It was his first tan suit. A rich guy’s suit, because it wasn’t black or navy blue. If a guy could only swing one suit, he’d buy black or navy, so he could wear it to both weddings and funerals. Black or navy was a safe buy, tan was something else. Tan was a little escape from the mundane, a little step away from safety. It also meant a little more dry cleaning and home pressing. No matter, a guy with a tan suit could afford a splurge or two. He, after all, had purchased something to wear because he wanted to, not because he had to. Indeed, while the other guys dusted off the dark suits for wakes, he might throw his lightweight tan suit on over a tee shirt just for a walk. He might further find occasion to sport it about with a scarf over brunch. Professionally, he might add a repp tie and head to court on a spring afternoon where he would stand out like a tulip in a fallow garden box.

Back then, when everyone wore suits all of the time, differentiation was difficult. Variations on the theme became the vehicle for standing out. He stood in the mirror adjusting his lapel, but saw himself prancing down the pavement, a picture of noblesse oblige and elegance, a small vignette of happiness. It was the way he would eternally see himself in that suit. Memory has a way of perpetuating its images, even those only imagined.

-Danny Grosso

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