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Yesterday I wandered into the new Brunello Cucinelli store in the Meatpacking District. M’lady and I were strolling around, letting our stomachs settle after a pastry-heavy brunch at High Street on Hudson. Normally I avoid empty carbs at Sunday brunch but the waiter told us they make all their bread in-house, taking the choice out of my hands. “Made… here? I thought I smelled bread. Speak no more, garçon.”
We split a cinnamon role and some puffy thing with fruity jism inside. Sounds bad, right? Here’s the thing though: I followed that with the farro and broccoli bowl entrée. Scientists tell us that a cinnamon roll and a cream pillow act much like valence electrons in the stomach IF you eat protons (broccoli, water, tapeworms, etc.) to neutralize them. The healthy protons cause the unhealthy electrons to dissolve and you’re left with a totally neutral stomach. No carbs, no foul.**
**This is not true.
Already feeling guilty, we stepped into the brand new Brunello store. The place was pristine: light poured in through the massive windows, highlighting cream, khaki, and blue sweaters, vests, and blazers that hung in carefully-layered ensembles from brass hooks. There were no individual items; everything was displayed in combinations, as if to suggest that Brunello’s people are far better at dressing you than you. Fine, Brunello. I concede.
They offered us water. Then champagne. Then finger sandwiches overflowing with prosciutto and cheese. I cursed myself for eating so much bread at brunch and could not justify more bread without broccoli to neutralize it. The champagne came out on a Brunello-embroidered tray, ice cold from a bottle of Veuve. It was all too much for two people with zero intention of purchasing anything. These kind salespeople had rolled out a red carpet for two colorblind imposters. Except we weren’t hiding the gulf between our purchasing power and their price tags—my girlfriend laughed loudly at the cost of a pair of cashmere sweatpants ($2,350) as I wiped my runny nose with my t-shirt sleeve. We were window-shoppers on the wrong side of the window. Even so, I maintained a semblance of decorum when I didn’t ask to use the bathroom, even though I was crowning.
“Would you like to see the upstairs?” asked Stephanie.
“There’s more?” gasped we.
Up we flew, in a spotless elevator, with our escort. The second floor gave out to a massive sun deck that would be a sensational asset anywhere other than a retail store. There were couches in the middle, facing a coffee table with some books and a modern backgammon board. Along the walls was another ring of gorgeous clothing options, highlighted by a stoic mannequin with a terrific body who stood guard near the elevator. And that’s when I saw it.
The mannequin wore a shearling coat that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Brown fur around the collar. Lighter brown suede on the outside. Cool buttons and buckles hanging around at leisure. Grey cashmere accents at the wrist and bottom. It was breathtaking.
I quickly asked them about it. “Oh that? Yes, that’s a beautiful piece,” gushed Stephanie, pulling up her iPad. “And… that’s the last one in America.”
“The last one… in America?” I asked anxiously, as though I’d just learned bad news about eagles.
“Yep. That’s it! Oh, AND it’s 40% off.”
I swallowed. The walls were closing in. That helpless feeling I’d had earlier when the waiter told us they made their own bread was bubbling back up. I could feel the reins of free will slipping from my hands, passing into the grip of a higher power. I was losing the mastery of my fate. This was no longer up to me.
“And how—how much is it?”
She made a ch-ch-ch sound with her mouth, almost like she was mimicking the sound of punching numbers into a calculator.
“That brings it to $4,600.”
There are moments in people’s lives where they are presented with a number that hurts them, physically. Maybe it’s the bill for the damage you inflicted on your AirBNB at the Kentucky Derby. Perhaps it’s the number of weeks that she’s been pregnant already. The cost of the wedding band your daughter desperately wants. This $4,600 was a dagger to my abdomen. For while it was obviously an insanely high number for a coat, it wasn’t the swift death I had hoped for. No, this number was right in the sweet spot to send me through an hour of back-breaking contortions, to have me agonize over the decision, such that I wouldn’t be happy either way. For as much as I loved the coat, I would grow to resent it as I paid it off. But if I didn’t buy it, I’d lie awake at night thinking about the coat, telling myself that life is too short not to wear exactly what I want. Hell, I could die tomorrow, and I’d rather die cradled by Brunello’s warmth.
You take a mental inventory of your spending and justify a path to purchasing. If I don’t buy any groceries this month, cancel my cable and switch to Hulu Live, don’t take a single Uber, sell some blood and/or sperm (if they’re taking redheads again), I can afford it.
Then you remember your New Year’s resolution to get your credit card spending down. You remember that $4,600 is what you had hoped to spend every two-three months, not with one purchase.
But then you think, boy, that’s a lot of frequent flyer miles. And I’ve got weddings this summer. In a way, buying this coat will make it cheaper for me to support my friends on their big day. Be a good friend and buy the coat.
The devil of consumerism and the angel of prudence stand upon your shoulders, batting your brain over a badminton net.
By this point, they had taken the coat off the mannequin and were holding it up for me to try. I felt a bit strange trying on the coat in front of the mannequin, thinking he might be territorial. But then the shearling touched my neck and I forgot all about that dumb doll. It was like the feeling that injured people talk about when the morphine hits. The coat was impossibly light, the suede impossibly fine, the buttons and buckles impossibly classy. I saw myself in the mirror and my breath caught. Before, a boy looked back at me. Now, I saw a man in his place. A woodsman, ready to purchase an old motorcycle and keep his people safe, to taste the air and say “storm’s coming” with a furrowed brow. A hunter and a gatherer, but more hunting than gathering. Joe Rogan’s next guest.
My girlfriend didn’t help. “It’s incredible,” she whispered, smoothing out the shoulders. We were serious from the outset, which means that I’ve been able to dress like shit for a while now. This coat brought on new feelings for her, strange feelings she hadn’t felt before. Perhaps we could start a family together.
I kept the coat on for twenty minutes, sipping my champagne, living in it. I wanted to finish the champagne before rendering my verdict so that they couldn’t take it away from me. Somehow, somewhere, my parents’ voices sounded in my head—far off whispers, barely distinguishable, but clear enough to convey their disapproval. This is not who you are, this is not who we raised. Save, our son.
It may have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I took the coat off and draped it back on the mannequin. “I’ll have to think about it,” I managed, without a shred of conviction. The room grew cold and grey. My girlfriend started crying quietly. One salesman muttered “fuck this” and stormed into the back. We walked out into the cold, into a world where everyone saw me for the spineless fraud I am.
24 hours have passed since I took off the coat and returned to my life. In the words of Vance Munson from Hitch, food has lost its taste; colors, they seem dull. I can tell you that despite having $4,600, I do not feel like a richer man. Perhaps there’s a lesson in all this.
I just hope that when I meet the next coat, I can be the man it wants me to be.