Harry J. Lowther: The President's New Suit
In the depths of a depression, at the end of a lost war, mired in a crisis of leadership, the nation elected a new president. He was new in every way: new face, new personality, and new ideas about democracy, economics, governance and leadership. Best of all, he would have a new suit, a colorful suit of a new and wonderful style.
Yes, kids, he would be a trendsetter, a leader even in fashion. The new presidential look would be nothing like the conservative cut, dark blue, matching coat and pants with the red power tie. It was widely believed the new suit would start a fashion revolution that would stimulate and revive the economy.
It was with great anticipation that the multitudes awaited the public exhibit of the promised new suit. A parade had been planned to display the new president with his new ideas and new style. The presidential flatbed truck painted in the national colors would follow the three hundred-piece Gay and Lesbian Scouts Band.
In the crowd eagerly awaiting the spectacle stood a thirty-five year old man with his young son, Quincy. The man had worked in the president’s campaign and was deeply committed to the country’s new direction. Both father and son were true believers in the power of newness. They thrilled to the scores of trombones, cornets and other brass, the booming of the bass drums and rattle of the massed snare drums. In the spirit of newness, the band featured a twenty piece accordion section.
As the huge band marched on down the boulevard a hush fell over the crowd. The new suit, beautifully presented on a revolving platform fixed to the bed of the truck, created a sensation. Its passage started a rolling applause and shouts of, “Newness rules” and, “Hurrah for our president, long may he live and guide us.”
The man, tears in his eyes, hoisted his son up for a better view. “Isn’t it magnificent, my boy? We are truly the greatest nation on earth to have produced such a suit and such a man.”
The boy was amazed, nay, dumfounded, flummoxed, confused. The suit consisted of a wide brimmed, flat crowned purple hat. The coat had wide lapels and overly padded shoulders. It was maroon and quite long, reaching to the knees. The baby blue pants were pegged and covered much of the yellow wingtip shoes. The bright yellow tie was extremely wide. A pink handkerchief hung in studied nonchalance from the pocket of the coat.
“Is it not a fabulous suit?” said the man. “The casual use of the hanky is a brilliant touch.” A cloud of doubt spread across his face. “I’ve seen that suit before, or a picture of it, but where and in what context? Oh my God! It’s a zoot suit.”
“It’s different,” said the boy. “It just hangs there though. It has no president in it.” The child squirmed in his father’s arms and shouted, “It’s an empty suit.”
“Yes,” said the man. “We should have known.” DSS
Harry J. Lowther, of Eureka, Calif., writes that his story is "a long- winded joke." He is a retired teacher in Los Angeles, has served in the US Army and been a case worker for the Detroit Department of Public Welfare. He has stories and poems in various literary journals and is the author of a novel, Larger Than Death.
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