Karl the Tailor
By Jason E. Pearl
Courtesy Thistle
When I was about ten years old, I experienced a meaningful rite of passage. My parents bought me my first long trouser suit. Before that time, I had worn only knickers. I remember it was a dark herringbone wool, obviously intended to give lots and lots of wear. At that point in life my clothes size was euphemistically called “husky,” so the new suit needed some very specific alterations. My mother took me to Karl the Tailor, whose shop was right across the street from my school. He measured me and drew lots of lines with soap on the herringbone.
Not long thereafter some important event came along, but my new herringbone, long trouser suit was not hanging in my closet. My mother thought it must still be at Karl the Tailor’s. When she asked Karl for my suit, he said he must have given it to my mother when she picked up her last batch of dry cleaning and tailored items. My mother insisted that if that were so it would be hanging in my closet, which it was not. The discussion got heated, but non-productive. So, my mother briefed my father on the dispute, and we all marched down to Karl’s, where my father and Karl brought the disputation to a higher and angrier level. Finally, as a last straw, my father threatened to take Karl to small claims court. Karl, who spoke with a thick Slovakian accent, did not think he would do well in a trial against my parents, both of whom were native-born. So, he reluctantly paid my parents the entire cost of the suit.
A few weeks later my mother was cleaning out my closet and, in the floor’s, farthest reaches she made a discovery: there was my herringbone suit rolled up with a couple of shirts, some underwear, and a couple of pairs of socks.
She confronted me immediately and demanded to know what this treasure trove was.
I sheepishly admitted that I had put the clothes together one day when I had really gotten upset about something or other and prepared to run away from home.
“And why didn’t you run away?” she inquired.
“Well, the day I planned to run away it was raining. After that I forgot about the clothes.”
Needless to say, a long discussion took place that night and I was ordered to withdraw from the savings account that most kids opened in school an amount equal to what Karl had paid my parents.
That account was made up of the few cents I dedicated each week to it from out of my small weekly allowance. The withdrawal was devastating to me.
My parents marched me down to Karl’s, where I reimbursed him fully for the price of the herringbone and apologized for having stood by silently while he was wrongfully accused.
The lesson learned suited me well for the rest of my life. (Pun intended.)
Editorial Note. Thistle is the magazine of the Duncaster lifecare community, located in Bloomfield, Connecticut. Jason E. Pearl is a resident of Duncaster. We thank them for this excellent article – a perfect fit for The Peak. (Pun intended.) PS. That’s not the real Karl pictured above.
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