The Seamstress

My name is Joe. I’m not sure I still have an actual identity, so telling people my name achieves nothing but overwhelming sadness. No one has cared for years. Maybe I’ve simply had an unusually long streak of bad luck… or maybe to our vast universe, I’ve slipped through the cracks and have been forgotten. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly, no matter how much effort one puts into creating a comfortable life for themselves, it can slip away faster than holding water in your grasp.

I’ve never known a time in my life where things came easily. Looking back however, I’d take any other time period than the one in which I’m currently existing. Yes, I said existing and not living. I chose the correct word to describe my current situation. If I’m to be grateful for anything at all, it’s that I still exist. They say that when you hit bottom there’s nowhere to go but up. From the bottom though, up seems unreachable.

That isn’t the worst part of being homeless, believe it or not. It’s the bone chilling cold. It’s fascinating to me how much the human body can withstand and adapt. What I wouldn’t give to no longer have to withstand one more cold, lonely day on the streets. As I watch the patrons entering and exiting the tailor shop across the street from the bench I call home, I begin to hatch an idea. I stand, make a lame attempt at smoothing my ragged clothing, gather as much courage as I can, and walk toward the tailor’s. I have nothing left to lose. I step inside the shop with my head held as high as my damaged pride will allow. With the look of disdain I’ve come to expect, a man comes quickly to where I stand, his obvious goal preventing me from stepping any farther inside.

“May I help you?” He asks, devoid of emotion. I try my best not to drop my eyes.

“I sure hope so,” I begin, “I know how I look and for that I apologize, but I was wondering if you had any suits for loan? I’d like to apply for work, and I cannot do that in my current state.” I hold onto my breath for support after my last word, even though his expression already answered my question. I barely heard his unfavorable response, due to a lovely pair of eyes peering at me from the back of the shop. These eyes are much different than the ones coming from the man’s who are practically pleading for me to leave. “No, I’m sorry, but we can’t help you,” he tells me. But, her eyes are saying something else entirely. There’s more understanding in them than I’ve ever seen. I manage a sad smile as I take myself and my damaged spirit back to the reality that is my life; my bench.

It doesn’t take long for those lovely eyes to make their way from the shop to my bench. I simply stare. Thankfully, she finds her voice first. I certainly can’t locate mine.

“Hello, my name is Rita. I am the seamstress for the tailor. I’m sorry he turned you away. He can be a bit gruff.”

“I’m Joe and it’s understandable. I probably would have reacted the same way if the roles were reversed.”

“May I?” She asks, motioning beside me on my bench. I slide over to allow her to have a seat. She glances back at the tailor’s before she puts a box on her lap she has been holding and speaks to me while she exposes its contents.

“Joe, years ago my husband and I were close to being in a similar situation as yourself. I know how scary it can be. The fabric for this suit I have here was gifted to us when we had next to nothing. I made the suit myself and it brought him good luck. Please take it for as long as you need. I know it’ll bring you good luck as well.”

I can barely see her kind eyes anymore through my tear-filled ones. I manage to choke out, “thank you.” By the time I look up from the suit, she’s disappeared back into the shop.

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As I look at myself in the YMCA shower’s full length mirror, I can’t recognize the man staring back. The old suit, which was slightly wrinkled, now looks recently pressed and is a perfect fit. My ragged beard and hair somehow looked trimmed and well styled. I have no words for this. Could it be a mere illusion? As I gather myself to leave and search for a discarded newspaper, praying for an on the spot interview for any job that would give me a chance, I am stopped by a man in a perfectly appointed Italian suit coming from a high rise building next door.

“Great, you’re on time. The first interviewer this week to manage it. Thanks for that. I’m Mr. Washington. You can follow me inside and we’ll get started.”

I am about to interject and tell him he has me mixed up with someone else, when he turns and says, “You are Joe, correct?” Not knowing how in the world this is happening, I respond, “Yes, sir,” unable to fathom how he knows my name. I decide to keep my mouth shut and see where this goes. Once again, what do I have to lose?

Mr. Washington proceeds to ask me question after question in an area of business I happen to know like the back of my hand. It’s hard to believe, seeing me in my current situation, anyone would know I was once a fairly successful businessman, before I let it all slip away.

I walk in a daze as he shows me what would be my office, company car, salary, signing bonus, and company furnished apartment. I barely notice myself signing papers and leaving the interview, anticipating a new life I never thought possible.

My mind is a whirlwind as I go over the day’s events. I wonder what is it about the suit that created this miraculous chain of good fortune. Sitting on the bench that just this morning I called home, I glance down my body planning on inspecting the suit when to my utter surprise, I’m back in my previous ragged clothes. Where’d the suit go? It must’ve been real, for still clutched in my hand are the keys to my car, apartment, and the rest of the proof of my serendipitous interview. I look up in time to see Rita, walk toward a man looking to be down on his luck. I watch her motion once again to the bench in which he sits and ask, “May I?”

I now know, as I watch her open the box that held the suit, that sometimes people can be deserving of a little magic, thanks to a guardian angel named Rita.