by Ron Hevener
“An old friend.”
“Honey,” came the amused remark, “Mr. DeCroy has so many ‘old friends’ how can I tell them apart if they don’t give names?” He smiled with a hint of mischief. “Or a phone number would work, too.”
“Hoover,” Ben said, not taking the bait, maybe because he didn’t understand the game. “I’m looking for a suit and he’s supposed to help me.”
Amused now more than ever, the manager said, “You help him the right way and he might just give you that suit, handsome. So, Hoover, is it? Like in the vacuum cleaner. Well, that makes a difference.” Again, he looked below Ben’s belt. “Maybe a big difference,” he smiled. “Actually, I’m afraid Mr. DeCroy doesn’t wait on people personally. But I’m sure I could help you myself. I could help you with a lot of things, if you really want to know.”
“But it’s Wembly I want,” Ben said.
“Wembly is it now?” the manager laughed, and didn’t budge.
“If you don’t let him know I’m here,” Ben said, lowering his voice, “I’ll break those big glass windows outside and tell the cops you tried sucking my cock and I was soooo upset when you couldn’t get me off that I just had to smash something! Do you think he’d talk to me then?” So he did understand the game and had only been ignoring the previous hints.
With a look that said, They’ll never believe you, the manager smirked. “Baby, this is New York. Just exactly how do you think a guy like me gets a job like this and stays there for the past fifteen years?”
Trumped, Ben considered what to do next, and just laughed. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give it my best shot!” he said, embarrassed, but not really, and they both laughed.
“Truce,” the manager finally decided. “Follow me. And, don’t think I can’t feel you looking,” he added. Comment duly noted, Ben followed, and if he had been in another mood, he might have paid closer attention to the view in front of him. As it was, his mind was only on how long it would take them to cross the showroom of suits, ties, slacks, sweaters and coats…and turn the key of the entrance to the life of the mysterious Wembly DeCroy. At the base of the escalator stairs leading to the second floor, the manager reached across his desk toward a private intercom on the wall. “I think he’s waiting for you, Mr. Hoover,” he said. “And just for the record,” he whispered before pressing the button, “I never said who in this fine establishment I auditioned for to get this job. Or how often those particular skills you mentioned are tested!”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the manager said after pressing the button beside a small screen built into the wall at the base of the elevator. “But there’s a young man here for you.”
“Oh?” came the familiar French accent. “Bearing gifts? Or, is he baring them?”
“That’s up to you, sir. But I can describe the package for you if you want.” Resting his gaze on Ben, he said, “about five-ten, I’d say. Thirty-two waist. Black hair.”
There was the sound of recognition and good-natured laughter as the buzzer went off. “Send him up.”
Elevating among a panorama of suits, leather wear, luggage, sports equipment, colognes, watches, cufflinks, tie tacks, shampoos, even a travel booth complete with posters for airlines, cruise ships and luxury cars, it was difficult to ignore the subliminal message that DeCroy’s was more than just a clothing store. Ben had known shirts, pants and boots from the local shops in Steitzburg. Except for gifts from his grandfather’s business trips, they weren’t exactly special. Certain now where at least some of those gifts had come from, Ben couldn’t escape the impression that DeCroy’s was about more than just appearances. Or, as he watched security guards escorting another customer off the floor, the impression that this sanctuary of sophisticated manhood was very particular about who could, and who could not, enter its domain. The escalator ran out of moving steps just a bit too soon, as the silver-grey carpet grabbed the soles of his boots and Ben faced a clutch of salesmen gathered around a display of fine wines quickly scattering for busywork. His boots, flannel shirt and work pants felt ridiculous under the scrutiny of their sophisticated, but not unfriendly, eyes, but, shrugging his broad shoulders, he smiled and just said, “Take me to your leader!” for all to hear.
Within a breath, he was standing before an eerily handsome/beautiful, seventy-ish man elegantly suited for mastery of all that was Wembly DeCroy. “So! We meet again, Benjamin,” he said, appraising the differences a few years can make on a growing young man. His innately French carriage, strong and proud, was exactly as Ben remembered: Like a dancer’s, an aristocrat’s. His hair, fully silver now and no longer streaked with grey, expressed sophistication and the experience of a man who loved life and lived it to the fullest. The jaw line and chin, defined for one his age, featured the hint of a dimple setting off a broad and reassuring smile that surely had known its share of laughter and kisses. It was the green-brown eyes, however, glowing with intimacy and worldly intelligence, that really caught one’s attention. They were eyes that hadn’t changed at all. “Where are you staying tonight, Lucky One?”
How could he know what only Ezra had ever called him, Ben wondered?
“No place, yet,” Ben answered. “I promised Grandpa I’d do this, but I don’t think I can stay long.”
“Yes,” Wembly said. “I am aware of your grandfather’s wishes. Does your Aunt Sarah know you’ve gone?”
“She does, yes,” Ben said. “And, Grandpa’s insisting.”
“He told me to expect you,” Wembly said. “I suspected it was you downstairs by my manager’s excitement and I could not resist having fun. I hope I did not embarrass you, mon frer.”
“Your fun was at my expense,” Ben said, not exactly amused.
“Of course!” Wembly laughed, with no apology. “And, now that you’re here, what do you think of DeCroy’s?”
“Fancy,” is all Ben could think of to say.
“As in, too good for where you come from?” Wembly wanted to know.
“No! I mean, yes. I mean, how did somebody like Grandpa find it?”
The answer was ready; perhaps even practiced. “He didn’t just find it. He helped me start this business. Didn’t he tell you?”
Ben shook his head.
“But, where do you think Ezra Hoover purchased his wardrobe? In Steitzburg?” DeCroy laughed. “As for what you call fancy, such things are necessary when one discovers responsibility in life.”
“He told me to come here,” Ben said. “He made me promise.”
“Perhaps he saw it as a step in you becoming a man, Ben. An elevator ride to something greater, perhaps?” There was a perceptible pause of thought before Wembly continued. “I must thank Ezra for his respect.” He smiled gently now. He sent you here to be fitted. And we must get started!”
Before Ben could answer, the king of DeCroy was snapping his fingers, yanking clerks to attention and calling for a measuring tape. “Now, we discover the real Benjamin,” he said, as the nearest clerk offered them each a glass of wine. “No, no!” Wembly objected. “Not wine from the floor,” he said. “For this—for this special occasion—champagne!” He went to his office, returned with a bottle and two glasses, and poured.
The floor bubbled into a party and clerks flew from all different directions, bringing shirts of cotton, jackets of silk and mohair, belts of the finest leather and wallets of ostrich skin. There were tie tacks of brushed gold, ties of every color, watches and shoes of Italy’s finest makers. Wembly, himself, made the selections, built around a silk suit of midnight blue with just a trace of maroon stripe, a cuffed shirt of purest white and a tie of deepest salmon. From the jacket pocket, next to the lapel and folded just right, sprang a handkerchief just a shade deeper than the tie, now set off with a gold tack in the shape of a horse, gleaming with a diamond in the middle. “Appropriate, no?” smiled Wembly. “A heart to match your own.”
Shoes of classic Oxford were chosen, with calf-length black socks and, yes, Ezra, the underwear was silk. Not much of i
t, maybe, but it was silk and it felt good.
When they were finished, Ben stared at himself in the three-way mirror. Was that really him? The man in the mirror seemed older. Wiser. What magic had the Frenchman spun? He touched the golden watch on his wrist to see if the reflection would do the same.
“You amaze me, Benjamin Hoover. This is Ezra’s gift to you. And, now, for mine.” He was smiling. “Have you ever been to Sardi’s?”
*
Not a flicker, twitch or sting touched Ben’s heart as the one dearest to him in all his life lay dying back home. Soaked up by a salad of Sardi’s curtains, the entre of its clientele, the wine of Manhattan’s privileged and intellectual, he feasted on stuffed chicken breast, asparagus and Hollandaise sauce as Wembly quietly watched.
“What’s ahead for you?” Wembly asked, pulling him back to reality and reminding him of things he didn’t want to face. Please don’t make me deal with it—let me enjoy this, right here, right now, Ben thought before answering, “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that.”
“In that case, I withdraw the question.”
“No, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Ben said. “Really. I know I have to deal with Grandpa and what’s ahead. I just don’t want to.”
“Many times, we must, as you say, deal with things, Benjamin. Even when it hurts us to do so.”
Ben understood. “The truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re paralyzed. You see everything going on around you—you know what’s happening—but you just can’t move. You know? Or, you’re in school, and somebody tells you final exams are right now—today—and you forgot about that and you didn’t study all year! You know that dream?”
Wembly knew the dream. Who, at some time of life, hadn’t known it? “I have an apartment at the store, Ben. Why don’t you stay with me tonight? You can call Sarah and think about what step to take next.”
In the cab, Ben couldn’t help noticing the contrast between Sardi’s and the bleakness of the city blurring past them. “I take cabs to maintain my sanity,” Wembly explained. “Without them, you go from luxury to poverty the minute you set foot on the street. An insult to the mind,” he said. “A tragedy, my friend. Tragedy. And for whom is the tragedy? For those who live on the streets? No, no, my friend. The tragedy is for those walking past, who don’t know what to do about it.”
There was something opposite in those words, Ben thought. “But you’re taking cabs to avoid the issue, right?”
“Avoiding? I do not avoid anything. I search for ways to make it more beautiful. I am a designer, Benjamin.” Wembly grew more serious. “You know, of course, Benjamin was the name of one of this country’s founders?”
“Of course,” Ben said, sensing there was more, perhaps much more, Wembly wanted to say; wondering now if the whole visit, from the minute of his arrival, had been orchestrated with himself at the center of it. And how long his grandfather had wanted this.
“Do you ever wonder what Mr. Benjamin Franklin would think if he could see his beloved United States of America today? If he and the others who designed this land to be greater and loftier than any place on Earth…could see its people now and know what most of them fear?”
“Most people see a good future ahead, don’t they?” Ben asked.
“That depends on their perspective, Benjamin. Does it not? And there are many things one can do to balance the perspective.”
“For example?” Benjamin wanted to know.
“For example,” Wembly nodded, “you might see this as a city, and I might see it as a jungle. You might see those people, living on the streets, as beggars. And I might see them as colorful birds, intelligent monkeys, graceful creatures of different colors and varieties. We feed the pigeons in the park and the squirrels. The only difference is, the animals on the street wear clothing. Or should.”
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Ben said.
“Quite, my friend. Quite. And I know them in a way that people walking past, or stepping over them, pretending they don’t exist, live in dreadful fear of.” He sighed at the very thought of it. “Street people have lives, too, Ben. Just because they’re on the street now doesn’t mean they were always there. No, no. They’ve had divorces. Children. Homes. They have good memories and bad ones. Some have made fortunes and many have tried. Some have debts they can never repay and this is one step away from death for them…or, maybe, just a way for them to disappear from life for a while, and think. As many of us have done in our ways. Most people walk past them and turn their heads. But not seeing doesn’t erase the fact that these people have no way to clean up for a job, no way for an employer to reach them, even if they did find work. And lice. They do have lice, Benjamin. And fleas. You really wouldn’t like feeling where some of those naughty bugs can itch.” He laughed quickly, almost bitterly. Then, turning away, he stared out the window. “We’re almost there,” he said after a few blocks.
The cab turned a corner and pulled over. Wembly took care of the fare, tipped the driver, and they were outside again, just in time for an eager Irish greeting.
“Mr. DeCroy! Mr. DeCroy! I’m so glad to see you! Can I help you with anything? Fine-looking young man, sir. Is he with you, tonight? A friend? A friend, here for a visit?”
Fascinated at the exchange unfolding in front of him between the man-of-fashion and the faux-Irishman in rags, he heard Wembly saying, “Willie! We haven’t seen you for a while. We’ve missed you!”
“Oh! That!” Willie said, slightly embarrassed. “Well, I’ve been away,” he said. “Travelin’, you might say. And stayin’ at a fine hotel!”
“Oh?”
“They call it Bellevue. A grand place. I wanted to get away from it all, for a while. I was startin’ ta be a menace to society.” There weren’t exactly tears in his eyes, but Willie would have wiped his face with a handkerchief if he had any.
“Menace? But you’re no menace to society, Willie. You’re gainfully employed!”
The man in rags hung his head. “I know, sir. I know.”
“You watch the store for us, Willie. I need you. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes…yes. But it’s the mem’ries, you know? Somebody told me what day it was. And it was my daughter’s birthday and I hadn’t seen her in twenty-two years!”
“A long time, my friend.” Wembly put a hand on Willie’s shoulder. “Where does this daughter live?”
“Jersey,” Willie said after a while and a few sorry breaths in the frosty night air. “She’s a big doctor there,” he said. “A psychologist!” Nobody’s smile of pride could have been bigger than Willie’s, dirty, broken teeth and all, as Ben wondered what kind of psychologist would let her own father live like this. and decided Willie was better off without her.
The two men talked, Wembly in vicuna, Willie cloaked in memories, and Wembly reached inside his pocket for the handout that would not offend or reduce an already-trampled pride. “Your wages, sir,” the Frenchman said. “And I thank you, once again, for your security services.”
“You’re certainly welcome, Mr. DeCroy.”
“Oh!” Wembly turned his attention to Ben. “Pardon my manners, but this fine gentleman with me is Benjamin Hoover, from Pennsylvania. If you see him near the store, you will remember him, yes?”
Willie took a good look. “Yes. Most certainly,” he said. “I’ll remember!”
“And will you let him cross the invisible bridge, Willie?”
“Yes! Yes! Certainly. He may come and go as he pleases. Any time of day or night. No interference from me, Mr. DeCroy. None whatsoever. I’ll let down the bridge and he may cross the moat. I’ll do it myself! He won’t be an intruder. No, not an intruder.”
“Thank you, Willie. Good night to you. Come, Benjamin. Let’s cross the moat to the castle!”
“Good-night to you, also, Mr. DeCroy. And, good-night, Mr. Hoover. So good to meet you.” And, with that, Willie was off into the shadows.
> “That was interesting,” Ben said, as they entered the store from a side door and once again rode the escalator.
“And what about Willie do you find interesting, Benjamin?”
“He watched from the shadows long enough to be sure we got inside the building.”
“Very observant, Benjamin.”
“You know what makes him tick, don’t you,” Ben said.
Wembly considered his words, or perhaps the timing of them, carefully. “I will always tell you the truth, Benjamin. Always. The truth is, until I understood the power of my own creativity, I was just like Willie.”
*
White walls, tall vases with exotic plants, beige furniture with a touch of mahogany wood curving in art deco style…antiques, paintings, and Persian rugs over marble tiles. High ceilings and lighting to cast just the right shadows and glow. How was it possible for anyone who lived this well to understand life on the penniless streets of Manhattan? But there was no mistake. In a way that left no room for misinterpretation, Wembly DeCroy had said, “I was just like Willie.”
“You are comfortable?” Wembly asked now, offering a glass of wine. Taking Ben’s coat and placing it on a chair, he walked to the sofa for a pillow and tossed it on the floor. Untying his shoes and setting them aside, he sat on the floor and said, “Sometimes I’m here in this room, just thinking. Remembering, you know? Wondering if I’ve lived my life the way I was supposed to.”
Should I take off my shoes, too, Ben wondered? Should I sit in the chair or on the floor? He decided to sit on the sofa and didn’t worry about his shoes. “Do you get answers?” he asked.
Wembly rolled the question around in his mind before saying, “Life has a way of giving us many chances, Benjamin. At least it did for me. In the end, isn’t the important thing how we played the game?”
“Game?” Ben said. “Actually, I’d think life is the only thing that isn’t a game.”
“Bravo!” said Wembly, holding up his glass to Ben. “If one man starts with a drop of potential and another with a whole gallon, would not the one using his whole droplet be more honored than a man with a gallon, but uses one half?” He smiled and shrugged. “I suppose I will not know. I will be here wondering again, I am sure.”