The Shirt that Brunello Made

I found this shirt on the clearance rack at Neimans. At checkout, I stopped the lady.

“Excuse me,” I said.  “That shirt was 75% off.”

“That IS the marked down price,” she says. I pause for a moment.

“What is it, Versace?” I say this in jest, as a euphemism for very expensive.

“No, it’s not.” She says this with a straight face. I sense distain. As if she took personal offense to this reference.

“It’s Brunello Cucinelli. It’s even more expensive.”

That means nothing to me. It reminded me of that band Milli Vanilli in the 90’s who lip-synced all the words and it was a big scandal.  Or that brand Z Cavaricci, which claimed  to be fancy but everyone knew you could buy the jeans at Costco, stacked up in lumpy piles.

“How can it be more expensive than Versace?” I asked.

“It’s a very exclusive,” she says.

“You mean expensive,” I corrected.

She looks me over. “That’s a great price. It was originally $1,300.”

“For a shirt?” I said. “For the love.”

Perhaps she thought I fell off the fashion turnip truck. Which, okay. Good point. I suppose it’s partly true. I am digging around the clearance rack and I’ve never heard of this fine man Brunello. I grew up in a small town in Texas where we wore flannel shirts and boots.

“Well truthfully I’m a little pissed off,” I tell her. “Because it fits so well. And I want to buy it.”

She nods like she knows.  Like it’s a universal truth that I touched this shirt and it went on my body, and is now a part of me, and I must have it. Even if 75% off the already discounted price is $130 with tax.

It is the one connection we have, this saleslady and me, eye to eye, the shirt between us. She is holding it up with a judgmental question mark in her eyes. It’s a stalemate of whether I’ll buy it. Here it is, what are you gonna do?

The fact is, good design pulls one in and ends up holding its own weight in an argument.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

She nodded in approval, like I had chosen the correct door, allowed this Bruno man to dress me, like a good student taking a teacher’s instruction.

Now if I can only refrain from spilling BBQ sauce or mustard on it. That will be the real fashion miracle.