A stitch in time. . .would really have helped at the Folger Shakespeare Library

I wear a tuxedo only slightly less often than I visit the International Space Station. I own a tux, but it’s stained with fake zombie blood and white clown make-up because its principal use over the years has been as a part of Halloween costumes. Nothing says Halloween better than a middle-aged man dressed up as a vampire clown.

Earlier this week, I actually needed a tux for the PEN/Faulkner Foundation’s annual gala at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. I wasn’t the only Vermonter who had to man up and climb into a monkey suit that night. Poet Major Jackson was there, too. . .in a tux. So was Senator Patrick Leahy. . .in a tux. Senator Leahy was, in fact, one of the hosts. Just for the record, those two seriously represent. They could have been ads for tuxedos.

Me? Not so much. Here’s what happened.

I pulled my tuxedo from the back of my armoire where it sits like, well, a vampire in a casket. The last time I had worn it to a black tie literary gala had been 2003. It was so old it had a seriously scary “Sunset Boulevard” vibe to it. And, of course, it had all that clown make-up. I realized either I had to buy one or rent one for the appearance. Since, based on past experience, I am not likely to need a tuxedo again until 2021, I decided to rent.

Choosing a tuxedo for a literary gala is unbelievably easy. There are two reasons for this. It’s not your prom and you’re not 17. Also, this isn’t the 1970s. This means that pastels aren’t an option. You ask for black. You walk in to a store, get measured, and get out. Which is what I did. I even tried it on when I picked it up a week later.

What I did not do, however, was check the seams on the pants. Or make sure that the soles of the shoes weren’t made of black ice. I should have.

Fast-forward a few days later to my hotel room in Washington, D.C. at 5:20 in the afternoon. I am being picked up at 5:30 to go to this soiree, and I am recalling that old ad for men’s formalwear that insisted, more or less, “Every guy looks good in a tux.” I am – to quote Billy Crystal imitating Fernando Lamas – “going to look absolutely mahvelous.” As I am tying my rented shoes, however, I notice that the inseam along my right knee is split. The split is only two inches in length, but it opens like a yawn every time I bend my knee or cross my leg. Moreover, along with Major Jackson and eight other writers, I am going to be speaking on a stage at this gala and then, after I speak, sitting in a chair on that stage. So, I stand up, planning to see if there is one of those emergency sewing kits in the hotel bathroom, and my right foot shoots out as if the sole has been painted with Crisco. It was a seriously impressive hotel pratfall. And there was no needle and thread in the bathroom.

I wasn’t especially panicked because all I was looking at was moderate humiliation. There are worse things that can happen to a person than giving a reading at the Folger Shakespeare Library with a rip in your pants, right? There are more embarrassing things that can happen to a person than slipping as you cross the stage to the podium at the Folger Shakespeare Library, correct?

All the way from the hotel to the Folger, in the backseat of the car, I practiced how to sit like a spinster. And then when we arrived at the library, I rehearsed walking across the stage, stomping my feet on the floor like Frankenstein. It worked. I made it to the podium when the readings began. Then I sat in my seat with my knees and ankles glued together.

I looked as relaxed as the Queen of England with a handful of Buffalo wings at a NASCAR tailgating party. But that tux? It looked awesome.

(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on September 16, 2012. Chris's new novel, "The Sandcastle Girls," was published this summer.