Brendan’s Story: A Fork in the Suited Road
The spring season was one of pre-law school mixers, that encouraged applicants to get to know one another, immerse themselves in the culture of handshakes and small talk, and exchanges of business cards at happy hours that would be pocketed and shortly thereafter covertly thrown away. Maybe it was a test of belonging, seeing how many had adequately whitened their teeth in preparation, practiced their bright white smiles, eye contact and eager nods in the mirror to fortify their cogency. It was the air of genuineness they were after, nothing beyond the water’s surface, and if you held eye contact a little too long, most would look away or change the topic, as if some secret transgression had taken place, the water rippling and disturbed by threat of admission into their psyche.
Brendan would at least present himself well, his law school gift looming before him, he planned to fully commit to the role. Suit shopping seemed like an equally convoluted feat as the law problems he had mulled over in the past months, so he designated his closest friend Dan as his companion to alleviate the agony. It was store after store of mediocre jackets and trousers that all reminded him a little too much of the older male figures in his family and left him with no greater impression of himself than a man in an ill-fitting suit. They eventually landed at Suit Supply, which had to be good because it had what he was looking for in the name, and to his relief failed to disappoint. The designated help that quickly attached itself to their shopping duo, manifested in the form of a snobbish sale associate, dressed as if shortly playing an integral role in a groom’s wedding party once he finished with the annoyance of Brendan’s presence, who clearly knew nothing much about suits. Ignoring the uppity attitude, Brendan looked and felt, questioned and nodded, and decided finally on a dark navy wool ensemble. He let the scoffing sharply dressed man measure him, pulling the tape across his shoulders, torso, legs, as he stood there awkwardly waiting until they had gathered enough bodily information on him to reproduce into a wax figure if ever necessary. A thousand dollars and a curt thank you text to his mother later, Brendan was the proud owner of a perfectly fitted suit, the closest to custom you could get, he thought.
A couple of weeks thereafter, Brendan wiped the sweat off his palms on the creases of his wool suit trousers, ankles exposed under the rolled up pantlegs that housed his bent knees in the Uber’s backseat. He had scrutinized himself from top to bottom in the floor length mirror, snapping a few pictures to send to his mom before walking out the door. Were the Italian tassel loafers too much? No, he decided, they were respectable. Thanking the driver, he shakily stepped out of the Uber and walked into an office building that seemed preposterously colossal, as if its architect meant to frighten visitors to keep them from ever reaching the point of ease. Sharp angles jutted from every direction, ceilings soared, and halls appeared to have been made with giants in mind rather than people, the furniture starkly miniscule in comparison.
He had to walk through the financial district tower to reach the escalators that would take him to the underground bar, hidden away from the prying eyes of curious passerby. Brendan navigated the underground maze with deep concentration, channeling some character in a television law drama when he would catch his reflection in the closed shop windows. This was a space reserved for professionals, men who had accomplished something, probably in a glass encircled office some floors above Brendan’s head. He had been invited, which must have meant something. At closer look, the exclusive ticket gained him entrance into a corporate-looking sports bar with greasy food and lukewarm beer that had been rented in hopes of the attending fresh-faced law school candidates leaving with a newfound fervor for association to whatever university had hosted. With darting eyes searching for something that would guide or perhaps warn him before diving into an environment brimming with unknowns, Brendan took a few deep breaths and opened the heavy glass doors to the bar.
He found himself facing clusters of other young men in suits not unlike his own. A discord of male voices filled his ears, some booming over others, laughing at jokes that Brendan couldn’t hear, but all scrambling over each other. Uniformed workers carried trays of canapés and rushed around with pads scribbled with drink orders, usually a dark beer, an old fashioned, or a whisky neat if its requester had decided a socially acceptable differentiation of their autonomy was appropriate. Brendan asked for a light beer that he would nurse for the remainder of the event, as some sort of emotional support to hold onto. He suddenly felt like a child holding a teddy bear and playing dress up in his father’s closet.
He scanned the sea of eager men in their freshly pressed corporate uniforms and saw the rest of his life stretched out before him, an assembly line of paper stacks and meetings in glass offices, and the same rush hour subway route taking him into a carbon copy day. The young men all seemed proud to be dressed the same, to embody a collective success only a crisp white button-up and sharp lapels could provide. The room flooded with fellow newcomers promptly after Brendan’s arrival and the air grew heavier, his suit fabric now feeling ill-chosen for the rising temperature and the men whose spatial awareness was being increasingly replaced with their alcohol intake.
Ten years down the line, he saw himself looking at a closet full of suits that all appeared vaguely identical, varying shades of navy blue, grey, black, and burgundy, a neatly organized file cabinet like the ones in the office, alphabetized and colour coded. He would grab the one closest to him, the one he had begun to associate with a certain day of the week, mindlessly do up the buttons and configure his tie with an easy quickness that only daily practice could bring.
A hawkish laugh rose him from the maladaptive daydream and, realizing he had been staring into space for too long, he walked up to a gaggle of suits, introducing himself with the bright smile he had plastered on his face. A chorus of names boomeranged back to him, John, Mark, Luke was it? They all sounded vaguely biblical to him, and he forgot each one with equal haste of its declaration. Yes, this university was the top law school in the country and yes, Brendan was very excited that he had already received an offer, and his score had been pretty good to get in with early acceptance. He agreed with the neutral statements thrown his way, nodded along after reciprocating a bland question, and tried his best to keep his mind from wandering anywhere else. Were these guys always this boring, or had they just paired down their personalities to match the first John, Mark, or Luke they had met, unintentionally becoming the standard for the next guy, and creating a domino effect of lifeless characters? Brendan tried to give them the benefit of the doubt that maybe they were all incredibly interesting outside of this mixer and just attempting to match some assumed monotonous archetype.
All he could really focus on was the bacon wrapped shrimps that he found an off-putting choice as finger food for the standing occasion, an assaulting seafood smell wafting over every conversation. He grimaced at the greasy fingers that would leave their plates to dig around in their pockets before handing him a card with a name, an email, and phone number that he only asked for out of politeness, and because he knew this is what people did at these kinds of things. Some curt nods and smiles and vague parting phrases like, “We should grab a coffee sometime!” and “Let’s definitely catchup soon man,” preceded his exit. He ignored the urge to gleefully skip through the doorway, which he would have indulged if not for the serious suited men behind him.
Kicking off his loafers at the apartment, he carefully zipped up the suit into its safety cocoon of the garment bag that the pretentious Suit Supply associate had handed to him a few weeks prior. The rest of his summer was spent at the office of the pizza company he had been working for, that soon promoted him to general manager of its branches. In the fall, instead of following through with his accepted offer of admission at NYU, two weeks before the start of the program Brendan sent in his deferral, later withdrawing entirely when enough time had passed, and his decision had only grown in certainty. Hence the law school suit never became a regular in his predicted rotation of corporate dressing. It remained in its hideaway save for the rare formal occasion. One night while visiting friends in Montreal, Brendan wore it to dinner, and another time to a wedding, merely as a regular, albeit sharply dressed, guest.
kasia halawa