A Day in the Trenches

I got to see the sun today on my round trip to Detroit and back home. It was nice. There is never a lot of sun in the western side of Michigan during the winter months. I miss the sun. My over sized shorn pate in the summer months is a giant solar collector, tanning to a deep and unhealthy mahogany color. I need the sun. Without the sun I am just a bald guy with a big head. A big, white, pasty head.

I didn't get to spend a lot of time in the sun, being it is something like only slightly warmer than liquid nitrogen outside and the wind blows angrily through the valleys created by Detroit's tall buildings. But, I got to feel a little of it in the car on my face. Well, mostly it was in my eyes, both ways, requiring me to grudgingly use the sun visor so I could maintain my ability to see other traffic.

I have to admit, I looked killer today. By that I mean, I looked like a killer. Dark gray suit, Black shirt, my favorite red and black tie, freshly shined black shoes, and my coveted full length cashmere trench coat. Black. I look good in this coat. I generally look good in any garment that hides my body, but this coat is cut well and has timeless style. It is the kind of coat one spends a lot of money on. I bought mine for a song.

In 1996 I was dumped in a nasty sort of way and my gay roommate and the helpful co-eds across the parking lot felt a little retail therapy was in order. Being in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan, the world's only city in a developed nation with a university and a casino, but no mall, it necessitated a trip to either Lansing or Midland or Saginaw, which is to say it didn't really matter, because all the choices sucked equally. We chose Lansing. I don't know why, but it turned out to be kismet.

While browsing, I walked into Al Queda's Fine Mens Clothing, where there slogan was, 'Everything must go, let's make a deal, o.k.?' The racks were filled with gaudy colored suits that were stylish for about five minutes in 1954, and were only worn in modern times by African American men of a certain age. The greens and pinks and purples of these suits were definitely not naturally occurring shades outside of what the middle of ground zero might look like. The only thing less attractive were the large, roughly body shaped stains on the carpet. It was a classy place.

There were lots of fedora's with feathers and bands that looked like they were left over from Huggy Bear's wardrobe when Starsky and Hutch folded up production. I can only guess how in staid Lansing, Michigan in 1996 that someone thought that store with that inventory was a good idea. My only explanation is the Iranian man who owned the shop had only ever seen blacksploitation theater and 1970's T.V. and said to himself, "One day, I will escape the oppression of the Soviet occupiers and go to America where I can use my skills as a taylor to outfit men of distinction so they look good while smacking about their hos."

What a slap in the face when he got here only to find men's couture in America had degraded into cheap flannel, Bugle Boys and Birkenstocks. Clearly, his business model, while laudable was unsustainable.

Among the amazing neon suits and pimp suitable accessories was this black trench coat, hanging all by itself on the wall. I was drawn to it, like light itself which seemed to not be able to escape its infinite blackness. I fondled it only briefly when Greg said I should try it on. I was skeptical, because it was $350.00 and while that day's therapy session was all deficit spending anyway, I didn't want to commit to that kind of money. I tried it on quickly as the Ayattollah had stepped outside into the mall to try and harangue people into coming in to the store. I didn't want to attract his attention. Too late. His sixth sense kicked in and he was on my like mung on a mental patient.

"You lika de coat, huh?"
"Yes"
"Is good coat, yes?"
"Um, wasn't that sort of implied...?"
"You buy then. I sell you, make good deal one hundred and nine-five. I pay tax."
"No, thank you. It's a nice coat. Come on, Greg, let's go."
"No go! Why you go? Is nice coat, you want coat, I sell you, one hundred and fifty, I pay tax. We go and buy now."
"No, that's more than I wanted to spend, really. Good luck, thanks for you help." I said edging toward the door.
"How much you do pay?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You want coat, I sell coat, tell me how mucha you pay to buy coat."

I stopped to think about it. I pulled out my mental calculator. I played with the guy a little. I really did want the coat, but just how much did he want me to have it?
"Eighty dollars, you pay tax" I said boldly, expecting to end up at one twenty.
"No! I cannot. Is not enough. Is nice coat!"
"O.k., thank you." And I left.

But I didn't go far. I knew Sha Mufdi wasn't going to lose the sale, it was just whether he would come to my price. I walked across the way to the Radio Shack and pretended to be interested in whatever piece of crap they had in their front entry way. I saw him pacing. He lit up a cigarette. In those days, you could light up a cigarette inside without being gang tackled. He paced. His brow was sweaty. I watched out of my peripheral vision, telling Greg to wait, something was about to go down. I just didn't know if it would be good or bad.

"You!" he screamed across the mall. "You come back, I do eighty. Come get coat!"
"You pay tax!", I said back, not budging from the bulk stack of cordless phones I planned on using as a bunker should a dirty bomb come hurling across the mall.
"I pay tax, you buy coat. Is good coat, yeah?"

Greg couldn't believe it. Mahmoud slid my card and it was a done deal. I owned what would prove to be the nicest piece of clothing in my wardrobe to this very day. For eighty bucks out the door. And out the door we went before he changed his mind and we started an international incident. I felt so good, I bought lunch.

It is so warm and wonderful, my trench coat is. It has substance and style, it says, "Don't ask me for change, there is at least one weapon under here." It is heavy, but not burdensome. I love this coat. And everybody loves it on me. Even our pastor this past Sunday commented on my coat, stopping just short of issuing a cat call upon seeing my cashmere enhanced visage.

That was 1996 and the coat still looks new. It has proven to be a high quality piece, which makes the minimal money I spent seem that much more well spent. The only downside is its propensity to attract hair and dust of every sort. I picked a cat hair off it today in the car, stretched my arm all the way into the passenger seat, discarded the hair, which then, with unnatural speed, came right back through mid-air to the same place it had been on the coat when I picked it off. Forget Dyson suction technology, just invite me in in the winter time and ask me to hang out for ten minutes and my coat will rid your house of 99.9% of all airborne pollutants. Lint brushes and rollers have no effect.

Somewhere, I hear the little smoking Iranian man laughing. "Enjoy your dust my friend! Fatwa on your allergies, Allah be praised!" Well, I don't know about Allah, but I appreciate a good deal and this one was bonafide. A few years back, I reached in to the inside pocket in the early winter and found a $20 bill I left in there the previous winter. It was like an early Christmas gift. I got an awesome coat, a great story, a surprise $20 and now, a much needed topic for a blentry. All for eighty bucks... you pay tax. It's the coat that keeps on giving.