Bone-weary, Edwin enters the private aviation terminal in Mobile, Alabama. As the automatic doors slide open, a wall of cool, processed air envelopes his body. Tendrils of vapor coalesce and spin through the thickened atmosphere outside. As the doors close, Edwin is almost able to forget the world outside the airport.
That is the point of the modern airport, isn’t it? Featureless monotonic travelspace providing uniformly grim comfort to the weary traveler. England, New England, New Delhi and Detroit all the same. Where you might be going and where you might be delayed are indistinguishable until you exit the airport. And no matter how awful your locale, the mediocre plastic womb of the airport is always there for you.
For this and many other reasons, Edwin loathes airports. In fact, in this state of distress and undress, Edwin loathes everything. In a dirty undershirt, tattered and ruined pants, shoes still full of filth, he is a stark contrast to the uniformed plastic of the airport terminal. Edwin recognizes that fatigue and distress color his emotions and distort his thinking, but at this point, there is little he can do about it. The only thing for it is a hot shower and a proper change of clothes. Such necessities seem, at best, hours away; and what would be the point of cleaning up now? He can think of nothing more depressing than putting a clean body back into filthy attire.
On the far side of the terminal, Agnes is making arrangements with the flight crew. Edwin can hear that there has been some mixup with refueling. In her very polite way, Agnes is raking an airport official back and forth over the coals of her proper and righteous indignation. Edwin is confident that she will have it sorted out soon enough. Or, at the very least, she will have a roasted civil servant for her trophy case.
Nearby, Topper has passed out in an uncomfortable seat. There is a misleading innocence that gathers around him as he sleeps. Perhaps it is just his childlike size. But this veil of innocence is perforated by boozy snores that presage the titanic hangover condensing within him.
In his exhaustion, Edwin paces around the terminal. There is little point in sitting in one of the plastic terminal chairs. They are too small. Everything built for the public is simply the wrong scale for him. And Edwin, exhausted though he may be, will not offend dignity by sitting on the floor. Even the prospect of a rest seems as if it will be small consolation.
It is optimism (as much an analytical sin as pessimism) that has cost Edwin one of the few truly great bespoke tailored suits in the world. As great generals look back on massacres, Edwin considers the events that have led to the destruction of his suit. How could he have been so blind? How could he have thought that he was dealing with civilized people?
When Agnes asks such questions he brushes them off. But as Edwin paces the terminal, these questions hang on him like medals of defeat. Was he wrong to assume that people could be even remotely rational? Why does he see the world in a way foreign to those around him? Are the tasks he sets himself inherently hopeless?
Despair drapes the great man like a shroud. Of course, Edwin has made money. He always manages to make money. But what he can never seem to do is make sense of the world. Even as he thinks these things, he knows it is the fatigue thinking them. But he cannot stop himself. He cannot even stop his pacing. Just like he cannot stop trying to talk sense to the insensible.
He crosses his hands behind his back and bows his head. Chin touching his chest he considers the tattered remnants of his suit pants. The light grey and clean, rational lines have been horribly blotted and marred by all manner of filth. The left pant is torn halfway up the calf. This is the garb of some sweaty, maladjusted and weak-minded adventurer. Can his current state really be the reward for his long efforts?
He hears the automatic door behind him open and close. As the crisp, measured clicks of dress shoe heels draw closer to him, he turns. The afternoon light reduces the approaching figure to a silhouette. The outline of a man in a bowler hat, carrying something draped across his arm.
Edwin smiles. Truly, Agnes thinks of everything.
“Mr. Giles,” says Edwin, “I am so glad you can join us.”
Mr. Giles returns a withering gaze that speak volumes. “Mr. Windsor, you look a fright. What have you done to my suit?”
“It is not my fault, I assure you. But I have, you should be glad to know, escaped unharmed.”
Mr. Giles does not reply. Instead he removes his hat and drapes the garment bag across a row of seats. “I have heard of your plight. And, at the request of your secretary, I have traveled a great distance in a short time.”
Edwin appraises himself in the mirror and likes what he sees. He has scrubbed his skin and now it glows a rosy pink. His time in the sun has given him a little color, and it lends him, if only temporarily, the air of a healthier, more physically adventuresome man. Perhaps, one who enjoys the tedious pastime of yachting.
Mr. Giles has a different assessment. The jacket lies improperly across Edwin’s shoulders. No one else may ever notice this flaw in the work, but for Mr. Giles, it cries out for adjustment. He is keenly aware that he only has a finite amount of suits left in him. And he wants each to be better than the last. “Shall have to tune the jacket a little,” he says in a tone that attempts to downplay the seriousness of the matter.
“What’s wrong with it?” Edwin asks as he turns and smoothes the jacket across his midsection. The dark blue fabric moves like a second skin. The suit is magnificent.
“Hmm,” says Giles. “You can wear it back to the city, but then you must give me some time with it.”
“Very well.” Edwin tugs gently on his shirt cuffs. He takes a moment to enjoy the somber, dark blue. Edwin has slogged through the filth and the absurdity to find himself in command of vast financial resources once again. Now, he can fund any scheme he deems reasonable. No more small time. No more attempting to explain the quality of the opportunities he can create to investors blinded by troublesome and antiquated morals.
“I should like another suit,” Edwin says.
“Very good Mr. Windsor.”
“Black, I should think.”
“And the cut? And the collar?”
“I leave it in your capable hands, Mr. Giles.”
Agnes enters the room. “The plane is ready.” Edwin nods. Of course the plane is ready. Everything is ready. Now it is time to begin.