Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

Still giggling, she holds up an appetizer fork. “Tiny,” she says. More giggles.

“Yeah, it’s small,” Excelsior says awkwardly. He looks at the menu. He can’t read it. It’s in French. But looking at the menu gives him something to do.

“Yeah!” More giggles.

The waiter knows, instinctively, that they don’t belong there. He drapes his contempt in kindness. “Take all the time you need with the menu, Monsieur.” This gets Excelsior. He’s not used to people being snotty to him. He feels the heat build up behind his eyes. All he has to do is let it go to reduce this guy to cinders. He reels it back in. What was he thinking? He was a hero. The good guys don’t do that kind of thing. Besides, he’s taking a night off. Doesn’t he deserve a night off? A long weekend now and again? Nobody can work all the time. How are you supposed to make friends, have a relationship? Or even just get your rocks off? Excelsior isn’t exactly human, but, he has needs.

Excelsior orders the cheapest bottle of champagne and some oysters. Cindi with an ‘i’ doesn’t like oysters, so Excelsior orders her some french fries. The waiter nods and says “Pomme Frites,” with a judicious balance of agreement and contempt. What a jerk. Excelsior doesn’t want frites. He want fries. But after a few drinks, a few oysters, the evening is almost agreeable. He seems to be making progress with Cindi with an ‘i’.

Then the pager goes off.

When he’s not in costume, Excelsior often gets teased about carrying a pager. “Call me old fashioned. It works,” is what he says. But works isn’t the half of it. The box clipped to his belt will receive a signal anywhere on the globe. Not only does it work under 300 feet of solid rock, it will even work when 300 feet of solid rock is trying to crush it. It will even receive a signal on the moon. Excelsior is pretty sure he can destroy it, but it has to be the toughest man-made object he’s ever encountered. In a perverse way, he’s proud of the device.

Excelsior has never consciously considered that the pager is the wrong end of the leash, but once he dreamed that he threw it into the furnace of the sun. Even in his dream the pager had gone off. It had called him away from it’s own destruction.

When the pager goes off, it means that he has to go. Whatever is on the other end of that vibration, it is important. If he doesn’t go, right now, people will die. They may be brave men struggling for their lives, or innocents and children, but whoever they are, they are in danger. To be fair, they never use this thing frivolously. And isn’t a privilege to carry this pager? To be able to help? Then why is he so angry?

For all her faults, Cindi with an ‘i’ is there. She is ready, willing and eager. As she leans forward, Excelsior wonders if her bare thighs are pressing against the leather of her seat. He wonders if she is wearing panties. He uses his X-ray vision to look through the table and answer his question.

Again the pager vibrates like the soulless, unforgiving thing that it is.

As the smug waiter passes, Excelsior grabs his arm. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to bruise. “I need a shot of bourbon and the check.” The waiter winces in pain, but still the corners of his mouth drop in contempt. Excelsior gives the arm another little squeeze. He can feel the bones grinding together. “It’s important,” says Excelsior, “And it needs to be the very next thing you do.”

The blood drains from the waiter’s face and he nods. Excelsior releases his arm.

“What’s the matter?” asks Cindi with an ‘i’.

“I’m sorry baby. Daddy’s got to go,” Excelsior holds up the pager, “important business.”

“You’ve always got an important business. What about me? Aren’t I important business?” She leans over the table and showcases her breasts. Surely they are some of the finest that money can buy.

“I’m sorry. This kind of business doesn’t wait.”

“Whatever. I think you’re gay.”

“I am not gay.”

“We’ve been on what, three dates and you always run off before you have to take care of the most important business!”

“Look my work is complicated.”

“Your work. Your small penis.”

“But,”

“And you never any fun. And you never buy me any cocaine.”

“What?”

“You’re no fun,” pouts Cindi with an ‘i’.

“This conversation is over.”

“You bet your small penis it’s over. Don’t call me again.”

She storms off. Excelsior will have to look for true love elsewhere. The waiter sets the check down and leaves quickly. Excelsior does not look up at him. If he had caught even the slightest hint of a smile he would have burned the waiter down in front of everybody. His eyes grow hot again. Sometimes it comes out as lasers, sometimes as tears. Either way, choking back the emotion is the smart thing to do.

Excelsior knocks back the drink and throws money at the check. He thinks it’s ridiculous that he should have to pay the check. How many times has he saved this city? And what thanks? I mean really, a key to the city? A key that opens no doors.

As he wings his way out of town, the question rattles around in his head “Does he wear the costume, or does the costume wear him?”

To Edwin’s way of thinking the ultimate end of formal dress is to show the human form in its best light – to present one’s self to advantage. And, to that end, any garment should lend authority, gravity and dignity. It should minimize weakness and vice, maximize strength and virtue. And to fully focus the force of personality through the lens of fabric, a man requires a tailor.

And not just any tailor. What is required is a remarkable man. An artist working faithfully in a rapidly disappearing art, deeply rooted in a tradition that stretches back through the centuries. A tradition that includes countless suits, crafted to fit countless numbers of men – gentlemen and rogues, saints and killers – the just and the unjust alike. When viewed at this level the tailor’s art encompasses, not merely needle and thread, scissors and fabric, but the whole cloth of mankind in all its shapes and sizes. And this is exactly the altitude from which Mr. Giles, Edwin’s tailor, considers his craft.

Mr. Giles is descended from a long line of Saville Row tailors. So the material he has measured most carefully is the cloth of his own life. Each suit he has made has taken over 1,000 stitches. Each stitch has been made by hand. With measuring, fitting, and adjustments these thousand stitches absorb about 100 hours.

So 100 hours per suit, divided into perhaps 50 working years, makes 20 suits a year. A few allowances for quality, tuning up old suits, having a nice weekend, and working at a reasonable pace — this is, after all, a marathon, not a vulgar sprint — and Mr. Giles has calculated the span of his own life. He believes he will live to make 1000 perfect suits.

Fortunately, Mr. Giles has no modern ideas about retirement. Many, many people have worked hard to make him the craftsman he is. And he is happy to be absorbed in a long and honorable tradition. He will work until he can no longer maintain the standard. And his fervent wish is to die in the harness, on the job, with the feel of the fabric between his fingers. When he lets go his grip on this world, the last thing he wants to feel is a fine worsted wool slipping between his fingers as he goes.

The suit that Edwin lays out on the four-poster bed is suit number seven hundred and twenty-one.

When this particular suit was fitted, Mr. Giles explained to Edwin that cloth that he had selected, or spoken for (and hence the term Bespoke tailoring) was the last of a very old fabric. A fine fabric, and one that he had used to cut a suit for Edwin’s father. At this mention of his dead father, Edwin had stiffened slightly, causing the cuff of his pants to rise 1/32 of an inch by Mr. Giles measurements. For Mr. Giles, this 1/32nd of an inch was a vast gulf filled with meaning. The good tailor quickly changed the subject to silence. Edwin had not thought of his father since.