but it might not be noticeable if he sat on the edge of things. Inhaling deeply, he sucked in his stomach as far as possible and buttoned the trousers. The effect was like squeezing the lower half of a sausage balloon.
Mysterious boxes began to arrive.
“If any of these buttons give way they’ll put somebody’s eye out,” he muttered, walking stiffly to the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not bad for fifty, though. It was going to be a strain, of course, to keep his chest blown out like a pouter pigeon and his stomach wrapped around his back bone, but the general effect was good—like a well-preserved old oarsman.
He put on the vest carefully. The cloth around the buttons had the strained look of a sail in a heavy blow, but if it held there was nothing to worry about.
Now for the coat. This was the crucial garment—the one which must withstand the hostile eye of the general public. Nobody looked at a man’s pants. He wished the sleeves didn’t fit like a freshly laundered union suit and that the back didn’t make him feel as if he had been taped up by a surgeon. But these were minor inconveniences. The coat was on and holding at every seam.
Lifting his diaphragm as high as possible, he buttoned it quickly under his ribs. Mrs. Banks came in and surveyed him admiringly. “It’s really wonderful, Stan. I’m proud of you.”
Mr. Banks made a deprecating grimace and undid the single button of the coat. The edges parted as if they were on springs. “I think I like these coats better unbuttoned,” he said thoughtfully. “You really think it fits, then?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Banks. “It might be a trifle snug, but that’s all.”
Mr. Banks continued to study himself appraisingly. “Perhaps I might manage to lose a pound or two before the wedding.” He turned on her sternly. “Remember, now. From here in no more butter or potatoes or dessert.”
He buttoned it quickly under his ribs.
He would switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays? ”
“All right, dear. All right. But you don’t need to be so cross about it.”
“Well, people insist on offering them to me,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
For some time Mr. Banks had been keeping a notebook handy for ideas about the wedding. During the day he would stop in unlikely places and jot down new items. When he went to bed he placed it on the table beside him. In the middle of the night he would suddenly switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?”
The book was getting filled up now. Many of the notations were illegible. There were also numerous unexplained names and addresses which had been pressed on him by experienced friends. They were the names of people who were indispensable to weddings in one way or another, but who they were or what they were supposed to do Mr. Banks did not know.
One of the first notations in the book was the word “Champagne.” It seemed a long time ago since he had written it. Life had seemed so simple and straightforward in those days. During the ensuing weeks he had received so much conflicting advice on this subject alone that he had become thoroughly confused and done nothing at all about it.
He finally stopped on his way up from the station to discuss the matter with that bon vivant and connoisseur of good living, Sam Locuzos, owner of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, whom he had been patronizing, illegally and legally, for many years.
Champagne, to Mr. Banks, was a commodity which was kept on the top shelf of the hall closet in two-bottle lots and used only on very special occasions. Sam, however, didn’t have the same reverence for the stuff.
“Sure,” he said. “Got plenty champagne. What kind you want? All the same. No good. Here’s some. Good enough. Make it forty-five dollars a case.”
Mr. Banks turned pale. “How many cases do I need?”
“How many come?”
“Oh, let’s say a
Mysterious boxes began to arrive.
“If any of these buttons give way they’ll put somebody’s eye out,” he muttered, walking stiffly to the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not bad for fifty, though. It was going to be a strain, of course, to keep his chest blown out like a pouter pigeon and his stomach wrapped around his back bone, but the general effect was good—like a well-preserved old oarsman.
He put on the vest carefully. The cloth around the buttons had the strained look of a sail in a heavy blow, but if it held there was nothing to worry about.
Now for the coat. This was the crucial garment—the one which must withstand the hostile eye of the general public. Nobody looked at a man’s pants. He wished the sleeves didn’t fit like a freshly laundered union suit and that the back didn’t make him feel as if he had been taped up by a surgeon. But these were minor inconveniences. The coat was on and holding at every seam.
Lifting his diaphragm as high as possible, he buttoned it quickly under his ribs. Mrs. Banks came in and surveyed him admiringly. “It’s really wonderful, Stan. I’m proud of you.”
Mr. Banks made a deprecating grimace and undid the single button of the coat. The edges parted as if they were on springs. “I think I like these coats better unbuttoned,” he said thoughtfully. “You really think it fits, then?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Banks. “It might be a trifle snug, but that’s all.”
Mr. Banks continued to study himself appraisingly. “Perhaps I might manage to lose a pound or two before the wedding.” He turned on her sternly. “Remember, now. From here in no more butter or potatoes or dessert.”
He buttoned it quickly under his ribs.
He would switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays? ”
“All right, dear. All right. But you don’t need to be so cross about it.”
“Well, people insist on offering them to me,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
For some time Mr. Banks had been keeping a notebook handy for ideas about the wedding. During the day he would stop in unlikely places and jot down new items. When he went to bed he placed it on the table beside him. In the middle of the night he would suddenly switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?”
The book was getting filled up now. Many of the notations were illegible. There were also numerous unexplained names and addresses which had been pressed on him by experienced friends. They were the names of people who were indispensable to weddings in one way or another, but who they were or what they were supposed to do Mr. Banks did not know.
One of the first notations in the book was the word “Champagne.” It seemed a long time ago since he had written it. Life had seemed so simple and straightforward in those days. During the ensuing weeks he had received so much conflicting advice on this subject alone that he had become thoroughly confused and done nothing at all about it.
He finally stopped on his way up from the station to discuss the matter with that bon vivant and connoisseur of good living, Sam Locuzos, owner of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, whom he had been patronizing, illegally and legally, for many years.
Champagne, to Mr. Banks, was a commodity which was kept on the top shelf of the hall closet in two-bottle lots and used only on very special occasions. Sam, however, didn’t have the same reverence for the stuff.
“Sure,” he said. “Got plenty champagne. What kind you want? All the same. No good. Here’s some. Good enough. Make it forty-five dollars a case.”
Mr. Banks turned pale. “How many cases do I need?”
“How many come?”
“Oh, let’s say a
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