The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  Now I am blushing. She’s gone from flattering me to outright lying.

  “Oh, I’m sure there are lots of—”

  “Not like this.” April caresses her new dress. “Lots of great makers, for sure. But, how should I put this? Nothing with as much care. Not at your prices.”

  “But that’s just it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t do anything special. I just care about what I do.”

  “That’s rarer than you’d think.”

  “Oh, I’m sure—”

  She takes my forearms and turns me so I’m looking directly at her.

  “I’m not actually this ditzy,” she says.

  “I don’t think you’re—”

  “I do understand what you’re telling me. You’re saying that you just do the work. You’re saying that there’s no magic because you put in the time and effort to do this job well. And you’re also about to tell me that your prices are low because the only ingredient of quality clothing is the care we were just talking about. From your perspective, practice plus giving a shit equals Stacy Grace clothing. That’s why there’s no secret. It’s simply sitting down to sew, and caring what you produce. Have I got all that right?”

  I’m a bit stunned by the intensity of this little lecture. April has the widest, most intent eyes I’ve ever seen. And they’re staring right at me.

  “Listen to me, Stacy. You need to open your own place. Not on FairTraded. It’s great that you sell there, but it’s sharecropping on someone else’s online platform. You need to open a real store. With actual salespeople. And then you sell from there, too, through your website.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Not in Williamsville,” I say.

  April shrugs, finally releasing me. “Maybe Williamsville. What’s the population?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not New York. Small.”

  “Well, somewhere else, then. Or all online. Or here; who the hell knows? I came here to see you in person.”

  Yes, but you’re crazy.

  “I couldn’t leave Williamsville.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s home. My family is here.”

  “But you’re a tailor here.”

  “One more reason to stay.” I look around the shop, realizing I’ve become a tad defensive. “My grandfather opened this shop. Three generations of fine tailoring, right here in this building.”

  But April is undaunted. “I’m in marketing. You, dear? You’re a marketer’s dream. I’m telling you: you could be so much more with your own place. Trust me, I know.”

  “I’m happy here.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes!”

  She looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me. I think for a minute that she’ll call bullshit. But it’s not bullshit. I do well on FairTraded, and The Perfect Fit has nothing but top reviews on Yelp. I have plenty of work, enough money, and all the people I love most in the world living right upstairs. My big dreams are exactly that.

  Why would I ever leave all that I have?

  April finally breaks her gaze and turns away with a sigh. It doesn’t seem haughty or judgmental. For some strange reason, I feel bad that my simple life has let her down.

  I box her dress to kill the awkwardness. April sees what I’ve done and smiles wide when she gathers her package. But her eyes have dimmed.

  It’s my business. Why should I care? But when I see the reverent way she’s cradling her box, I understand. I haven’t just given her clothing. I’ve given her a piece of myself, and she feels responsible for it.

  “As long as you sell, and wherever you sell,” she says, “I’ll keep buying.”

  I smile, touched. “Thanks.”

  “I just … if it’s not too forward of me …”

  “Go ahead,” I say, but I already know I won’t like what’s coming.

  “I just hope that you’re not afraid to acknowledge how special you are, Stacy. How amazing you are in what you bring to the world.”

  “Oh, I’m—”

  “All it would take is a willingness to think bigger. To grow.”

  “Bigger and better isn’t my style.”

  April shrugs and looks at me sadly. Then we say our goodbyes, and I’m left feeling surprisingly hollow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HAMPTON

  “BIGGER AND BETTER,” I SAY.

  Mateo is quiet beside me. I’m mildly annoyed. He’s a loudmouth and braggart in a casual setting, but a yogi in business. That’s how he seems now, as we tour the Billings & Pile building. I half expect him to climb onto the abandoned equipment, cross his legs, and start chanting.

  His lack of reply feels like a judgment.

  “Come on, Mateo,” I say, my voice echoing through the empty building. “Look at this place. It’s massive and ugly to the untrained eye. Sitting here empty, it’s a blight. The city would tear it down if they could, and free up two blocks of prime real estate.”

  “Well …” Mateo says.

  “Prime for Williamsville, I mean.”

  He grunts.

  “But they can’t tear it down because it’s on the historical register. What are they going to do, put a museum in here? I can buy it for a song.”

  Mateo runs a finger along the brick wall. It comes away black. Some bit of machine scrap rattles far in the distance. I can’t see what it is; the only light in here comes through the row of windows high on the walls. Probably a rat.

  “It’s a shithole,” Mateo assesses.

  “It’s cosmetic. I’ve already had an engineer check it out. The structure is sound; with a small amount of rewiring, it’ll support plenty of power. This is a paint and wallpaper job.”

  “The city will never let you buy it. A factory downtown?”

  “It already was a factory, Mateo.”

  “Yes, in the days of Dickens.”

  I shake my head. “We’re not smelting iron. We’re making shirts and pants. There won’t be smoke coming out of the chimneys, and I can brighten it up easily enough. It’s all framing. At the main entrance, we drywall a section off and put an Expendable Chic retail location. Or hell, call it an ‘outlet,’ and lower the prices a little. People travel for hours to shop at their favorite outlets. Cleaned up, this place could be adorable. The kind of shit small-town rubes eat up.”

  “Did you just say ‘rubes’?”

  “Tell me you don’t see the potential, Mateo. I dare you. Because I’ve seen you buy plenty of dumps way worse than this place for PEZA locations.”

  “Those are little spaces big enough to hold a pizza oven, and a snack shop next door. You want to buy a two-block factory.”

  “For a song,” I repeat.

  “You’ll still have to pay American wages. And they’ll probably unionize. I’m telling you, the numbers don’t work. And making me come all the way out here hasn’t changed my mind.”

  I consider pushing back. He’s acting put-upon, but after we’re done in Williamsville, my pilot is taking us to the ridiculous mountain Mateo wants to buy for his rock climbing retreat-or-whatever — at which point, I’ll have to suffer through his pitch about buying something massive and filthy. We made a bargain: he goes with me if I go with him. This way, we both end up bored and thinking the other is a fool.

  We bicker about the finances of running this plant versus the PR benefits of having an “all-American” line. Mateo doesn’t see things my way, and I don’t see his.

  “You’re acting like an impetuous little shit. You’re growing so fast it’s making you dumb.”

  “Bigger and better,” I repeat.

  Like last time, Mateo just gives me a look.

  Pfft. Screw what he thinks. I know my company and what it needs.

  I move away from Mateo, the toes of my mini-boots kicking trash before walking over it, giving rats a chance to flee the piles before I’m on top of them. The shadows aren’t deep, so closer I can see them fine. There’s a lot of crap piled up in here. Hulks of ancien
t equipment, rusted into dust. Mountains of what appear to be rodent-shredded blankets, meant for God knows what. Entire boxes of bolts and machine parts that have mildewed with age, spilling their contents into dusty huddles. The air is stagnant and hot. It reeks. The only circulation comes from the high windows, but half are broken — testament to the strong throwing arms of local kids, I imagine.

  I love how much the Billings & Pile building is a dump. Behind the skin of filth is a fine brick building that could be magnificent. Buying this place is win-win. I get my American Pride sticker, and Williamsville gets … well, I’m sure they’ll get something. And this little armpit can use the help.

  We hear a sound. I think something bigger than a rat is scampering around in the scrap metal — a feral cat, a wild dog, a damn bear for all I know — but it’s only Carlo, the realtor who listed the building.

  “You guys still alive in here?” he calls, coming through the open side door.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  He’s squinting into the dark from the doorway. “Where are you?”

  “Over here. Next to the—” I look at the machine corpse beside me. It’s unrecognizable. “—cotton gin.”

  Carlo tiptoes his way through the space, homing in on my voice. Carlo is a true salesman, in every small-town sense of the word. He asked us about our families, about where we were from. Small talk to grease the deal. His dark brown hair is sensibly parted. He has a little gut behind his tucked-in shirt and a permanent smile. I keep expecting him to pull a shoot from a field of wheat and stick it between his teeth.

  Carlo comes up beside me, dodging a pile of scrap that threatens to impale him. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at the machine beside me.

  “That’s a baler,” he says. “Like a trash compactor. Anything in here you want to keep? It’s yours, y’know. There’s a garage on Main, called Lloyd’s, that does machine repair on the side. I imagine you could use a baler for your operation.”

  I give the baler another glance. Its front looks like a mouth that’s eaten something tragic. The idea of dragging the shit heap down to “good old Lloyd” on the corner for a tune-up makes me sad.

  “So,” Carlo says, “you like what you see? Have any questions? Where’d your buddy get to, anyway?”

  I turn to look, then see a Mateo-shaped silhouette heading toward the door. “Oh, he’s—”

  I swing my arm around to point, but something catches it. There’s a tugging sensation and then my arm swings too far, almost overbalancing me.

  “Aww, look at that,” Carlo says.

  I’m already looking. A rusty protrusion on the baler snagged the cuff of my blazer when I turned to point, and now my $1500 coat’s sleeve is hanging open like a peeled banana.

  “God dammit.”

  Carlo hesitates a second before replying. I’m certain he’s mentally objecting to my use of the Lord’s name in vain. Fucking people around here.

  “I guess you shouldn’t have worn that nice jacket in here,” he says.

  Mateo is at the door. He’s either putting on his own jacket, which he left outside, or is holding it up to mock me. It was a little chilly outside when we arrived, but warm in the building. Mateo told me to take my blazer off and lay it on the hood of Carlo’s car with his. I said I wasn’t putting something this fine on Carlo’s shitbox. And now look where we are.

  “Well, that’s a shame. But it’s warming up already, so I think you’ll be okay without a coat. Fix it when you get back.”

  Except that that won’t work because our next stop is a mountain. It’ll be cold up there for sure, and neither of us packed bags. My choices are to freeze on the next leg of our trip or look like a hobo.

  “I need to have it fixed now,” I say.

  “Well, if you want it patched up right away, we have a tailor here in town.”

  “Thanks, but I’m sure—”

  “No, it’s really good. Just had my slacks taken in.” His thumbs find his belt, indicating his prodigious waistline. “Lost some weight on Atkins.”

  Mateo has come to us, his jacket over his forearm like a waiter’s towel. He looks amused, as though this flight to Williamsville has made him the happiest man on the planet.

  “That sounds like a good idea, Hampton. Before you start wheeling and dealing on this fine building, you should take your coat to the tailor.”

  I eye him. My jaw works.

  Carlo is already leading the way out. “Come on. I’ll show you. It’s up on Spruce, and it’s called The Perfect Fit.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HAMPTON

  THE SUPPOSEDLY AWESOME TAILOR SHOP on Spruce Street looks closed when we arrive. The door isn’t propped open; there’s no sign indicating its status, and there are so many garments crowding the front window that you can’t see inside. It looks like a hoarder’s showcase. Only a small hanger above the door — The Perfect Fit, Grace Custom Alterations — gives any sign of life.

  Carlo opens the door. A bell jingles.

  “Stacy?” Carlo calls as Mateo and I trade a glance. “You in here, hon?”

  I stand back, watching Carlo vanish through a drape of racked clothes like a magician’s trick.

  “I’ll hang out here,” Mateo says, “but you have fun.”

  I follow Carlo, emerging into a claustrophobic little place. It looks like something out of the previous century. The side-wall windows look like antique glass, not entirely clear. The shop isn’t as cluttered as it appeared from the outside, but the ceiling is too low, and the neat racks of clothes are too numerous for the space. The only activity is a hum and shuffle from a brightly lit back room.

  A chair rakes the floor. The humming stops. A woman emerges.

  Carlo hugs her then says, “Stacy, this is Mr. Hampton Brooks. He has a little wardrobe emergency.”

  I’m already agitated, but the shopkeeper’s sympathetic expression cranks it up another notch. I don’t want to be in her shop, and I don’t like Carlo’s suggestion that she gets to save me.

  “Oh no!” she says, like I’ve run over a puppy. Then her hands are on my blazer where Carlo’s indicated the rip.

  “What happened?” she asks, looking up at me. Anyone who reacts to a tailor’s job with genuine emotion is clearly unstable.

  Carlo jumps in to answer. “Ripped it on a hunk of junk. Metal was sticking out and here we are.”

  “Here you are,” the girl repeats, looking down. She’s holding my blazer’s frayed sleeve. She spreads her fingers and rolls the fabric over them as if to study the nuance.

  “I’ll wait outside with Mr. Saint.” Carlo smiles at the girl and puts a hand on her shoulder. Then he turns to me. “Meet you when you’re through, Mr. Brooks.”

  When Carlo is gone, the girl takes her gaze from the fabric and finally meets my eyes. “It’s ripped at the seam. That’s good news.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Can you repair it? Now?”

  “Yes. No problem.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes,” she says. Smiling still. Which is good, because although I didn’t mean it, that last bit was an insult. I know she has a sewing machine in the back; I heard it humming when we walked in. I’ll bet it’s great at putting patches on overalls and mending matronly smocks. But this blazer is Italian.

  Without asking permission, she reaches for my collar and peels the garment off. I move away and see that she’s turning the sleeve inside out, inspecting the damage from the other end.

  “Yep. It just unraveled. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It didn’t unravel. I ripped it on a machine.”

  She gives me a down-home smile. “I’m sure you snagged it. But the fabric didn’t rip, see?” She shows me the sleeve. “It was probably fraying already. The machine just gave it a nudge.”

  She shrugs, still pondering the fabric as if there’s more to see. Then she takes the blazer and crosses the shop, stopping under a lamp.

  “What?” I say after another minute of quiet investigation.

&nbs
p; “It’s just … where did you get this blazer?”

  “Barcelona.”

  “Is that in Atlanta?”

  “No, it’s in Barcelona.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Spain,” I elaborate.

  She looks like she’s about to say something, then stops and moves to a paper-littered desk. There’s a computer among the chaos, and she begins typing into it, as if preparing my order.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I can have this ready by Tuesday. Will that work?”

  I don’t even hear the question. “Why did you ask where I got it? Why were you looking at it so funny?”

  “It’s just strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Well, honestly, I figured you got it second-hand.”

  “Second—”

  “But then I look at the rest of what you’re wearing, and you don’t strike me as a thrift shop kind of guy.”

  “I told you. I got it in Barcelona. I have a tailor there.”

  She’s still typing into the computer, seemingly unwilling to continue this conversation. Holding back for my benefit.

  “It’s custom,” I say.

  “I know. I saw the maker label, and it’s pretty clear that it’s not an off-the-rack size, not an off-the-rack cut.”

  “It’s not.” Now I’m defensive. The blazer she’s tossed onto the Everest of paperwork probably cost more than her first car.

  “And it also doesn’t strike me as off-the-rack and then altered. Not made-to-measure, even. True custom. Bespoke. You stood for this blazer, didn’t you? Maybe a round or two of fittings?”

  “Two. In Spain.”

  She nods.

  “What?”

  “Look,” she says. “I can fix it. That’s all that matters.”

  “But?”

  She sighs, seems to reach a decision she was hoping to avoid. “Honestly, it’s not very well made.”

  “It’s custom!”

  “Your tailor didn’t leave much fabric behind for future alterations. I don’t see any notions sewn in, and look: see the buttonhole stitching?”