When You Look at It, His Outfit Is a Revelation

The trouble began when I showed up for work, wearing a white body stocking.

The boss’s eyeballs popped.

“You can’t wear that thing here!” he screamed.

“Why not?”

“It’s against company policy!” he said.

“What company policy?”

The boss sputtered, trying to think of something.

“The policy that prohibits you from walking around looking like the giant marshmallow man from ‘Ghostbusters,’ ” he said.

I argued that the body stocking was comfortably and aerodynamically designed, enabling me to type better. “Splendid,” the boss said. “Go type your resignation.”

I told him I had read the rules carefully, and they had said nothing whatsoever about body stockings.

“Then we will have such a rule tomorrow,” he said, and ran off to find other bosses.

Alas, it was too late. Word of my outfit got out. The tabloids got hold of it, and the next morning’s headlines were startling. All of them put me on the front page, except for one in New York that went with a story about a nun from outer space who discovered a headless taxi driver.

The West Coast reporters were all over me. They wanted to know all about me. They wanted to know where I got the body stocking, why I wore the body stocking, what I wore under the body stocking.

None of them seemed to care how I did my job. The press just liked me because I was a novelty, a diversion, a goofball. Geek du jour .

Nor did the boss seem to care how I did my job. It was more important that I conform, lest anyone be shocked.

I told him I had thought all those attitudes and prejudices were behind us, like the time Gussie Moran made everyone gasp by showing up in lace panties.

“What department does he work in?” the boss asked.

It was at this point that I got angry. I lost my famous temper.

I called the boss names. I called him Mr. Incompetent. “You’re the pits of the world!” I yelled.

He issued me a warning.

I moaned, groaned, whined, complained, sulked and finally went back to work.

That’s when an agent came up and asked if I would like to do a TV commercial endorsing razor blades.

Things suddenly became clear to me. The more flamboyantly I acted, the more I got noticed.

I was just like the basketball player who broke backboards and gave his dunks nicknames and told stories about growing up on other planets called Chocolate Paradise and Lovetron.

I was just like the football player who wore white shoes and predicted the outcome of Super Bowls and did TV commercials wearing panty hose.

I was just like the boxer who made up poems and called himself The Greatest and scheduled championship fights in places like the Philipines and Zaire.

I was just like the baseball manager who kicked dirt on umpires and got into fistfights and got fired a lot and started cashing in on his reputation not as a successful manager but as a guy who kicked dirt on umpires and got into fistfights and got fired a lot.

I was just trying to be different.

Be an original.

Be a contender.

Be somebody.

The fact is, some people can become somebody just by being themselves. But others need help.

Let’s say you’re a professional tennis player, and you travel around the world and you play against the best players and nobody knows you’re alive except those players and your parents. You are a household name only in your own household.

Let’s say you’re playing at Wimbledon, and you have a match coming up against a well-known player and you know you probably won’t be coming back for another match after this one. You must think of something, quickly. Today is your day to get noticed.

You take a costume out of your closet.

You could have worn this outfit at the Greater Harrisburg, Pa., Celebrity Pro-Am or at the Zaire Virginia Slims or some other tournament. You could have worn it against Manuela Maleeva or Bettina Bunge or some other opponent.

Instead, you save it for a Wimbledon match against a celebrated player.

When you strip down to your Funderwear and the crowd gasps, you act nonchalant. When tournament officials tell you never to wear such threads again, you feign surprise. “My outfit?” you say. “This old thing?”

Next day, you go back to your old clothes.

But suddenly, you’re somebody. Everybody remembers you and will remember you forever. Everybody is talking about you. Everybody knows your name.

It’s . . . it’s . . .

That’s funny. I knew it yesterday, when I was in white.