Frankly, I prefer wearing a suit. First off, there are morepockets. Like many men, I carry a lot of stuff. There is a walletand keys, pens, sunglasses, my security card, a pocketknife, ahandkerchief. It gets quite bulky stuffed into jean pockets - a suitjacket has room for all that gear, plus whatever newspaper clippings,bar matches and folded letters I pick up through the day.
There also is a certain feeling of readiness you get fromwearing a suit. This is a job where literally anything can happen,and if you're dressed down, well, it can be one of those memoriesthat causes you to flinch for the rest of your life.
Two incidents come to mind. One was on a Saturday night. I wasworking the late shift - 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. Typically, if I'd be sentout, I'd be sent to a fire. So I wore jeans and a T-shirt. No firethat night. But I did get sent to the Palmer House, I believe, for ablack-tie dinner for the Israeli prime minister, attended by thebrass of the newspaper. Not a good moment.
Even worse was a black-tie AIDS benefit. The men there reallyknew how to don a tuxedo. I went to this benefit, again at the lastminute, wearing jeans and a ragged linen short-sleeved shirt that hadbegun to fall apart. I was literally hiding behind plants, scootingup to men dressed like the cast of a Noel Coward play. I wouldapologize profusely, get a quote while trying to scrunch myself upinto a little ball, then hurry back behind a chair to hide until Iworked my courage up to sally out again and grab another quote.
A suit is so much easier. Lots of men grumbled when the wordwas put out, a few years back, that reporters at the newspaper wereexpected to dress properly. That was a shock to people used todressing as they pleased - I had once come to work in shorts and aHawaiian shirt.
But I didn't grumble; I felt liberated. The beauty of suits isthat you don't have to think. Just make sure you aren't wearing thesame one you wore yesterday, find a tie that doesn't clash terribly,and you're on your way.
Perhaps because I don't deal with software companies, I havenever gotten into trouble with the suit. Yes, I got a few long lookshanging around the dock at Montrose Harbor, chatting with boaters intank tops and cutoffs. And there was that terrible Blues Fest.
As you may know, it always rains at Blues Fest. Always. Theymight as well call it Rain Fest. I drew the short straw one evening,and went over there just as a monsoon of biblical proportions waslashing Grant Park. I happened to be wearing a blue pinstriped suit,tailor-made for me, and black wing tips - the best outfit I owned.
Of course I stayed under cover, by the bandshell. Until Inoticed, way out in the grass, one lone person - this goof, sittingall by himself, holding a garbage bag over his head, listening to themusic in the driving rain.
I at first tried to ignore him, tried to pretend that I didn'thave to do what I had to do. But duty called. I'll never forget theslow slog through that mudfield, the shiny wing tips sinking into themire, the rain matting the blue silk against my body.
I got to the man and flipped open my notebook, the raininstantly soaking the paper, the ink running down the page.
"I see you're enjoying yourself here at the Blues Fest," Isaid.
"Oh yes," he said. "I'm a big blues fan."
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