After he left from the fitting he was struck with euphoric anticipation – he couldn’t wait to go back for the thing, to walk out with the vinyl bag over his shoulder, to know it was his. The formal wear, the elegant option, the great equalizer that made all men look well – benvestiti, they said in Italian, would now be his option. He’d worn plenty of rented sacks to weddings and proms, but this one was his to keep, made for his uncommon build, and it was a beaut. If black could be creamy then that’s what the aerated wool fabric was, fitted with an elegant drape that gave depth to the dark luxuriousness. The satin lapels were shawl shaped, after pictures he’d seen from the 50’s, and they sloped to covered buttons, inside and out, to a single-set, double-breasted closure. The pants had satin side-seam stripes and a slight break, under which he’d wear a pair of satin slippers, woven for flexible comfort and a bit of hand-hewn counter balance to the seamless presentation above. He’d purchased a set of mother of pearl studs and cuff links to secure a starched white  pleated shirt, and would unite the collars with a hand tied satin bow, unlined and big, so as to hang with an elegant fall.

The first Saturday night arrived quickly, and he dressed with deliberate devotion. He had a video tape of a Frank Sinatra special that he played loud for the vibe and the camaraderie – another guy in the room, in uniform. He hopped about, belting out harmonies to lines in the choruses. Luck Be a Lady came on as he was tying the bow. Perfect.

He skipped out into a gorgeous night, twilight, actually, and walked to the Four Seasons. He could feel the give of his woven shoes, the embrace of his cummerbund, a slight breeze in his pomaded hair. He’d park himself at the bar, he thought, and have a Manhattan or two, maybe coffee later. As he turned the corner onto Rush Street, the sun set and turned the buildings blue. He was still moving to the swing rhythm to which he’d dressed, jauntily, unabashed for a bit, and then a moment came when he felt a twinge of guilt, or shame really, and this careless little display of selfishness. He’d need to make this pass. He could join the Peace Corps or bring a bag of food to the depository tomorrow. He stopped at the corner and mumbled to himself, Don’t forget who you are – just a mug in a nicer suit is all…

The doorman, spotting him, held wide the doors. “Looking sharp tonight, Sir,” he said. As he entered the conditioned air Under my Skin was playing on the lobby sound system. Perfect.

He made his way up to the bar, took a seat, ordered, and waited for nothing to happen, which was okay, because nothing happening is okay if one is in a tux, in the night, in the beautiful part of the city. The journey to get there was what mattered – the dressing and the walking, the freedom to do all that, unfettered by viruses or violence or responsibility. The fleeting moment of safety and indulgence, the sweet morsel in the mix of life’s roughage, is what he will write about twenty years later, in an office under quarantine, in a time of angst.

–Danny Grosso