You pluck my slip from the pocket of a new suit. You find “Inspected by No. 37” in your fresh linen blouse. You causally glance at my trademark, then toss it into the trash with the stickers, tags, and the little plastic ties that never fail to require scissors to remove. And then you don your new clothes, regarding yourself in full-length mirrors, never giving me a second thought, unless threads are loose, arms are unequally long, or buttons dangle from insecure fastenings. Of course, such abnormalities never occur once they’ve passed my judicious eye, for I take my career seriously and am well respected in the garment district.
Before I became an inspector, I showed amazing talent for finding flaws in virtually everything capable of being flawed, which is to say, everything. From Swiss cheese with too many holes more than 1/2 an inch in diameter, to bags of Fritos with the expiration date printed too closely to the sealed top, my sharp eyes missed nothing, not even the slightly sideways bent to my mother’s nose.
I see flaws in the most beautiful rose or sprig of clover, finding such defects soothing in their rampant abundance. I believe the denial of imperfection causes a subconscious discontent in those who wish to ignore it, which works on the mind like a strip of sandpaper, chafing at the desire for aesthetic impeccability. But where is the beauty in this world, if not for the defects which form it?
You might call me an “imperfectionist,” for I believe we are meant to seek out differences and nonconformity, to see that the triangular peg won’t fit in the trapezoidal hole. We need some notion of what is wrong in order to seek what is right. Some people claim I’m obsessive about faults and inadequacies, but it’s only as a basis for the appreciation of the world we live in.
Wasn’t it Socrates who said, “The unexamined suit is not worth wearing”? Could he possibly have inspected his own robes and found satisfaction in their uneven hems? The question becomes one of adequacy. He may have discovered with gratitude that what is acceptable and what is not are quite relative things, and the less one expects, the better off he will be. At the very least, to be uncritical is to be unaware.
I yearn for the day when my efforts are recognized—a note from a consumer will reach my table: “My jacket is perfect! Not one loose thread! And the buttons! Attached securely, not falling off after the first wear like some of those jackets I’ve seen inspected by No. 52! My utmost praises to you, Inspector No. 37!”
I thrill to throw a shirt with an uneven collar into the Defect Bin. Substandard. Impermissible. Egregious. I love the evolution of a garment—how, freshly pressed, it graces the shoulders; how, years later, it turns up at Goodwill or shrouds the body of a corpse.
The exhausted seamstresses hunch over outdated machines which grind and chatter like the gnashing teeth in a monster’s maw. In the break room, where a dismal stand of vending machines coughs out Milky Ways and stale potato chips, the women drone their tired complaints—insufficient paychecks, demanding children, headaches and hangovers, the feeling of emptiness in their chests and stomachs as they drive the needles through uneven plaids and ragged selvages. The strain to mend the yawning holes. Lives cut short like scissored threads.
I’m thinking about these very things when I catch the first glimpse of perfection—Inspector No. 46 arrives to replace No. 52, a diffident man who vanished after a messy divorce and a drinking binge. With a shy smile, No. 46 takes her place next to me at the inspecting table and begins fingering a tweed jacket with her long-polished nails. She sniffs the oily air as though the odor is not at all offensive, her slightly upturned nose like a rosebud tilting toward the sun. She tosses back her gleaming blond hair and throws one more dimpled smile in my direction, then turns her light blue eyes to her task. Within seconds, she throws the jacket into the Defect Bin, having discovered a missing button. I can tell she is experienced.
Her quintessence unnerves me, and I work for several days watching her from the corner of my eye as I strive to focus on my work. Again and again, I watch the delicious curve of her breast strain against the dart in her shirt as she lifts each garment to the light. I tuck my slips into more pants and shirts than I know is wise. With perfection right there in front of me, it’s much harder to attend to imperfection.
Before long, I can’t resist approaching her in the break room as she bites into a bright red apple, her gleaming teeth white in the fluorescent light. I ask her to have a drink with me after our shift is over, and I add that the margaritas at Vic’s are the best in the city. But her eyes dive down and up my stodgy body, and I can tell she is inspecting me with the same rapidity she applies to her work. It is obvious she doesn’t like the horn-rimmed bifocals, or the grey beard, or the way my stomach pushes down the band of my pants. It is even more evident that she doesn’t respect my request or the way I offer it, as my eyes can not help straying to the top button of her shirt. Her lilting voice stings me, “I don’t want anything to do with you, Number 37. As far as I’m concerned, you belong in the Defect Bin.”
I am shocked at the screech in her voice. I stare into her pale, washed-out eyes, noticing the turned-up nose with the flaring nostrils, like a pig’s snout. She brushes back the dishwater blond hair which hangs around her pore-pitted face, her fingers like white worms. I turn away, woozy with disgust.
Over the next few days, I steal piles of No. 46’s labels. In the pocket of every substandard garment, I slip “Inspected by No. 46.” I find many flaws this week—the seamstresses are growing careless after being denied a raise. Only two weeks pass before I begin to see results. The foreman approaches No. 46 with a rash of complaints. When he shows her a returned rayon blouse with the left sleeve 3 inches longer than the right, he asks her to resign. Her parting glance at me is riddled with animosity. I shrug amiably, and she hands over her tokens and stalks away.
My work becomes more pleasant and rewarding. Now that I have seen the fickle nature of faults and flawlessness, of ugliness and pulchritude, I revel in the clarity of my discretion. With pride and assurance, I put my seal of approval on carefully inspected garments. I would trade nothing for a well-made jacket.
Forevermore, should you see my tag, my proud “Inspected by No. 37” tucked in the pockets of your newly purchased clothes, think not in anticipation of pleasant cocktail parties, or the praise of friends, or the envious eyes of women or men pouring their gazes across a crowded room. Think of my nimble fingers flying through denim and chenille, judging fit or unfit for you and those you love. Yes, love—the greatest imperfection of all.
Zan Bockes holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. Her work, published in many magazines and anthologies, includes two poetry collections: CAUGHT IN PASSING (2013) and ALIBI FOR STOLEN LIGHT (2018). A book of short fiction, FROM HERE, is forthcoming. She thrives in Missoula, Montana.
