Rubey McHickstein delivers something somewhere for work. Supposedly you can just drive inside and park there while you drop off, but he gets somewhat lost on a labyrinthine set-up of one-way streets and unusual traffic-flow-patterns around the place so he ends up just parking slightly illegally on the street and going inside this building designed to be on the impressive side and drops off his thing amongst all these guys in suits newer than his and hurries back to his car.
On the way back to his car, this Italian guy parked on the street goes, Hey can you help me? I need to get to some address everyone has fucking heard of and knows where it is you know where it is?
And Rubey McHickstein says, yeah, I’m not from these parts mister but yeah, sure, it’s over there.
And the Italian guy goes, I’m Italian you speak Italian I’m in town for meetings I’m a tailor you know what that is? I make these suits see? God what a day I’ve had, you want a suit? What size are you you want a nice suit? You’re a 56 I think.
52, says Rubey.
56 Italian, says the Italian. Here’s a nice summer-weight suit, you try that on isn’t that nice? Oh, it’s a little big, let me find a smaller size here you go now that fits good can you close the button? It fits great you like it?
I was just thinking I needed a new suit, isn’t that weird, says Rubey.
Here let me give you a second suit, says the Italian tailor. Here’s a nice black one try it on oh it fits great! Where you from? Oh, you American? Obama Berlusconi Sicily bunga-bunga! You know Berlusconi? Catastrofe! Here take a jacket too, you want a nice summer jacket?
Bunga-bunga, says Rubey’s pene.
Hang on a sec, thinks Rubey. This is suddenly a lot of swag. WTF?
Yeah, very busy. I had an accident over on some fucking street no one has heard of because it doesn’t exist. I drive a Cayenne you know Cayenne? Nice car! But I have an accident, watching women, I’m a Casanova, you know Casanova, watching woman. The Italian gent shows Rubey a blank accident report. Rent this Avis. €2500 for a week at the Intercontinental. Now my credit card is maxed. I live in Rome. You know Rome you should come visit me sometime but don’t bring your wife I already have lots of women so can you help me out for gas back to Rome?
Er, says Rubey. Let me see what I have. Rubey gives the guy a hundred euro bill, thinking, shit, even if they’re cheap suits, and a cheap jacket, it’s still a deal.
I hope you’re not insulted, but could you give me back one of the suits, says the Italian.
Wut, says Rubey.
I’m a tailor. Here, look at this gigantic pile of business cards but only for a split second so you can’t actually read any of them, these are all the places I make clothes for. Look at this label, you’ve heard of this label right?
Yeah, of course, says Rubey, who got only a sort of kaleidoscopic view thru his trifocals. WTF you think I am, a rube or something?
Don’t you have any more? You know how far it is to Rome?
I wish you were in Rome now, thinks Rubey. For whom, at this point here, a waxing bad feeling has finally metamorphosed into a lightbulb, which has turned on. Here, I have a great idea.
Twenty Euro? Ten?
No, here, you take both suits and the jacket, and return my 100 Euro, plz, says Rubey.
And the Italian tailor actually does return a €100 bill to Rubey, and Rubey goes on his way, hoping he has not got a ticket during this little interlude, amidst a generous portion of Italian expletives, repeating to himself, If it seems too good to be true, it is.
And then Rubey considers where best to spend his €100 bill, which he is 50% sure is counterfeit now.