I’d like to think I would have gotten away with it.
No one would ever suspect me.
I’m a white guy with a beard; not only do I fade into a crowd, I am the crowd. “Just play it cool and no one will even notice,” the Inner Voice said as I pulled up to my assigned spot in the grass pasture. “Just play it cool, boy. Real cool.”
I had on my overcoat and my gray Polo scarf. I looked prepared for 20-degree gale force winds or a quiet walk around TriBeCa.
I had subject changes locked and loaded, little conversational tactics to unleash should the conversation trend toward the topic I most feared.
Yes, I’d have gotten off scot-free, if wasn’t for that meddling city clerk Bob Shuman and his keen eye.
As I sat down behind him next to planning director Jerry Kelley, Shuman leaned to face me and uttered the words I had been dreading to hear:
“Cliff, why are you wearing tuxedo pants?”
