you mean,� a falsetto voice chimed in. �Someone tells me his suits wear like iron so I buy one but I can not wear it in the rain. It rusts!�

�I use a tailor,� said a small, well dressed newcomer to the group �he is so good, all the upper crust go to him when they wish a new set of threads. This beautiful jacket I am wearing was made to order by him, but the guy who ordered it never picks it up, so I take it.� The man spun so the group could properly admire the garment.

�Very nice,� they all chorused, appropriately impressed.

�And where can I find this wonder of the sewing circle?� Toutie asked.

On twenty second street, just west of Broadway.�

A faded but readable sign over the doorway proclaimed the tenancy of a tailor. In the only window, another faded sign avowed �Louis stitches your damaged britches�. As Toutie pushed his way into the shop, a bell, rigged to ring when someone entered the shop, rang noisily. The shop was dingy, but clean, and neatly appointed with counter, display pieces, and racks to hold clothing. As he slowly made his way toward the counter, eyes darting back and forth, he became enthralled with the quality of the garments.

�I can, maybe, do something for you?� The sudden sound of a high pitched voice in the silence made Toutie jump.

�Yes,� he said. �I need a jacket. My friend says you do the best tailoring in the city, and that is exactly what I want.�

�The city?�

�The jacket.� Toutie strained his eyes to see the man behind the counter, seated at his sewing machine. What he saw was a smallish man, slender, the beginnings of a pot showing over his belt. There was a face with a bulbous nose of quite ugly description, red with throbbing blue veins, two beady eyes protected by horn-rimmed glasses, mousy brown hair with a bald spot showing through at the back, and a mouth that may one time have smiled.

�A jacket you say,� that mouth uttered.

Toutie nodded. �I saw one, a beautiful sky blue piece with gold buttons and flair collar. A work of art. I want one like it. � He studied the man before him. �Are you Looie Stitches?�

The tailor nodded. He got up from his chair and came around the counter to shake his new customer�s hand. �My name is Louis LaPierre,� he introduced himself, �a good tailor, an honest man, and sometimes reasonable in price, but the jacket of which you make mention,� he eyed the outfit worn by Toutie, then waved his hands in a get away motion, �too rich for your blood. Better you should look at some other of my samples.�

Toutie would have none of that. �No,� he said, �I saw what I want and money�s no object. By the way, how much is that jacket?�

�It�s custom made. One thousand dollars,� the little tailor said.

�One thousand dollars,� Toutie mouthed the sum, but his lips wrote a check his voice couldn�t cash. He tried to whistle, but that, too, failed. He slumped into a chair near the counter. �Why,� he managed. The little tailor went back behind his counter, took a seat at the sewing machine and began to stitch.

�Why, you ask. Because, I answer, of the time, labor, and expense needed to create such a masterpiece.� He peered at Toutie over top of his horn-rimmed glasses attempting to determine whether further explanation was necessary. He decided it was.

�Think of the jacket like this,� he began. �Rembrandt, you know, the painter, did a mural on some priest�s ceiling. To this day, that painting is called a masterpiece.� He shrugged his shoulders and continued to sew on a garment. �It�s the same with any jacket what I make. For a lifetime it lasts, and that is because I, Louis LaPierre tailor, stand behind my work.�

�Because Looie stitches, this is worth one thousand dollars?� Toutie asked.

�It�s a reasonable part, but not the whole thing.� The tailor put down his sewing and pulled a chair over to sit opposite Toutie. �Look, toots..�

�Toutie,� Toutie corrected.

�Toutie! Before I make a jacket for anyone, I measure them very careful. I take pains they should not have even one wrinkle, not one crease when the garment is fitted and worn. Then, I must get for my needs, a picture, lots of pictures, ever possible angle, I should get to know my client like the glove what fits my hand. How else can I make the jacket fit the personality of its owner. When someone wears a jacket made by Louis LaPierre, they recognize!�

�The wearer?�

�The jacket!�

�I,� he pointed a finger at himself, �am a tailor. I got a box camera. From this you get crap. I got a cousin uptown, Izzie the image maker, takes a picture to die for.�

�You are sure the people who he takes a picture of are not holding a plaque with numbers on, about chest high?� Toutie quipped.

�Hey, who is telling this story? Anyway, you get to go to him and have pictures took from every angle, in color yet. After they are developed, you get to pay for them, then you bring back to me, I should study. This way I know who to ask to do a design of the jacket.�

�You have a designer to do the jacket?�

�It is a custom piece. Is there another way? Well, anyway, I only use the finest of designers, and where do you find the finest? In Paris, of course. I got a cousin, Jorje the couturier, the friend of a friend of a designer, who takes from me the picture and to his friend he gives it who gives to the designer. Now this boy is queer, but a very good designer. He also studies, then we consult, and from the consulting, comes a design for your jacket.

�Now you make the jacket?� Toutie asked.

�Not yet! Now we got to decide the material what is best for you, comes it from Africa, or Japan, or Australia, whatever. As an example, we could pick the Alps. In Switzerland, I got a cousin, Stanley the shprincer, very athletic boy, strange but what the hell, gathers for me the best wool. From what animal comes the best wool, you ask?�

�I did not ask, but I think you will tell me anyhow.�

�So I will tell you. From the Male Alpine Angora sheeps I answer. But not,� the tailor emphasized the words with a raised finger, �from anywhere on the sheeps, but only from the soft underside. Now you can not catch these sheeps because they leap from crag to crag and do not stand still, so you must catch them in mid leap. This, my cousin does. He attaches springs to the bottoms his shoes and leaps along side of the sheeps, but not quite as high. Then, he takes out from his tunic, you like that word?, a shears and cuts the wool from the sheeps belly.�

�What if he misses?� Toutie asked.

�There are a lot Jewish sheeps in Switzerland. Well, when he gets a couple bushels wool, he sends to me I should have it weaved into a cloth.�

�Do not tell me I still got to wait for the jacket,� Toutie said.

�I got a cousin in London where the best cloth is woven, Lord Farfel Fabricator the weaver, weaves the best damn cloth what ever you felt in your life. Slower than molasses he is, but his work is like that painter��

�Michaelangelo?�

�Him too. To go on, when the cloth is finally woved, we get to choose a color. Not a dye, a color.�

�Why not a dye?� Toutie asked.

�Dying is not good.�

�Why not?�

�It is not permanent. When you dye, also you look bad.�

�Not if you dye right.�

�There is no right way to dye. No matter how you dye, you do not look good!�

�I used to dye for a living. If I didn�t dye, I could not live.�

�Why did you stop dying? Were you sick?�

�You do not need to be sick to dye. When I was sick I could not dye. When I am well, I dyed nicely.�

�Why did you stop dying?�

�I could not make a living.�

The tailor held up his hand. �I do not dye. I color. And from where comes the best color? Arizona, from the Hopi Indians. I got a cousin, Does not soar with Eagles but cocks around with Buzzards, he makes some really fine colors. After we consult, we decide, using the pictures from Izzie the image maker, what color suits you the best. This color he makes for you a double batch. Just in case something should go wrong.�

�What happens then?� Toutie asked, exasperation in his voice. �So far we been uptown, in France, in London, to Arizona, I am getting a world tour and still have no jacket.�

�Wrong. Now you have a jacket.�

Toutie heaved a sigh of relief. �Thank God. I thought you would never finish the damn jacket.�

�It is not yet finished.�

�Why not? What else can you possibly do to this jacket?�

�How are you going to hold together the jacket? By magic? With strings? No, you need buttons. Not just any buttons, but buttons made of Mother from Pearl surrounded by gold. And from where comes the best Mother from Pearl?�

�I�m afraid to ask,� Toutie grunted.

�From the South Seas,� Looie Stitches answered. �I got a��

�Cousin?� Toutie ventured, receiving a scowl for his effort.

�Please, not to interrupt. A cousin, Pincus the Pearl Diver, lives on the island Bora Bora. He picks up, from the ocean bottom, only the best mothers, polishes, shines and matches them, then to me he sends the batch for buttons I should put on the jacket. Now we need holders. For the holders, made of Gold, only 14 carat mind you, we need the worlds best jeweler.�

�You got a cousin is a jeweler?�

Looie glowered. �Already I do not like you. If we have a former life, I do not like you from then, too. I got a cousin in Hong Kong, Julius KaChing, jeweler, makes for me the finest button holders ever seen. To him I send the Mother from Pearl buttons and he makes the holders, then sends the whole bunch back I should put on the jacket.�

�Why did you not use a damn zipper?� Toutie almost shouted.

�This project is taking forever. What happens after you put on the buttons? I�ll tell you what happens. I take the damn jacket, give you your damn money, and run out from this place as fast as my legs can take me.�

�We�re not finished yet,� Louie said in a cool, calm voice. �There is still one more step.�

�Step? What step?� Toutie was on the edge of hysteria. �All I want is my jacket. Can we not eliminate the last step?�

�We are talking about a LaPierre masterpiece. I leave out not one step.�

�Please, no more. May I please have my jacket?�

�Soon. First, a family crest.�

�Forget it,� Toutie said. �I was hatched. I am an orphan. I have no family. Give me my jacket,� he shouted.

�The best crest comes from Scotland,� Looie continued, ignoring Toutie. �I got a cousin, Cecil the crest-maker, researches your entire family all the way back to your first ancestor, then creates, just for you, the perfect crest. This he sews and send back to me, with a certificate authenticity, you should never question. This I sew over the left breast, on the pocket.� Looie�s chest swelled with pride. �Now you know why the jacket costs one thousand dollars.�

�It�s finished now?�

Looie nodded. �Finished, and yours. All it needs is a fitting.�

�And how long does all this take?�

�Depends on the tide, world affairs, the mail, conflicts and such. You know. Conservatively I would say, maybe, six months.�

�Too bad,� Toutie said. �I feel like the jacket and I have grown up together, but you see, I need one by Friday.�

The little tailor, Looie Stitches, gazed over his horn-rimmed glasses into the eyes of Toutie for a long moment, then heaved a sigh.

�Not to worry,� he said, �You will have it!�

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