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Alterations

Dear Diary:

It was the 1970s and I had recently moved to the area now known as Dumbo from the West Coast. I had a new pair of pants that needed altering, and I found a tailor in a basement shop in Brooklyn Heights.

A bell rang as I opened the door and entered the shop. The tailor, an older man, was doing something behind the counter. He continued to stand with his back to me while I awaited his attention.

Finally, after a minute or two that seemed much longer, he spoke without turning to face me.

“What do you want?”

I held up the pants.

“I need to have these pants taken in,” I said.

He swiveled slightly and glanced quickly at the waist of the pants and then at my waist. Without making eye contact, he swiveled back away.