On the Up by Shilo Jones

Author:Shilo Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2018-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

Self-transformation. Every guerrilla op requires a fluid identity, even if it’s only a fake ID and a pasted-on accent. My brother standing in his boxers on a Persian carpet in the middle of a windowless oak-panelled room on the top floor of a brick three-storey walk-up in Gastown, arms spread horizontal while a white-haired tailor takes his measurements with a focus bordering on meditative. I’m seated on an antique high-backed chair, its dark hardwood lacquered to a gloss that matches the shine in Clint’s gold money clip. Classical music piped in from hidden speakers. A real class act, this cash-only tailor of Vincent Peele’s.

The tailor lifts his lanky frame, exhales, says he has something that will work while Clint waits for the bespoke, vanishes. Clint lowers his arms, tries to look like he’s comfortable here, but I know better.

“How close to getting that land for Peele?” I ask.

“Acquisition. Assembling smaller parcels and bidding on the largest property. There are competitors.”

“Shocker.”

“Dude named Scott Charles Booth owns three-quarters of the property. Grandfather was a lumber baron. Big player. Established. Doesn’t need the money, and so has to be offered other incentives.”

I’m about to ask incentives like what when the tailor glides in, sets a charcoal-grey jacket against Clint’s chest. I’m having a hard time making things gel, watching my brother get dolled up for the in-crowd, thinking about Daree and my daughter and somehow that makes my blown-up leg start hurting. The tailor gives Clint his new slacks, tells him to put them on, takes a measurement, says they need a quick hem. Clint sits beside me in his boxers, picks up an Architectural Digest, flips through it. “You should visit the old man. Sooner than later.”

“Why sooner?”

“Cuz he’s expecting you.”

I take this in while the tailor returns with Clint’s slacks and they discuss shirt and tie colour and pattern combinations. Apparently there are guidelines for these decisions, protocols, a world of masculine knowledge Clint and me were never privy to. If men’s fashion were the only way the old man failed us maybe I’d go see him. Clint begins getting dressed. It’s a nice suit, glen plaid in muted grey-brown, understated, not too slick.

“Second time I’ve worn one, not counting that piece of shit yesterday,” Clint says, posing in front of a gilded full-length mirror. “First was when mom died.”

“I remember that thing,” I say, standing. “A rental, right?”

“Sure.” The tailor makes some adjustments, fiddles with Clint’s collar. Says he wants to try another tie. Clint waves him away. “Felt awkward as hell. Goofy shoulders riding up to my ears.”

“And now?”

Clint smiles at his reflection. “Feels fuckin’ mackin’.”

“Mom should see you.” My brother hands the nameless tailor a hefty stack of bills. “She wouldn’t even recognize you.”

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