Death of the Suit

by Rob Schwartz

"And don't forget to wear a jacket," said Matt. "Club rules."

My pal Matt invited me for lunch at the New York Athletic Club. The NYAC is the last bastion of WASP-dom in New York. Founded in 1868 by a trio of young men who believed that sweating from physical exertion and social refinement were not mutually exclusive, the club is an amazing vertical fortress with pools, a gym, a hotel, and the ghost of a thousand firm handshakes. When you step into its gracious lobby, it's like stepping into 1959.

But you won't get far unless you're wearing a blazer.

I went one better. I wore a suit. A classic navy Brooks Brothers, cut from the Milano silhouette, which added a little Italian flair and modernity to the classic Brooks Brothers boxiness.

I used to wear a suit every day. Black suit. White shirt. Black tie. I was the CEO of an ad agency. The suit was a signal. It said, I'm here for business. Clients could trust me with their million-dollar budgets. It said, agency folks, I'm your leader. And for me personally, it gave me one less thing to think about. I knew what I was wearing every day. The ol' Steve Jobs theory of sartorial choices — limit them. And while his turtleneck said visionary, my suit conveyed, "I'm billing you."

There was another benefit, of course. The suit functioned like armor. It protected and deflected when the meetings turned ugly.

But then COVID hit. WFH retired the need for a suit. And by the time everyone went back to the office, it seemed pajamas were in and suits were out.

I met Matt in the lobby. He was wearing a broad-checked maroon and blue number and slacks. It's so rare to see a blazer and slacks these days. But there were plenty in the dining room. Tweed, worsted, and classic navy blazers with gold buttons.

Matt and I caught up over extortionate chicken Caesar salads and iced teas. We chatted politics, business, sports, and old '80s bands and videos. We finished with a coffee and then parted ways.

I had my suit on my mind as I walked out onto Central Park South and then made a sharp left on Sixth (I still refuse to call it "Avenue of the Americas," in the same way I still scroll Twitter).

The weather was spectacular. One of those three exceptional days in March we'd enjoyed recently.

As I was walking south in the spring-like air, I decided I would play a little game: count the suits.

Walking downtown, I figured I'd see some gents in suits by those modern buildings on the west side of Sixth. Accenture is there. UBS. Cohn Reznick. But, as I walked, there was nary a one.

To break things up, I decided to walk down Madison.

To get there I crossed over on 44th Street. It was there I saw my first suit. It was worn by a limo driver outside the Sofitel.

I kept going and crossed Fifth. I saw another suit, although it was highly non-traditional. No lapels. No visible pockets. It was worn by the doorman at the Royalton.

I finally hit Madison right on the side of the old Brooks Brothers store at 346. Irony of ironies, the epicenter of suits in New York since the time of President Abraham Lincoln (who wore Brooks Brothers) was closed. And even though the current man in the White House favors ill-fitting Brionis, the shuttered Brooks Brothers store seemed to be ample evidence that this truly was the end of the Republic.

I made my way south on Madison. In the 30s I saw some finance bros, each with a coffee drink no doubt filled with exotic milk from a plant and ketamine, all of which required a straw. They were, of course, in their natural uniform of cropped pants and vests. No suits.

At the base of Madison I cut through the park and headed to Fifth. It was my last chance to see a suit, potentially around the Cole Haan store.

As I approached 19th Street, I spotted one. An athletic young man in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. I watched as he strode up the block like he owned it. He then stopped at Pandora — apparently not to shop, but to protect. It was now clear to me that he was security personnel back from his lunch break.

As this little suit safari ended and I approached my building, I saw the last suit I would see of the afternoon. It was worn by my doorman.

"Lookin' sharp, Rob."

"Thanks, Chris."

I got into the elevator and made my way up to my apartment.

Once inside, I took everything off and put on a t-shirt, Lululemon workout pants, and a pair of Uggs.

It was nice to be out of my suit. I'm not sure I'll wear it again. Until my own funeral.

BIO: Rob Schwartz writes from New York City. He has written for Madison Avenue, Hollywood and points beyond. His short story, 'Lucky Day," has recently been published in "The Words Faire." And he has also been invited to read his essay, "The First :17 Seconds" at Writers Read. " He is currently working on a collection of short stories.