Mr. Rice straightens his dark red tie.
His wife says it is wine but he knows better. And he always does know better, why else would he be in the big office on the 18th floor. His family is very proud of his accomplishments. Little did they know that he mostly played games online all day when he wasn’t practicing his putting skills for Thursday.
He steps back, turns sideways and smiles.
He pulls down on his coat and speaks aloud, ” Clothes make the man”.
Then he steps out into the street.
Mr.Bowl’s back feels like it wants to snap in two. It always does when he works 14 hours straight. He slows down the weaving machine and adjusts it. Miss Fork will be in soon to take his place.
He always leaves the machine in perfect adjustment for her. Poor soul, she has so little time for her children. But he mustn’t dwell on it, just try to help that’s all. Mustn’t dwell on it in this tired painful state, he can’t afford another breakdown.
Mr. Bowl stumbles out into the street.
The not so fresh air and bright sunlight do little to brighten his disposition.
Suddenly he feels jarred, spins around
and falls. Looking up he sees Mr.Rice hurrying down the street.He recognizes the cloth of his suit, the high end fabric they produce on the last week of every month.
Mr.Rice brushes the dust from Mr.Bowl off his sleeve. He thinks to himself ” that unkempt #@**, doesn’t he know that clothes make the man”.
Mr. Bowl struggles to get to his feet.
He follows Mr. Rice into the sunrise with his tired eyes,he thinks to himself, ” doesn’t that arrogant #$$%* know that man makes the clothes” .