Grey Flannel Slacks

By Corrine Greenblatt-Schlessel

MzSugah@aol.com

Bitter wind chills made the 10 degree night feel as frigid as the top of Mount Everest. It whipped bits of paper and debris around every street corner and in and out of every nook between the loading docks. Luminous blue darkened streets were lit only by the full moon, shrouded by midnight clouds drifting over it's surface, as if caressing it's arresting beauty. It was a haunting night.

The street appeared deserted, but it was residence to a few homeless men and women who huddled in spaces among the loading docks that might shield and protect them from the fierce and biting January wind and bitter cold.

Edward yanked the pieces of his cardboard box more tightly to his chest. He pulled his knees up into a fetal position, trying to condense his fragile body into a tight ball that he might conserve whatever body heat he could create. He was chilled to the bone yet he could recall his life as it had once been. So embedded in his mind and heart was the force of that former life that it permeated even that arctic air. Those recollections kept his daily struggle to stay alive possible and was his greatest sustenance in his life as a street person.

He closed his eyes, pulling his hands into the sleeves of his ragged clothing and once again imagined he was in his own bed, in his own apartment. Edward had been a prosperous stockbroker. How, he often wondered had he come to be here? He knew the answer of course, but denied it all the same.

In the sunny office he'd shared with Bob Peterson, everything was in place. A feeling of efficiency emanated from the room like the glow of a new day.

Edward was dignified and cordial and exceedingly bright and had a keen sense of humor. He kept his clients' accounts in order and was a successful broker. He was liked by everyone; a no nonsense hard worker, diligent to the core.

Bob Peterson appeared to be a choice person to share an office with him. Younger by 10 years, eager, ambitious and personable. But Paterson was devious, and deceitful people are often good at concealing their manipulative nature, particularly to someone as naive about people as Edward.

Edward was too conscientious and trusting to take notice of anything out of the ordinary. He'd worked at Ted & Son's for almost twenty five years and had been more than moderately prosperous. He'd been interviewed by The Wall Street Journal, had been on financial advisory panels on television, and modestly enjoyed the comforts of his distinguished position.

A new, singularly large account was in delegated to him one day. For the first time in his career he was a bit overwhelmed, but rightfully trusted himself to make the best choices for his client. Then Edward did something unusual. Having shared an office with Paterson for three years, he decided to give his junior broker all but twelve of his choicest and largest accounts to handle. He'd never really paid attention to Paterson's business affairs as he trusted him and it was against his nature to discuss other agents' ledgers. But he nethertheless believed him to be an honest and decent person. Nothing thus far would have led him to believe otherwise. But Paterson had been systematically stealing from his clients' discretionary accounts.

Edward's weakness was his naivete. He trusted other people, believing that everyone was as honest as he was.

All seemed to be going well for several months until one day Edward was asked by a former client to check his investments; a client whom had been turned over to Peterson. Peterson was on an extended vacation in Europe and Edward thought nothing of viewing the portfolio as a courtesy to both the client and to Peterson.

Within fifteen minutes Edward became aware of major discrepancies in the account. He felt, as he watched the computer screen, that his blood was being drained from his body. The portfolio had lost over two thirds of it's original funds since Peterson had begun to handle it. Edward was too stunned to move for a moment. He sat starring at the screen in disbelief. He noticed too, that both his office code name and Petersons were on the account as managers.

He scanned the directory of clients' accounts and pulled up a few more names. Each account, to a varying degree had been steadily depleting it's funds. He immediately called his manager, Mr. Theodore, an imposing but reasonable man. Edward explained to him, why he was looking at the accounts and what he'd discovered. They both knew immediately that it was imperative to obtain legal counsel as quickly as possible. Edward was advised to remain calm and not to discuss this with anyone and to take the rest of the day off. It was mid afternoon; a beautiful June day.

Edward slowly took his suit jacket from the walnut hanger, and just as slowly, put his arms in the sleeves of his jacket, straightened his shoulders and walked out the door. As he passed people he knew, he barely raised his head to acknowledge them. It was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. Like a mechanical toy, he hailed a taxi, told the driver to take him to his apartment at Sutton Place, paid the fare, waved past the doorman, somehow got the key in the door, crumpled into his favorite worn, honey-colored leather chair, and fell asleep.

He felt a hand on his forehead and woke up, looking up into the dark brown eyes of Paula, his wife of 17 years. The lights of the city barely illuminated the room and the dimness made him feel as if he were not of the earth, but looking onto a stage from a great distance. He could barely lift himself from the exhaustion of the emotional strain of the day. Paula bent down and kissed him. He remained as he was, head to his chest. He felt as if his arms and legs were made of lead. The usual question was "How was your day?" In a barely audible voice, he began to unravel all of the scenarios his imagination could conjure up. He was in trouble through no fault of his own. He would need a lawyer. It was a serious criminal matter that might leave him in ruins. Their life as they knew it might be over. It was possible that he might have to go to jail. It may be in the newspapers. Paula listened. She agreed, it was serious. How might she help? Edward slowly shook his head from side to side in disbelief. There was nothing he could think of to say.

Paula walked away and he remained in his chair, disheveled in his grey flannel suit, until she called him to dinner. Their 10-year-old daughter, Jenny, having been told Daddy was very tired, kissed him hello, had her dinner, kissed him good night and had already gone to her room.

His appetite was voracious and he seemed to inhale his food. A heavy, deep sigh escaped him, and he decided to go right to bed. Maybe in the morning some way would be found to correct a situation that he knew was not correctable. Moving in a lethargic pattern that he followed each night, he showered, brushed his teeth, and got into his silk pajamas. Then into the kitchen for a kiss good night, and this bear of a man would become a child being tucked into bed by his caretaker, Paula.

Edward tried to look at the bright side. Paula, and Jenny were all that mattered to him. He wished he'd had more time to spend with his family, but it seemed to him that everyone had their own agenda to follow, with little time for each other except for the usual school holidays, skiing or to the beach, depending on the seasons they wished to escape to.

Within minutes he was sound asleep. Their housekeeper was finishing the dishes and the quiet clatter of the evening soon dinned to silence.

The following four months were hell on earth for Edward. Peterson had left a letter saying that Edward had pilfered from the accounts and that he'd left because he didn't want to be involved with a scandal that he said Edward had created. The letter had been left in Peterson's mail drawer to be found after he had disappeared. He was gone for good. Rumor had it that he was in the south of France,, but he was never found. Perhaps he'd changed his name. Edward couldn't give it a thought. He was too busy trying to maintain his innocence. Although the truth of the matter was obvious, Edward could not prove his credability. Lawyers; and judges; chambers became a new environment for Edward.

Peterson had planned his unscrupulous business well and Edward was given a choice of four years in jail, or turn over every asset he'd accumulated through the years to help repay the victims of Peterson's crimes.

Paula had not taken it well, as Edward thought she might. She had grown accustomed to a life style which she wanted to maintain, so she said, for Jenny. The apartment, along with it's prestigious address, had to be sold.

They moved to East 53rd street, which was still a choice area. Paula believed she might be able to support the family until Edward could find a new career. But within the next six months the family disintegrated into a surly tempered and disenchanted family. Paula could not continue to earn enough as a secretary to support them and the stress and strain took it's final toll. Paula and Jenny left. Edward felt destroyed.

They went to California to live with Paula's parents. Edward had no resources, no job, no family. His life was essentially over. A year later, given no choice, Paula divorced Edward. It was what they both wanted at the time, thinking that a family deserved a second chance at a better life. There was little he could provide for them, and no future that either of them were able to envision.

After losing many a menial job Edward found himself down near the docks. He was seriously depressed. One look at his hands and he was turned away from jobs requiring physical labor there. Given no other options, he became a beggar. Starvation was his companion, as was cold and homlessness.

There on the dark artic night his hand reached under the corner of the dock as he closed his eyes, and once again imagined he was in his own bed, in his own apartment. He touched something that reminded him of his former life, rolled over toward it as he lifted his head to see what was there. Rubbing his hands together, he pulled at the cloth. In the darkness, it looked like a ripped pair of grey flannel pants. And that it was. Edward was overjoyed. He was too cold to stand to put them on, so he jerked the pants under the cardboard and started to pull them over his ragged dirty old black slacks. They seemed to fit well and he shifted to his side and fell asleep.

Drifts of snow covered his cardboard hovel. He awoke to the sound of a dog sniffing at his face. Edward slowly and carefully removed the layers of cardboard from himself. He had to preserve them for as long as possible for he hoped to have them for the remaining time of the winter. He pushed them under the dock for safe keeping.

He put his hands into the pockets of his new grey flannel slacks, wondering where that great big tear went, for now they looked perfectly new. He felt something in the right pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill. What luck he thought, breakfast ~at the least coffee and a bagel. He absentmindedly put the dollar in the left pocket, walking toward the corner as he did. A diner was a block away and he shuffled along, hungry as a bear, looking forward to food that was not recycled trash. He put his hands in his pants pockets as he walked. Funny, he thought, feels like another bill. He took out the paper, and there it was, another one-dollar bill. Strange, he thought again, how'd it escape him the first time.

The diner was empty except for the cook and Sally, a waitress. He passed there many times before and could barely scrape together enough for more than a cup of soup. Sally always gave him extra crackers and he was grateful for the humane behavior. He felt himself to be little more than an animal.

He sat down at the counter and loved to feel the stool spin around. It reminded him of the times he'd playfully spun Jenny's chair around in their kitchen, teasing her about being a dizzy gal. Sally put a cup of steaming vegetable soup on the counter in front of him. Extra crackers too, of course. He reached for the two dollars he now had in his left pocket, and put them on the counter. Sally smiled, telling him how wonderful it was that he could buy a real breakfast today. Edward was able to have eggs, toast, hash browns and coffee. He sighed deeply, grateful for the pleasure of a hot meal.

It was ten degrees outside and the wind was as fierce this bright morning as it had been the night before. He relished each bite, each morsel of toast, each spoonful of soup, as if it were his first and last meal on earth. He rubbed his cold hands together and put them in his pockets to get warm. To his astonishment, he felt another piece of paper in the right pocket.

He pulled his hand out partially, dollar in hand. He gasped, almost inaudibly. Surely, he thought, I could not have missed three one-dollar bills! He took that third bill and again put it in the left pocket, which he'd just emptied.

He wiped his plate clean with his last bit of toast, finished his coffee, and felt too satisfied to move. He had nowhere to go anyway. He gave Sally a dollar tip which she resisted, but he insisted she take it. As he put the extra packages of saltines in his pocket for later, he felt yet another piece of paper. Edward was so astounded he could hardly wait to find a corner alone to see what more was in the pocket of these grey flannel pants.

He went into a stall in the men's room and turned the pockets inside out. From the left pocket, a one-dollar bill floated out; the one he'd put there moments before; ~from the right nothing. He put the money back into the left pocket, then felt yet another dollar bill in the right pocket. Edward could hardly contain himself. He was over joyed. He was a simple man and while greed never entered his mind, afterall he was destitute. The simple necessities are what he needed and wanted now. He braced himself for the cold, and left the diner, planning to take a five dollar a night slum room.

As he walked toward the flea bag hotel, he took five one-dollar bills, one at a time, from the right pocket and put them in the left.

So far, he'd taken eight dollars out. There seemed to be no end in sight to the supply of money. His nightmare of the past two years, he thought, might be over. Edward was now 44 years old, still a relatively young man. Just as swiftly as his life had changed for the worse, it began now to get better.

From the flea bag hotel he soon moved to a small apartment. He just as quickly, began to look for some way to invest what he had so that he could earn more and allow him to perhaps once again, live as he had before. Things were changing rapidly for him now. He followed the stock market with diligence. Slowly, his assets increased.

Eight months went quickly by. The weather was warmer, but, oddly, the grey flannel pants remained comfortable in all kinds of weather. Edward wore them every day. He cleaned them, brushed them, pressed them himself. At night, the grey flannel pants were carefully folded and placed under his pillow. He guarded them as if they had a life of their own. He had now accumulated enough money to live very well, but he wanted to work and regain his confidence and self respect.

Edward had been censured for both unsuitable transactions, unauthorized trading and stealing from clients accounts. He had to repay what he could with his life's savings, but he knew he would never be able to work as a broker again.

He decided to become a financial advisor, and to continue to invest his own money. He wanted to do what he knew he could do best. And he did dramatically well. Within the next several years his fortune grew into the millions. He became one of New York's wealthiest men. He bought a penthouse apartment on the upper East side and hired a house boy to cook and care for whatever needed to be done. He was able to pay for Jenny's education and was generous to Paula as well. Paula had remarried, but her life had been a both an emotional and financial struggle. Edward offered to help, and he did so magnanimously.

He was satisfied now that he could continue to accumulate more money in his portfolio with no help from the pocket of his gray flannel slacks. They were finally hung in his closet, apart from his other slacks. He scarcely gave them another thought, but it comforted him to see them whenever his closet was opened.

His usual day ended with a spry afternoon walk around four o'clock. It was Saturday afternoon, a non working day which he'd spent reviewing his own personal accounts. He stretched his arms straight up into the air, yawning with mild fatigue. Better get going on that walk, he thought, before I fall asleep. Tomas, the house boy, held Edward's coat open. He slipped into it and walked out the door.

No sooner had he left when Tomas gathered up the clothing that needed to be dry cleaned. The cleaner was two blocks away and Tomas needed to hurry to get there before it closed, and he still had to pick up some groceries for dinner.

Picking up two shirts and a few sweaters on the bathroom chair, he rushed to the closet. Noticing a large tear in a pair of grey flannel slacks, he took them off the hanger to take them in for repair. The rip was so considerable that Tomas realized they couldn't be mended. He rolled them up, and put them in a brown paper bag, hoping someone who needed warmth might find them. He never thought to ask Edward if it was ok because it had been Edward's custom to trust Tomas's judgment.

Hurrying out the back door of the apartment, Tomas picked up his list of groceries from the kitchen counter, and left. He half ran to the cleaning shop and along the way, dropped the brown paper bag into a street basket. Once at the cleaners, he realized that he'd forgotten to check the pockets of those grey flannels, but he thought it unlikely anything might be in them. Edward emptied his pockets every night.

Once Tomas made it to the cleaners, he could take his time returning home. He retraced his steps, thinking to check the pockets of those grey flannel slacks anyway. When he got to the basket and with some embarrassment picked the bag from the trash, he found the bag empty. Tomas was glad at least that someone who needed the slacks would be warmer that night.

He turned the corner and headed for the market, breathing in the crisp, late afternoon air.

Copyright (c) 1995 Corrine Greenblatt-Schlessel, MzSugah@aol.com