Taking Measure

I have always had a weakness for endangered things.

Churches full of empty pews most Sundays. Cemeteries whose visitors never knew the names on the stones. Old taverns that had somehow hung on to their roots for decades after everyplace else turned into a sports bar. Places that once held communities together, and when they were gone, kept their memories intact.

Cuff & Collar belonged on that list.

When I arrived, I took up a position in the corner and began inspecting the imported fabrics on display. Years of practice had taught me how to look interested enough to be ignored. Half the shelves that once held fabric bolts were bare. Reading my body language, David Reed continued canvassing a new suit in his workshop in the back. The narrow passage connecting the showroom to the workshop was overrun with unused suit bags.

In the back, I heard David on the phone with someone, talking as he worked. “It’s just that no one is getting married these days. Formal affairs aren’t happening. It’s like everyone’s lives are frozen in limbo. The costume designers and production people have been keeping me afloat. People though. I don’t know. It really makes me question everything.”

That made two of us.

When police captain Culvert walked in, David emerged with a swatch book and began turning pages, stopping momentarily on different fabric choices. He got right to the point.

“I’m guessing you want a Class A Uniform with double buttons?”

“Did you hear how it happened?” Captain Culvert asked. David looked up, his fingers on a royal navy swatch.

“I heard.” Then David motioned for the captain to give him something. The captain produced an embroidered Hoboken Fire Department patch. The captain gave a long sigh and shook his head, signaling he had something to say and couldn’t leave until he got it off his chest.

“Floor gave way beneath him. They say he got two tenants out before it happened."

“That sounds like Roland.” David pointed again and pushed his finger down hard. “Navy is the right choice to honor him. I’ll need to get down to the morgue to get his dimensions. Please arrange for them to expect me this afternoon around three.”

“What for?”

“Because I have no intention of burying the wrong man. The fit is everything. Roland always stood slightly crooked. His left shoulder was lower than the right and less broad too. Old injury, I imagine.”

“You notice things like that?”

“Captain, I am a bespoke tailor. What is it you think I do all day?”

“Fair point.”

While the men selected fabrics, I unfolded the letter from the home office for the third time this week. THRONE REVIEW REQUESTED. I folded it again. Some messages improved with distance. This was not one of them. And the date was approaching. I had always been puzzled by people who sat on a cancer diagnosis for months. Or waited until the night before a sheriff's sale to fight for their home. I was beginning to understand them.

“The department isn’t doing well. Will this be… expensive?”

“Don’t worry about the price. We’ll put you on a payment plan. Let’s make sure we do right by Roland.”

The captain was inspecting another tailored Italian suit on display and running his fingers across the lapel. His eyes briefly glanced at several bare display mannequins. “One ought to make an effort for photographs,” he said, “anything for Roland.” And the captain left as quickly as he’d come.

At that moment, Terry Voss came in, causing the little bell over the door to jingle. He stopped as he entered. Terry was a rail of a man, with thick spectacles and a shock of hair on each side of his head, and a shiny bald spot up top. His slim fit suit hung from his frame, and even his neck leapt from his white button down with room to spare.

“Mr. Reed, I’ve come to deliver this notice of violation in person.”

“What’s this now?”

“NFPA standards, followed in this state, require fire alarm inspections to be set up annually, and records kept on site. When I was here last month, the records you produced weren’t current.”

“I was in the middle of a set of suits for a movie production in town.”

“Rules are rules, Mr. Reed. I don’t make them. I just enforce them. Now I checked with the fire department, and it seems to me there must have been a clerical error. They said they were here. The problem is that your records say different.”

“Really?”

“I almost threw it out.” Terry straightened his tie. “Very nearly.” A smile lifted his cheeks up toward the heavy frames.

“What?”

“The violation.”

“Then, why didn’t you?”

“Then I’d be the one standing in front of the judge.”

“I’ve got a lot to deal with right now. Can’t you hold back the violation. I can’t afford fines and time off work. Not now.”

“If I had a nickel for every time…” Terry said, turning and briefly noticing me in the corner, which stopped him mid-thought. The smile on his lips fastened tight. Recognition. Then he returned to form. “Anyway Mr. Reed. Get it taken care of.” And Terry Voss left. The same bell ringing, but this time a bit duller than before.

David shuffled through the file cabinet behind the counter. A moment later he found the certificate. His expression darkened. "For heaven's sake." One digit. One tiny error. 2025 instead of 2026. And it was going to cost him.

The eviction file sat in my briefcase. It was time to intervene.

“You know who used to sit in that corner,” I said. Pointing to the stool in the far-right corner.

“Sinatra,” David said. “Why do you think I picked this place?”

“No. Anthony Mazzola. The singing barber of Hoboken. Everybody remembers Sinatra,” I said. “No one remembers the guy that always beat him at cards.”

“Who are you again?”

“Arthur Cluett. Historic Preservation.”

“You need a suit?”

“I probably do,” I said, brushing some lint off my jacket. “I haven’t had a new suit that fit right in a very long time.” Then I took a few steps toward the front of the store, looking out the window.

“No offense, Mr. Cluett, but I need to get back to work.”

“Have you ever thought of making this place a historical site?”

“People keep offering to preserve my building.”

David laughed.

“Nobody has ever offered to preserve my customers.”

“About that. There are certain restrictions to the use of historical sites that make it difficult for a landlord to ply above-market rent. That alone probably won’t save you.”

“But…”

"I'll think about it."

"The hearing is Thursday."

David stared at him.

"Thursday?"

Arthur nodded.

"How long did you think your landlord was going to wait for his rent?"

***

The Spa Diner was a railroad style heirloom from a bygone era. Booths, stools, counter, and 1950’s stainless steel siding meant to call back the image of converted rail dining cars and lunch wagons.

Terry Voss sat in a booth drinking an espresso and meticulously dissecting a Cobb salad, organizing its contents into separate sections in his plate. The egg with the egg. The bacon with the bacon. The tomatoes arranged in a neat red pile. Terry never ate a Cobb salad. He deconstructed one.

“Terry,” I said, helping myself to a seat. “Or should I call you Titivillus?”

“Good to see you Arthur, or should I call you Archaiah?”

“The thing I keep asking myself is what does a demon want with an old failing tailor shop?”

Terry smiled.

"You still think it's about the shop."

"Then enlighten me."

"David Reed is one of the last people in Hoboken who still believes he matters."

“What do you want with him?”

"He dresses the dead. Fits the groom. Pins medals on retiring police captains. Everyone comes to him when they're becoming something."

"And?"

"And they're not becoming anything anymore."

The waitress brought Terry another espresso without asking.

"How long has she worked here?" I asked.

"Twenty-eight years," Terry said.

"You looked it up?"

"I caused her divorce. Text message typo. Misunderstanding."

“You seem proud of yourself.”

"Three letters. Wrong recipient."

He speared another tomato.

"Marriage lasted twenty-one years. Shame."

"Why are you telling me any of this?"

Terry stabbed a cherry tomato.

"Professional courtesy."

"Since when?"

"Since your review."

“How did you hear about it?”

“Word gets around. I heard you are being reviewed by Sandalphon. Can’t be good.”

“I suppose not.”

“How many cities have you saved, Arthur? How many buildings?

"Enough."

"And where are they now?"

“You think it is better to destroy?”

"Funny."

"What is?"

"You spend an awful lot of time meddling with things that are already dead."

***

I had not been summoned into the Presence for an extraordinarily long time. A summons like that was a sign of the importance of your work. A Throne Review was a comparative insult. But here I was, back at the home office, ready to meet Sandalphon.

The marble hallway seemed to go on forever. My feet echoing through its chambers. Before long a figure like a shadow appeared and walked toward me. The figure grew larger as it approached. And then finally sat down in the center of the chamber, legs crossed and hunched his giant head forward to look down at me. The garlands of the prayers of the faithful that he bound into large necklaces that hung down from his neck jingled against one another making music, like the music of a windchime.

“Arthur.”

“It has been too long.”

“I called for you for a reason.”

“How can I be of service?”

“First, how are you?”

“To be honest, I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“I get it. I once walked the Earth as you do now. But these days, I am like you. I watch over things so delicate that they can be broken by a strong breeze.” His voice boomed like weather coming over the mountains into the valley, but it was also full of music. Even though Arthur had spent a lot of time at the home office, it was still something to behold after all this time

“How do you hold onto such things?”

“Good question. I collect prayers. Wishes so fragile they can’t even be spoken aloud. I protect unborn children. Souls so helpless they lack fear. I am the patron of all strivers. Dreams so brittle they start our fractured. But you know what the most fragile thing of all is?”

“You have me there.”

“Belonging.”

"I don't understand."

"I just answer prayers, Arthur. I'll leave the interpretation to you." Sandalphon’s voice boomed with the music of the almighty’s heart.

“He is just there, down the hall?” Arthur asked.

“Just down there,” Sandalphon said.

“It has been a long time since I’ve seen him,” Arthur said, looking down at his feet and away from Sandalphon’s enormous eyes.

Arthur suddenly heard Sandalphon’s footfalls walking back toward the throne of the almighty.

“I’ll let him know,” Sandalphon said over his shoulder.

***

Judge Jimenez banged his gavel.

“Observer Suites Inc. vs. David Reed, Docket LT-000333-26.”

David stood up. “David Reed.” Rosie Hitscherstein, the Landlord’s attorney stood up. “Ready Landlord.”

“Alright, my court clerk said the parties have tried to resolve the matter and the case is on for trial. Mr. Reed, there is $42,000 of unpaid rent. Do you deny owing it?”

“No judge. I owe it.”

“Can you pay it today?”

“I just…”

“Yes or no, sir. Please. I have a busy docket. There are 38 more cases after yours. Can you pay it today or not?”

“Today judge. No.”

“Eviction sustained. I’ll hold the judgment for 30 days. If anything changes by then let us know. Good luck to you both.”

I walked out in the hallway of the Jersey City Administration Building. It was a building with green windows like an old run-down schoolhouse. The halls were all made of marble, but the buildings inside hadn’t been updated for decades. Maybe ever. In the hallways old wood church pews were used for seating, since there were so many visitors.

I was waiting for David when I saw Terry rushing into the back hallway toward the administrative offices. I ran down to catch him.

“Terry… Terry.”

He turned and looked at me. He stopped.

“Arthur, what brings you here?”

“Trying to prevent a tragedy.”

“Shame.”

“There isn’t any way you could do me a favor.”

“You can’t be serious?

“I want to keep this tailor in his shop.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Maybe the Judge’s order has the wrong docket number. Maybe it buys him a little more time. Anything you can do, I’d be in your debt.”

“I’m not saying I’ll do it. But if I do. If. Then you better be ready to make good when its time.”

“Just do it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’ve never once asked you for a favor.”

“It would just be delaying the inevitable.”

“Do it anyway.”

“We’ll see.”

***

Terry didn’t come through. The eviction notice hung on the window of Cuff & Collar. A U-Haul was parked outside, and things were already being loaded in.

But today we were at Roland’s Funeral at Saint Peter & Paul’s on Hudson Street. David looked like something out of a James Bond film. But his eyes were the eyes of a man that had not slept in an eternity. I paid my respects and sat in the back of the room in the seat next to David. Roland sure did look like a hero in the double-buttoned dress blues that David designed for him. That is the thing about heroism. It costs you everything, and all you get in return is confirmation from others of what they already knew about you anyway.

After the eulogy, the Mass, and the priest laying the pall over the casket, the gathering started to spill outside, where everyone gathered and spoke in groups on the stairs and the sidewalk.

A throng of firefighters came up and shook David’s hands, talking to him about their weddings, first communions, and the other special days that marked their time in this town. Celene came up to David, pointing at her wedding ring, and thanking him for calming her down on her wedding day while he was busy bringing the groom the tuxedo he’d ordered at the very last possible minute. A young actor who we all recognized came up next and thanked David for helping him with the costume for his breakout role as a gangster. This went on for some time. I took a mental note of everyone that came up to him after the funeral.

“What are you going to do now, I asked?”

“I don’t quite know,” David said. “People still need suits.”

“That’s right they do. More than ever.”

“I’ll have to think about my next steps.”

“You know David?”

“Yes.”

“You really know these people.”

“That I do.”

“They can get a suit anywhere.”

“Not the way I make them.”

“Of course not. But that’s not my point.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Stick around, son.”

“I might. But there’s a lot I've got to think about.”

“Don’t think too long.”

“Why not?”

“You’re right where you belong.”

***

I looked up into the sky as I walked back to my office.

The clouds parted.

I felt the presence.

And then something occurred to me that I didn’t realize before.

It was never about the cathedrals, the schoolhouses, cemeteries or watering holes. Those were set pieces.

But the people on the stage, the people that came up to David – they were the point. They were still here. And I still had just as much to preserve as I ever did.

As these thoughts entered my mind, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the letter from the home office. The message had changed. It now read, “REVIEW COMPLETE. HE’D LIKE TO SEE YOU – SANDALPHON.”

I smiled and skipped a little as I walked down Hudson Street and found myself at the entryway of the Great Hall.