Time is a Toy: The Selected Poems of Michael Benedikt

The Taste for All Things Formal

108 the taste for all things formal (1) “I ask you: is there one man in the world who doesn’t long every now and then for that feeling of formality, that sense of artifice, that certain feeling of neatnessandsecuritywhichonlyatuxedojacketcanreallyprovide,surrounding itswearersosnuglywithitssquare-cutshape,itselaboratelydecoratedbox-cut cuffs, and above all and before all its glossy, brilliantly shining lapels?” I was lying in bed reading the ads for fancy evening dress, or (as they termed it in the ads beside the social notes column in The Daily News), “What every man needs to truly experience that certain feeling of ‘stepping out’”; yet still, somehow, I wasn’t completely convinced. On the other hand, I did have to admit that I myself that night wished I had a way of experiencing that certain feeling of “stepping out” instead of lying here like a shut-in, envying the gay formal times people always have in their tuxedos. But then, out of one corner of myeye,Isawit:mybrandnewarmoire.Itwastruethatallitcontainedwere thingslikebuckskinjackets,beadsandbluejeans,andtweedsbaggywith“that certainlived-inlook,”allcrammedintogetherandhalf-falling-off theirhangers; but still, there was no mistaking it: the armoire itself was impeccably formal with its tall, rectangular outlines, its elaborate yet symmetrical trim around the sides, and the polished mirrors to the left and right of the center door. So, toachievethatcertainfeelingof “formallysteppingout,”Istoodupandstepped into the armoire, closing the door after me; and there I spent the entire night havingagay,formalevening.(2)Thefollowingmorning,whileshewasdusting around the room, the cleaning lady found me. “What are you doing in there, Sir?” she asked, peering through the keyhole. “Isn’t it obvious?—I’ve been stepping out,” I explained. “Did you have a good time, Sir?” she asked, eagerly scanning the interior for noisemakers or perhaps the remnants of a party hat. “Of course I did,” I replied; and, anxious to continue to my new-found role of impeccable formal partygoer and general bon vivant, I gallantly appended an invitation:“Howwouldyouliketocomealongwithmenexttime?”“Certainly, Sir,”shesaid,“butIhavenothingtowear.”“Don’tworryaboutthat,mydear,” I said, gesturing toward the opposite side of the room. (3) And so we began a round of gay formal outings with our first date, stepping out in the finest and most proper manner—me, so debonair there in the armoire; she, the belle of the ball over there in the corner, wrapped up in my freshly ironed chintz curtains, with the valance pleats folded flat over her face. ...