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This Sunday John Heckathorn |
A tuxedo dysfunction
at a black-tie functionUnlike a lot of guys, I don't mind getting dressed up. But I have a mental block against tuxedos.
The first time I wore a tux, I rented it for my junior prom. The prom was called An Evening in Paris. It wasn't really in Paris, it was in the gym. The decorations committee had taped to the gym wall a 12-foot picture of the Eiffel Tower, drawn in pastels. While dancing the Watusi, I bumped into the picture, smearing pastels all over the white dinner jacket. The rental people nicked me an extra $3.75 for cleaning -- $22.26 in 2003 dollars and, at the time, as much money as I had in my jeans.
I have been tux averse ever since. Recently that's caused me a lot of grief. You ever walk into a party in shorts and slippers and realize everyone else is dressed up? Imagine this, then.
I'd promised to give the keynote address at a dinner at the Pacific Club. Every other time I'd been there, every man was wearing a Reyn's shirt. Since the rule in public speaking is to dress slightly above the audience, I was resplendent in my second-best black suit and white linen shirt. No tie, of course.
The person who'd invited me to speak had left out a crucial detail. I walked into a room full of tuxes and gowns. I'd gone from dapper to dressed at the absolute minimum. It was too late to do anything about it. I got up there and gave my speech like I was too hip to wear at tie at even the most formal affair.
But I was shaken. Since when did half the male population of Honolulu buy a tux? It used to be you could count on men here to respond to a formal invitation by wearing at best a dark suit.
I've always been one of those guys, but I seem to be part of a dwindling minority. Everyone else seems to have a tux that fits. I noticed this because my wife began accepting formal invitations with the abandon of a woman who's got a couple of sexy, black Ann Taylors in her closet that her friends have never seen. I found myself committed to not one, but two more dressy events.
The first was the Symphony Ball. I had my best black suit cleaned, I felt secure -- until the day before, when I had to press a friend of mine into service as a last-minute escort. I warned him the event was formal. He said, "That's no problem. A gentleman always has a tux."
Which makes me what? I wore my suit anyway, only to be confronted with a ballroom full of gentlemen. Damn.
The next weekend I launched a pre-emptive strike. This invitation read: Formal or Continental Attire. I had no idea what "continental attire" might be, but it sounded better than a tux. Fortunately, my friend Brandt, whose table it was, is also tux averse. I had no trouble convincing him, and through him the rest of the men at the table, that "continental" somehow meant dark suits, dark shirts.
"So continental means you're going to dress like an episode of 'The Sopranos'?" said my wife. "You'll do anything to keep from buying a tux."
Maybe so. Maybe I'm the voice of reason, the spirit of true Hawaii fashion, the wave of the future, since the tuxedo itself was invented back in 1886 to get rid of the tyranny of tails.
Or maybe I've just been putting off the inevitable for far too long. Some 15 years ago, I was invited to a Chaine de Rotisseurs dinner on Maui, black tie. Insecure, I went to Sears and got measured for a rental tux.
I told the tux concession at Sears that I'd pick it up the next day on the way to the airport. Except that when I got there, there was a little sign on the counter: "Out to Lunch." I waited nearly 30 minutes. When the counter girl wandered back, totally unconcerned that I had a flight to catch, I grabbed the tux in its plastic bag and sped out to the airport. Missed the offramp, had to turn around at Fort Shafter and speed back. I parked and sprinted to the gate.
When I got there, I ran into the late Nino J. Martin, the public television producer, on his way to the same event. Nino was elegant as usual, looking cool and calm in a cream-colored linen sport coat. I was a mess, dripping bullets of sweat. I told him my tale. In detail.
He waited patiently until I'd finished. "John," he said. "Are you telling me you don't have your own tux?"
I still don't, Nino. But I am weakening.
John Heckathorn is the editor of Honolulu Magazine. He is one of four columnists who take turns writing "This Sunday."