Now

The lectern of the conference room is emanating darkness. Profits are down. I know this because we all know this. There is no escaping the revelation. I yearn to feel anything other than concern, but the senior regional marketing director is speaking and tears are flowing down his face. We are running out of new markets to sell our tiny jackets. We have always believed in the future of tiny jackets. They are too small for utility’s sake, and so speak to some greater purpose: a jacket that does not protect you from the elements, that does not reach the bottom of your waist or shield your wrists from view is a statement. It is a statement of man against nature. It is the dominance of will, the heavenly mandate of style against substance, that liberates us from beastly matter.

But these dark times herald another argument: Men and women of means, between the ages of 16-40, are afraid to be seen in tiny jackets. They fear the condemnation of the masses. Since the first goose egg was tossed at our company’s annual red carpet event last fall, the tides have been turning against our pure and unfettered vision for this world.

We fear what this dark tide portends.

I fear it, perhaps, most deeply of all.

During the intermission, I text my wife: The age of visionary outerwear is ending.

She texts me back okay.

I know we have been trial separated for several months now, but her indifference stings. Perhaps she does not remember the day we met as fondly as I. It was a warm spring day in Barcelona and my neighbor had just died. I had learned this via email, as I had not been home in Newark for several weeks. She had always been so kind, even after our disagreement about property lines. She had even agreed to not press charges for the incident. Her warmth had departed the world and left me fearful for my own mortality, for the harsh winter of the soul.

And then, walking down the cobblestone street, smiling as if she had never paid taxes, was my Gertrude, my soul mate, sheathed in top-heavy white over flattering red.

I spilled my cortado all over my blouse when she stepped into my life. She laughed, then, and in the sunbeams that carried her laugh I saw tiny jacketed angels, unfettered by the cruelties of this world, laughing with her.

We were a whirlwind. A tropical storm. But like all hurricanes, we unraveled after reaching the shore, leaving detritus and sorrow in our wake.

That evening, the team traveled as a cluster to Danube, a high-end riverfront restaurant that just opened three weeks prior. It was trending in dominant economic circles for its geometric interior design. Cube lights. Cube tables. Cubed ice. The harsh yet self-secure lines told the refined eater that they had entered a space where vision superseded conformity. It was the ideal environment for us, as a company, to discuss our shared future.

Our junior international customer relations executive, Darren, spoke up first.

“It may be concerning, our path ahead, but I believe there we can see it through.”

He was met with cheers and the angular clanking of cubed glasses of wine.

A new hire, whose name and position I was unfamiliar with, spoke up next.

“I think,” he began, voice shaking with courageous uncertainty, “that we should focus our efforts on uplifting markets in peril. Perhaps we can instill a long-lasting cultural brand loyalty by funding critical infrastructure.”

The private room went quiet.

The senior regional marketing director was the first to break the silence. “What was your name, again?”

The new hire smiled sheepishly. “Clint, sir.”

“Clint,” the director smiled. “Such vision. Come with me outside. Let’s discuss this further.”

They both stood to the sound of polite applause, the director’s hand resting on the small of the new hire’s back.

Anna, our head of online interactions seated next to me at the table, took a deep sip of her riesling. I followed her lead. We both knew what this moment meant. The headline tomorrow would say it was mysterious circumstances, but there was no mystery. It was a gesture of sincerity, one we all knew well. One could not internalize and pursue the brand goals of Intérêt Pour La Veste with so much confusion, so much needless yearning. It was a sign of bad faith, rotted to the roots. One that could only be met with decisive action.

Though our market share was diminishing, though the bright future we yearn to reach has flown further up into the stratosphere, beyond the reach of mortal wingspans, we must know, in our heart of hearts, that there is no changing course. To say otherwise was to admit a fault in tiny jackets. In their purpose.

And that was not us. And it would never be us.

That night at the hotel I arranged a private visit from an escort to my room. She was wonderful and expensive, but rightly so. I was not ashamed to do so, though I prefer a longer courtship. She looked just like my wife, and in some ways, like me.

Before we made love, I had her try on our summer collection. She enjoyed the lab-grown leather piece. It was not my personal favorite of the batch, but her joy was sincere and infectious and I tipped her 200%.

She asked if she could take it home with her. I smiled and kissed her upon the neck, leaving a lipstick stain and told her no. That privilege was for those above our station. Even I couldn’t wear them early, and I’d worked here for seven years.

That night, I dreamed of Zeus, god of thunder, seated atop Mount Olympus, and how fetching and proper he might look in a tiny jacket. It was only on waking I remembered my son’s birthday was three days ago. The day the conference started.

_________

John is the author of two books, Boxcutters and Feast of the Pale Leviathan, the editor-in-chief of Cold Signal magazine, and the co-owner of Evening House Books with his partner Amanda. They live in Buffalo, NY with their pets and jackets.