It's the '80s. I'm in a Center City Philadelphia bank. A man strolls in, resplendent in an ensemble that places him square in another century, where he'd hobnob with Oscar Wilde and outdandy the most brilliant fops of the time. Knickers not pants; a flouncy, enormous-collared jacket; pointy shoes, and a tall hat, he put Willy Wonka to fizzling shame. I recognize him as John Delay, my friend from Something Blue, a local vintage store, with whom I'd concoct fanciful names for new garment arrivals. We greet each other with flourishes.
I am grateful to John for his unflagging panache.