Sitting here in Seat 22D of American Airlines Flight 1142 some 34,000 feet over New Mexico, I find myself wondering what I’m going to say to the clowns at Magic Touch Cleaners in Jonesboro, Ark. tomorrow.
The saga began a week ago Thursday when I dropped my black suit off at a branch of Magic Touch for dry cleaning. It was promised for 5 p.m. Friday, but the truck bearing that day’s cleaning didn’t show up before the store closed at 6 p.m. Friday, not to open again until Monday. Don’t worry, they told me. You can pick your suit up at the main location at Caraway and Race on Saturday.
So while Charlie Parsons and I wrestled two new Michelin tires onto my bike on Saturday, Maria went to Magic Touch to get my suit. But there were spots on the pants that required further treatment. Come back on Monday, they told her. Since we were scheduled to fly to Arizona on Tuesday morning, this was cutting things a bit thin.
We picked up the suit on Monday morning, packed it into a garment carrier with Maria’s clothes for Morgan’s wedding, and were on our way to Little Rock and points west.
Fast forward to 11:30 a.m. yesterday, the day of the wedding.
I took the suit – still in its plastic bag from the cleaners – out of the garment bag and laid out the pants to attach the suspenders. But I couldn’t find the suspender buttons. WTF? Had they removed the buttons? Then I noticed the Hart Schaffner & Marx label. My suit is not a Hart Schaffner & Marx. It came from Men’s Wearhouse. The label in the jacket says so.
Holy crap! They’ve given me the wrong pants. Breathlessly, I pulled them on and found they actually fit a little better than my suit pants did when I tried them on prior to going to the cleaners. Fortunately, I had brought a black belt as insurance against suspender failure.
When I stepped into the bright Arizona sunshine, it was obvious that the pants and jacket were not an exact match – close, but not quite.
What the hell, I thought. Everyone is going to be looking at the bride, not at me.
So I went to the wedding, helped give away the bride and did my photography duties in some other guy’s pants. I can only imagine what was going on in my suit pants.
Someone suggested that the Magic Touch dopes wrecked my pants and deliberately substituted a pair of similar waist size and inseam length in the hope that I wouldn’t notice.
Well, I noticed. And I expect them to move Heaven and earth to reunite me with my suit pants.