In a building lobby, neighboring a chiropodist with a child-sized poodle scratching its nose lazily, there it was. Not the oasis of glamour and free scotch, yet one with quiet arrogance. That which did not wave any flags or loudly pronounce its existence, it was just there, for only the truly sartorical to find.
Yet another glass encased room, this time filled with orphaned men’s garments. I peered through the glass, and glanced at the modern day man beside me pointing excitedly at a red paisley tie.
I wondered how he could manage to see anything worth buying in the clutter. It was a true man’s store complete with a life sized Marlon Brando black and white photograph, mismatched suits, striped shirts, old magazines and random oddites littering the floor.
I waddled my way through the barely 100 square foot space, hoping that the “you break you buy” policy was not in effect. Otherwise, we would be stuck with a $160 Versace belt with an broken buckle….oops.
The keeper of such a place appeared laid back and a little cluttered himself. A writer of sorts with a uncanny knowledge of expensive unknown designers.
Soon I found myself helping negotiate for a pair of grey checked swim trunks…..second hand yes.. I did not mind, I was not going to wear them.