The J. Peterman Company

The Urban Sombrero

It combines the spirit of old Mexico with a little big-city panache. I like to call it the Urban Sombrero. I was not the first to call it that. The first was an acting president of this company, during a period I was in Burma and she was, evidently, in charge.

Wear it to lunch. Wear it to a meeting you would rather not attend, and watch the meeting reschedule itself. It shades the wearer and everyone within four feet of the wearer, which is either a courtesy or a threat, depending on the sidewalk.

Returns are accepted. They have, historically, been numerous.

A fictional catalog. Nothing is for sale. The hat is not real, which is a relief to several architects.

The ExecutiveA raincoat with no belt

Some inventions arrive as thunder. This one arrived as a man named Morty, in a lobby in Florida, explaining with enormous patience that he had removed the belt from a trenchcoat in 1946 and that the world had been slow to thank him.

He was right. The belt was always the problem. It dangles. It drags through puddles. It ends up in the door of a taxi. The Executive removes the problem, leaving a coat that is sleek, stylish, and, in Morty’s words, “all coat.”

Morty would like credit. Morty would also like to discuss the price, at length, before dinner, which is at 4:30.

The Himalayan Walking Shoe

Base camp, 1994. A Sherpa named Tenzing, though not that Tenzing, looked at my boots and laughed for an uncomfortable length of time. Then he showed me his. This is his. I traded him a watch, a paperback, and a promise I have not kept.

It is a shoe for walking. It will also do for standing, and for the particular kind of leaning one does against a jeep while deciding whether to go on. Ventilated. Unlined. Unbothered.

Not for the office. Unless the office is at nine thousand feet, in which case, my condolences.

The Festivus Pole

Queens, late December. A man named Frank stood in his living room beside a bare aluminum pole and explained, with the calm of a man who has explained it before, that this was the holiday now. No tree. No tinsel. He finds tinsel distracting. I did not argue. One does not argue with Frank. One listens, and later, one is asked to wrestle.

The pole is aluminum, chosen for its very high strength-to-weight ratio. It requires no decoration and resists it. Stand it in a corner on the twenty-third, seat the family, and air your grievances one at a time. The Feats of Strength follow dinner. The holiday is not over until someone is pinned.

Ships flat. It is a pole.

The Bro — or, if you prefer, the Manssiere

Two men came to me with the same garment and two names for it. Mr. Kramer calls it the Bro. Mr. Costanza calls it the Manssiere. They have not settled this, and I am told they will not. I bought the design from each of them, separately, which is the only way to buy anything from either of them.

It is support, for the man who needs it. The straps are wide and do not apologize. It fastens in front, because reaching behind is a young man’s game. Wear it under a shirt. Nobody will know, apart from the way you carry yourself, which will be better.

The name on the label depends on which of them packed the box.

A coffee table book about coffee tables

The author, a Mr. Kramer, arrived at my office without an appointment and with a book that unfolds into a small coffee table of its own. It has legs. He demonstrated this on my desk, on my floor, and briefly on my assistant. The legs fold away. The idea does not.

Inside are coffee tables: photographed, discussed, and in one case defended. There is a coaster built into the cover, so the book may be set upon itself. I have read it twice, once as a book and once as furniture, and I prefer it as furniture.

Signed by the author, whether you asked or not.