The Tuxedo

Jimmy Thompson got his first job at a retirement home not far from his school. He had just turned 16. Though the home did have an assisted living component, it was not a nursing home like most people assumed. The majority of the residents were perfectly healthy, functioning, active seniors who just wanted to spend their golden years surrounded by liked-minded – and like-aged – individuals.

Though not the most exciting job in the world for a teenager, it certainly could have been worse. It was the perfect entry into the “real world” for a boy trying to find his footing in the world. He learned about the job at his school, when a rep from the Henry Ford Village Senior Living Community came in to tell students about how two full years of employment would be rewarded with a scholarship. Time would tell if he would stick it out for so long, but so far, so good.

 His primary job duties consisted of serving and/or bussing in the home’s spacious dining room. Gratuities of any sort were not permissible. The customers were friendly for the most part, but with the expected amount of cantankerousness one would expect from a dining room filled with senior citizens. Some were downright mean.

Though he made several friends his age at work, it was the relationships he made with the residents he cherished the most (just like his teachers at school).  The hardest part of the job (aside from dealing with the meanies) were the constant reminders of mortality – an unwritten part of the job description. Though thoughts of death haunted him for as long as he could remember, they had certainly become more frequent ever since he started this job. It seemed at least one resident passed away on a weekly basis (there was always a new resident on a waiting list waiting to take the deceased’s place). Jimmy never personally experienced the loss of a loved one, so it was unchartered territory for him. Both sets of grandparents were still alive, though his maternal grandmother was in an advanced stage of Alzheimer’s, so his family had been mourning her loss in a slow drip.

Though he was close with many of the residents, there was one resident in particular that he forged an early bond with: Mrs. Shirley, a sweet, petite woman in sound health and mind, whose husband died a few years back. (Though one wouldn’t know it, as she spoke of him as though he were more alive than ever).

Mrs. Shirley took a special liking Jimmy on his very first day. Until he met her, he had been an absolute nervous wreck, barely sleeping the night before. And it was Mrs. Shirley with her calming presence who gave him the confidence he needed.

“No need to be nervous, young man,” she told him “You’re not a heart surgeon. Nobody is going to die if you make a mistake. They might just complain. It’s how we old farts are.”

 And from that point on, she treated him like the grandson she never had. Mrs. Shirley never had kids of her own.

“Wasn’t part of God’s plan. But he gave me a husband who loved me more than a woman could possibly be loved.”

From that first day forward Mrs. Shirley insisted that Jimmy was her server. She was too kind of a person to “demand” it, but certainly fell just short of it. It wasn’t long before his co-workers teased him by referring to Mrs. Shirley as “Jimmy’s girl”.  On his days off, it was impossible not to her notice that her lively spark was diminished.

One night, Mrs. Shirley caught him off guard when he was clearing her table.

            “Jimmy, could you take me back to my apartment?”

            “Sure!” he said.  “At least I think so. Is everything okay, Mrs. Shirley?”

            “Yes. I have something I want to show you.’

            “Okay. Was about to start my break, so perfect. Let me just take these dishes to the back.

            He took the dishes to the kitchen, wondering just what exactly he was getting into. He couldn’t help but feeling like he was doing something wrong. Like that he needed permission. He considered asking for permission, but had a feeling they would say no. It was a risk he was willing to take.

            He headed back to Mrs. Shirley’s table.

            “Well, then. Shall we?”

            “Yes, Mrs. Shirley.”

            She got up and took Jimmy by the arm and lead him toward her apartment, with key in hand, ready to go.

            She seemed to be walking slower than he remembered. Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed frailer than he had remembered her ever being.

            As they walked down the long hallway toward her apartment, neither spoke. Talking always made him nervous anyway and she seemed to need every ounce of her strength to focus on walking.

They finally reached her door. As she struggled to insert the key, Jimmy noticed her hand was shaking heavily.

“Would you like some help, Mrs. Shirley?” 

            “Would you be so kind?”

            “Of course, Mrs. Shirley.”

            He opened the door for her. She entered.

            “Come on in,” she said, inviting into an apartment that smelled of mothballs and cold cuts, and overripe bananas.

            “Have a seat,” Mrs. Shirley said, pointing toward her sofa.

            Jimmy sat down, noticing a wedding portrait hanging on the wall.

            “Is that you, Mrs. Shirley?”

            “Hard to believe, but yes. Wasn’t I pretty?”

            Jimmy nodded awkwardly. She was beautiful.

            Mrs. Shirley headed over to an old record player and put the needle on a Nat King Cole record on an old player just like his grandparents had in their basement.

            He spotted a bowl of strawberry candies sitting on an end table. Just like his grandmother used to do, before the Alzheimer’s made her a shell of herself.

            “Go ahead. Have one.”

Jimmy took one. He was pretty sure it was the same end table his grandmother had, too.

            “Would you like some tea?”

            “No, thank you. I will need to get back to work soon.”

            “Do you like the music?”

            “Oh, yes. I played this song in jazz band last year. ‘Autumn Leaves’, right?

            “Oh, you are in a jazz band? How lovely! What instrument do you play?”

            “Sax. Alto.”

            “Just like my husband!”

            “Oh, nice.”

            “He played in the Army. After the war, he started a band of his own for a bit.”

            “Oh, wow. That’s great!”

            “Follow me,” she said.

            Jimmy followed her to the bedroom. He suddenly found himself growing anxious. Once again, he felt like he was doing something wrong. But he couldn’t put his finger on it.

            She began search for something in the deepest recesses of her closet, before finally pulling out a tuxedo inside an old dry cleaner’s bag. She carefully removed it from the bag.

            “This was my husband’s. He wore it on our wedding day.”

            Jimmy wasn’t sure what to say.

            “It’s very nice, Mrs. Shirley.”

            “Try it on.”

            “Um, are you sure?”

            “Please?”

            As much as he hated trying on clothes, he realized he didn’t have much of a choice. Just like when his grandma used to take him clothes shopping before the school year began.

            She handed him the tux.

            “Where should I…change?”

            “I will leave the room so you can change right here.”

            She stepped out, slowly closing the door behind her.

            He stared the tux. He had only worn a tux one other time in his life – when he was a ringbearer for his aunt’s wedding. He was five.

            He took off his work clothes and put on the tux. Though he had to get back to work, he made sure to handle it with care. He could tell it was old. The dress shirt was more yellow than white. And everything smelled like mothballs. He debated whether he should put on the cummerbund and cufflinks, but decided to just stick with the coat and pants. He looked at himself in the mirror, still not really sure what to think of the whole situation. He fixed his hair a bit, then stepped out of the room for a geriatric fashion show for one.

            Mrs. Shirley covered her face with her hands with delight, then shed tears of joy.

            “You look so devilishly handsome! And just like my husband!”

            “Oh, really?”

            “We were teenagers when we got married. Not much older than you. I just knew it would fit. Not only do you remind me of him, but you are about his size.” 

            “Really?”

            “If you wear this, you’re going to have fight the girls off with a stick.”

            Jimmy begins to blush.

            “Yeah, right.”

“Surely, there must be one special girl who would love to see you in this tuxedo.”

            Jimmy shakes his head, looking down.

            “I don’t believe that.”

            “Well, there is one girl I really like. Just not sure if she likes me.”

            “And what is her name?”

            “Aimee.”

            “Such a beautiful name.”

            Nat King Cole’s “Stardust” begins to play.

            “This was our wedding song,” Mrs. Shirley said. “Will you dance with me?”

            “Sure,” he said, sheepishly. “This was my grandparents’ wedding song, too!”

            “You don’t say!”

            He had only slow-danced with a girl once before. He felt no less confident now than he did then. And the last thing he wanted to do was step on Mrs. Shirley’s feet. But somehow, by following her lead, he managed to do just fine. And though not part of his job description, he supposed it beat washing dishes.

When the song was over, she gave him a grandmotherly peck on the cheek, just like his grandmother used to before she forgot who everyone in the family was, with the exception of fleeting moments of recognition that faded as quickly as they came.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Jimmy said, blushing.

“You can get changed now.”

He went back into the bedroom and changed, carefully putting the tux back into the bag. When he came back out, holding the bag, Mrs. Shirley was sitting in her chair, trying to catch her breath.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Shirley?”

“I will be. Just not used to so much excitement!” she said with a laugh, before taking a sip of water.

 “Where would you like me to put this?” Jimmy said, still holding the tux.

“You’re taking it with you!”

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Shirley. We’re not allowed to take gifts…”

“It’s not a gift. And I will insist if anyone gives you any trouble!”

“Okay, Mrs. Shirley.”

“I don’t need it anymore. And it’s a perfect fit.  It was waiting for you all this time! And this way, you will always remember me. And also keep a piece of my husband alive.”

            “Are you sure?” Jimmy said, wondering what on earth he would do with this tux. His mother certainly wouldn’t be too thrilled that he was bringing home an old, stinky tux.

            “Of course, I’m sure! It’s yours now.”

            “Anything else, Mrs. Shirley?”

 “You’re dismissed. Would you like one more candy for the road?”

“Sure!” he said, reaching for one.

“Thanks again, Jimmy.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you…for the tux. And the candy. Have a good night Mrs. Shirley.”

“You, too. Jimmy. Sweet dreams.”

She remained in her chair, staring straight ahead at her wedding picture, as though traveling back through time.

He headed back to work, still trying to process what had just happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the young and beautiful Mrs. Shirley.

The next day at work, he learned that Mrs. Shirley was gone. She passed away in her sleep, in the same spot he had left her. At dinner that evening, her seat at her table was empty. Her tablemates solemn. Another reminder of where they would also soon be heading.

            Years passed. Jimmy became Jim. And yet, the tux has remained with him year after year. In one closet after another.  As time went on, he got married. Had two kids. Three grandchildren. Lost his wife to cancer just short of 70.  But the tux remained, as did the mothball scent.  

He never wore it again in his lifetime until –  as instructed to his loved ones – he passed away into eternal rest.