When a woman or man takes time to dress in the morning: Making sure their shoes are shined, their jacket pressed. Tying on a scarf or tie that picks up a color in their shirt or a line in their pinstripe. Checking themselves in the mirror to make sure the whole assemblage looks right before heading out the door. When a person does this they give a gift to the world; they are a walking piece of self-generated art. Sure it might hurt a little: the shoes pinch and the jacket is hot, but it's a selfless sacrifice. Such a person dress for the public, not merely for themselves.
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This is certainly what I do, every morning, even though, I am usually late for work, after a comfortable perusal of the Left Business Observer list---my one and only contact for the entire day with actual reading and writing. But I digress.
Allow me to share my wardrobe with you as I do my public. Contrary to Steve's idea of the public, my public is usually the four wheeled variety, a rolling stock of humanity, often, but not always, card carrying members of that quite select group known as beneficiaries. I am sorry to report the rest of society most likely considers my public the tragic scum of the earth.
As most are poor, black, hispanic or asian, my race, ethnicity, and education would normally constitute a mild offense, a barrier of sorts, so I try to soften the perhaps disillusioning effects that these privileges should have conferred, but quite obviously haven't in my case, with a wardrobe and demeanor that is suited to my station as their service mechanic. To this end, I have selected from the vertible wealth of choices that Ben Davis clothier offers in their basic line of black pants, naturally enough, black pants.
These not only have a comfortable fit and allow ease of movement to crawl, scrape and grovel among the parts and debris of the mobility devices I service, but they are also completely resistant to the destructive effects of harsh chemical solvents like urine and battery acid. Due to some magic of the completely synthetic fabric these pants never cling, and almost always appear reasonably dirt free. I usually set the pants off with a pleasantly worn t-shirt of a once bright color, but now wash faded into a subtle indescribable blue grayness from Messrs Dickies. Shoes are a problem I must admit. But whatever they were once upon a time, which most recently was a New Balance 803 All Terrain cross country trainer, they have since been conveniently transformed by daily shop abuse into a shapeless dark mass with laces.
As an accouterment to this ensemble, I wear a watch which is made of an almost indestructible black plastic. Of course the band was torn off by some happenstance I've forgotten now, and was replaced with a velco strap covered by a nicely sewn pattern in contrasting colored thread. Unfortunately, most of the pattern has worn off now, so I am unable to recall exactly what it depicted. I think it was little geometric men with their arms raised and locked together in a pattern stolen from some native Central American motif or other. But the most handsome feature of the watch is a illuminating display which enables me to actually see the time in the dripping gloom of the shop, through the scratches and abrasions on the grease encrusted bezel. A little spit on the clear plastic and a brief swipe on my t-shirt helps greatly.
I also wear a discarded pair of glasses, that once cost some ungodly sum which I reluctantly paid to some extraordinarily snotty retailer in a franchise appropriately named four eyes, as in For Eyes, I think. But these are also supplemented by another pair that seem almost indistinguishable, that another service man must have lifted from a hardware store. They seem to work just about as well, as all they really have to do is bring some modicum of clarity to the foggy images of mysterious parts that seem to blossom out of nowhere.
And so the days pass in a seamless oblivion, lingering only momentarily on a threshold between pain and boredom until the weak light of day finally goes out, and I collapse into a death like trace usually referred to so quaintly as sleep....
``Now I didn't know where I was. I had a vague vision, not a real vision. I didn't see anything, of a big house five or six stories high, one of a block perhaps. It was dusk when I got there and I did not pay the same heed to my surroundings as I might have done if I had suspected they were to close about me. And by then I must have lost all hope. It is true that when I left this house it was a glorious day, but I never look back when leaving. I must have read somewhere, when I was small and still read, that it is better not to look back when leaving. And yet I sometimes did. But even without looking back it seems to me I should have seem something when leaving. But there it is. All I remember is my feet emerging from my shadow, one after the other. My shoes had stiffened and the sun brought out the cracks in the leather.
I was comfortable enough in this house, I must say. Apart from a few rats I was alone in the basement...''
(Beckette, The End, p54, from Stories and Texts for Nothing, Grove, NYC, 1967)
Chunk Grime