THE FAMOUS WEDDING SHIRT
by Stewart Berg
The story of a self-important shirt who finds himself part of an important lesson.
It was the day before the Prince’s birthday, and, quite unprecedentedly, it was the day before his wedding and coronation, as well. Tomorrow would mark the twenty-second celebration of his birth, his bride was scheduled to arrive at noon, and his father was only dead as of that dawn. The people of the Capitol marveled at this mass convergence of importance, and though the King’s death grieved them, the prospects of the following day thrilled them. Moreover, they could all agree on the fact that posterity’s scholars would someday debate the documentation of what was to soon occur so near to their own lives.
At the morning burial, the King’s coffin was trailed by a suitable train, and the people respectfully listened to the words that were professed about their loss. Indeed, out of concern for any blemish on the historical record, each scrutinized his neighbor and prayed for the gift of an untarnished mourning. When one of the overworked musicians mistakenly performed the tune for the bridal day, he was abhorred so completely that he was not corrected, and later, a few would insist that the processional addition improved the dirge; it was, they asserted, perhaps the old King delivering his blessing. In a commemoration of the event years later, a local poet would term the instance a King’s last gift to his son and people, writing:
A glorious king, it truly is,
Who will not even seize death as his
After the burial, one could openly discuss the bride. A Princess from a distant land of name but no location to the people of the Capitol, she was said to have met and fallen in love with the Prince during his recent travels of the world; there were, however, some who swore that the bride and groom had never yet met, or that, if they had, it was only in passing and with one of them in disguise. She was, therefore, to the people, merely a specter with a crown, an instrument of great yet undetermined power, and as with all specters, they expected nothing less than an angel or a demon, either to support their State or to squander their Age, but to, either way, be either. The Princess was thus to her new people the most common of mysteries as well as the most commonly unsolved of them; for she was that which is solely solvable by time, by waiting.
When the Royal Garden was proposed, its aspects were matters of the most intense debate, and several careers were launched, not to mention ended, by the words that were wielded. As part of the process, a first architect would submit a design that included a fountain only to have a critiquing architect submit a proposal that included two, then an extravagant two, and then more. Before long, the planned lawn was the size of the entire Palace, and even the realm’s most decorated minds were consulted without effect. Then, a final architect suggested that size should reflect privilege, and he was handsomely rewarded.
The Prince, tired of waiting, paced about the Garden, smelling its few flowers. He checked and assured himself that noon had, indeed, already passed. He paced, and suddenly, he heard the ceremony of her appearance begin; for the Princess, arriving almost on time, was passing through the Capitol gates for the first time, and the people lining the streets were making sure that her first arrival was as noted as it was noteworthy. Having paused, the Prince attentively listened, and he heard the audible lurch during the instant of actual sight, when each member of the crowd judged the fortune of the future in the Princess’ sudden persona. After a few moments, he heard the crowd reup its cheers, and now assured that the Princess’ introductory parade had entered the Capitol’s gates and hearts simultaneously, the Prince allowed his mind to gleefully leap back into itself, imagining at the ever grander cycle of his life.
The Prince’s reveries continued until interrupted by the appearance of his Aide.
“Sire,” the Aide said.
“It is still ‘Sir,’ not yet ‘Sire,’” the Prince replied; “for I have not yet officially earned the e.”
“Of course, Sir. I apologize.”
“Be careful that it does not happen again. You could very easily be stripped of your own.”
“Oh, please, Sir, do not. It took such an effort to earn.”
The Prince made no reply.
“Sir,” the Aide quickly said, grateful for the opportunity to return to his report, “the Princess has arrived.”
“I heard the whole thing,” the Prince replied. “What did you see of it? It sounded magnificent, or somewhat so, at least. Was there a float, or did they have her come in on horseback?”
“Both, Sir. It was truly fantastic. The Princess was unspeakably beautiful.”
“‘Both?’ Do you mean that they carried a stable and ring over the streets?”
“No, Sir. Atop a bronze horse atop a golden float, she rode. And, Sir, she was as striking as her carriage and stead. It was the way in which she was dressed.”
“Is that so? And was it unspeakable, as well?
“Sir, by unspeakable, I simply mean that we lack the words. I myself do, at least. She was stunning, Sir, and dressed marvelously, in a way certainly strange yet surely refined. It was an outlandish and eccentric way, but it was one of undeniability. She appeared a Queen.”
Thanking his Aide, the Prince reclosed his eyes and began to try his best to resume the dreams that he had been having.
“An impression was made on your people,” the Aide added.
“Well, certainly, there is your report,” the Prince replied with new interest. “You have finally mentioned the importance, and you should have begun there before all your descriptions. Now, tell me about my people, and remember, I want to know what they think, not what they know.”
“Sir, after seeing the Princess, it seems that they thought of you, and, Sir, it seems that they worry about your dress for tomorrow. None, I truly believe, actually disapprove of the traditional attire, but perhaps it could be, if only slightly, altered for all her differences. This, at least, seems to be what your people think.”
For a moment, the Prince was engaged in deep thought.
“So,” he eventually said, “she is a new wave of style that my people fear will be muddied by uniforms, ties, and uniform. Is that it? They worry that we will not appear as noble supplements and that we will be joined in our union while in no way in unison? Well, royalty is, I suppose, the realm of such portents, and one cannot fault them for having the very concerns that we cultivate. Very well, my bride comes to my side, so, perhaps, it is not inappropriate that my side should be accommodated for her. In fact, I shall be the groom who exceeds the bride, and we will see, then, what my people have to say. I will outdo her novelty with novelty. Mine will be newer, after all.”
Attentively, the Aide marked the words of his ruler; in them, he saw much to work with.
“Sir,” he interjected once able. “All that you say is true, and you do, in fact, even have the closet for such a claim. However, perhaps, my future King, one last piece will definitively assure that you meet your intent.”
“Very well, Aide,” the Prince replied, impressed by the enterprising nature in the words. “I will take your advice, and it shall act as a test of your expertise; for I task you with procuring me a new shirt for tomorrow.”
After these words, the Prince dismissed his Aide, and the latter hurried to search the stores of the Capitol.
It was nearly night before the Aide returned to the Palace; though tiresome, his search had been fruitful, and he was confident in the purchase cloaked beneath his arm. He entered the Prince’s bedroom then unveiled the Wedding Shirt; upon it, there were buttons, sleeves, and a pocket.
“You will be worn by the Prince when he becomes the King,” the Aide said at the garment, “and by the King when the Princess becomes the Queen.”
Hanging the Wedding Shirt in the Prince’s closet, the Aide quickly left the room in order to partake of the night’s remaining festivities. Then, once again alone, those inside the closet continued the discussion that they had been having.
“I say that you absolutely must hurry to a cobbler,” an elderly Blazer said to a worn pair of brown Loafers; the Prince had received the Blazer as a present nearly five years prior.
“You foolish cloth,” an arrogant, checkered Tie interrupted. “There are no more cobblers. They have replaced cobbling with buying.”
The Blazer was confused.
“People no longer cobble?” he asked.
“They do not,” the Tie answered.
“Of course, they do,” the Loafers cried, “that is why they need shoes.”
The Tie was silent in a way of misunderstanding; the Loafers could often be silly, which he did not like.
“People hobble,” the Loafers explained, “so they have to have shoes. It is only natural that a hobbler would require something on his feet.”
“You bloated sandal,” the Tie said. “He said ‘cobbler,’ not ‘hobbler.’ You are all tongue and no ear.”
At this moment, the Wedding Shirt harrumphed; for he was one of those who only speak when spoken of, and he liked to speak.
“Oh, my dear,” the Loafers exclaimed. “I did not see you there. Did you have something that you wanted to add?”
“I was introducing my willingness to answer your questions,” the Wedding Shirt answered.
“What questions?” the Tie asked.
“Who I am.”
“Who are you?”
The Wedding Shirt took a deep breath.
“I am,” he said, “the Famous Wedding Shirt. I have been formed from the fabric of the gods to be worn by our King. Tomorrow, his face will rise from my pressed form, and we shall clasp the Princess together. I will then forever be immortalized in the divine transformation of Prince to King and Princess to Queen. One can, I reason, only assume my eventual knighthood.”
“You expect to be knighted?” a Winter Coat interrupted from the back of the closet; he was a very recent gift to the Prince from the former King, and this nearness to the old monarch’s death was a coincidence that the clothes had recently determined to be a portent.
“Perhaps,” the Wedding Shirt replied, ensuring that he was committed to nothing. “Do they not do that here?”
For reply, the Winter Coat merely guffawed loud enough to convince the entire closet.
“What is the equivalent that I may anticipate?” the Wedding Shirt asked at-large.
“To be followed,” the Loafers quickly answered. “That is what I know from the Prince. I overheard him mentioning them, though he may have been saying ‘hollowers.’ He does so often mumble.”
The Wedding Shirt struck a dignified pose.
“Very well,” he said. “I will be followed by many followers.”
“Or hollowed by many hollowers,” the Loafers added.
Slightly annoyed, the Wedding Shirt restrained himself from turning upon the Loafers.
“That is what I was going to say,” he said, “but I was not allowed to finish. I will be followed by many hollowers, or hollowed by many followers.”
“That does not sound right,” the Loafers said.
“It certainly does not sound like knighthood,” the Winter Coat added.
“I know what I mean” the Wedding Shirt said, and his voice was like a quiet shout; for he was growing weary of his assumed subjects.
“What about tailors?” the Blazer suddenly exclaimed, but his senility was ignored.
“So,” the Loafers said, addressing the Wedding Shirt, “whom shall you be taking tomorrow?”
Though perfectly hearing the question, the Wedding Shirt skillfully feigned such a lack of communication.
“Whom will you be taking tomorrow?” the Tie reiterated. “As part of your outfit, that is. After all, you cannot presume that the Prince will wear only you. Do you think he would allow himself to go out as naked as a nightmare?”
The Wedding Shirt had not considered this aspect of his ascension.
“I have not yet made my decision,” he lied with mock evaluation. “You all have been distracting me.”
Performing a quick perusal of the closet, the Wedding Shirt passed over those whom he had already become acquainted with; for this was to be an intimate position. On the back wall of the closet hung a spot-free and stainless pair of Slacks, and the Wedding Shirt was instantly decided. With no further delay, he approached his choice with an assurance of confidence, the air of which was one of his most appealing traits.
“The Famous Wedding Shirt,” he titularly introduced himself while bowing; additionally, he slipped his sleeve into one of the Slacks’ back pockets, which is a gesture of affection in clothing.
With what appeared surprise, the Slacks unposed and became shy.
“Oh, my,” he uttered.
“‘Oh, mine,’” the Wedding Shirt corrected.
The Slacks giggled then looked down upon himself.
“But why me?” he asked. “After all, I do not believe that I would ever be able to sufficiently complement you.”
“No one ever wants compliments,” the Wedding Shirt answered, “only to avoid criticisms. I am, however, thankfully and rightfully beyond both, so my choice is my own, and it is you.”
The Slacks had drawn nearer the Wedding Shirt during the latter’s words, and the two were now nearly enfolded.
“That may, perhaps, be true,” the Slacks said, “but as you can surely see, I am missing my button, and I know that I should die of embarrassment if seen in this manner in even the most unprincely matter. If, however, solution must be found, it seems that I could usefully take but one of yours. You have too many, I think, for most tastes, anyway.”
“You may never,” the Wedding Shirt exclaimed, nearly disconcerted beyond speech. “I am one of the diamonds in this worldly haystack, and I must diligently avoid letting myself fall into a forgery.”
“That does not sound right,” the Loafers commented, though he was far enough away from the couple to be easily ignored.
“You are, indeed,” the Slacks said, addressing the Wedding Shirt. “You are a diamond buried within the world’s hay, and it is certainly true that fame such as yours must safeguard itself. It must also, however, ensure the fame of its connections; for when the diamond wishes to associate, it cannot be surrounded by hay alone. Even if it were to prudently select only the sharpest of needles from within the haystack, the integrity of the diamond will be blemished. To ensure its state as such, a diamond must only associate with other diamonds.”
Due to the nature of the appeal, the Wedding Shirt was quickly convinced.
“All you say is correct,” he said, and he hung his head at this thought of how very alone it was that life forced him to be.
By now, the two pieces of clothing were fully in each other’s arms, and the Slacks slightly squeezed the Wedding Shirt in order to return the latter’s thoughts to him.
“Very well,” the Wedding Shirt said. “I will gift you one of my buttons so that we may be joined together on the mortal side of immortality. What I lose in the form of what I already have enough of will pay me back in the form of what I can attain through no other means.”
As he spoke, the Wedding Shirt deftly removed one of his buttons then fastened it upon the front of the Slacks, and the two were for some time as happy as a pairing.
When too tired for even continued congratulations, they parted for the night, and the Wedding Shirt returned to his hanger to sleep the last night before his unveiling. His dreams, however, had only just arisen when he was awoken.
“Oh, Wedding Shirt, Wedding Shirt!” the Slacks cried, rushing upon the sleeper, “we are ruined!”
“What is wrong?” the Wedding Shirt asked, clutching the Slacks with wakening disorientation and protection. “Is there that which needs my doing?”
“Oh, how could we have forgotten?”
“What have we forgotten?”
Before answering, the Slacks was forced to loudly stifle a sob.
“Shoes!” he wailed once able.
“You expect a King to be barefooted?” the Tie interjected, laughing from where he comfortably hung.
“I would never make such a mistake,” the Wedding Shirt quickly answered. “I was merely taking my time in choosing. I wanted it to be a surprise, as well.”
For a second time, the Wedding Shirt scanned the closet for suitability, but he had never possessed a cobbler’s eye for shoes.
“How about this pair?” the Slacks joyously offered, indicating a pair of wholly brown Oxfords.
“I suppose,” the Wedding Shirt said, thankful for the option but not the choice. “He does, however, appear lacking. Does he not seem plain to you?”
The mood of the Slacks quickly changed to that of offense.
“‘Plain?’” he asked, using the Wedding Shirt’s word unmistakably.
“Not plain, at all,” the Wedding Shirt corrected. “He is something that I do not, I suppose, know how to say. What do you think? What weighs his diamondity?”
As if struck by enlightenment, the Slacks suddenly exclaimed.
“Oh, I know!” he said. “We must remove that pocket from your breast, split it, and then attach the two brilliant strips of fabric to him. That way, no one will ever be able to incorrectly label him as plain.”
The Wedding Shirt was hesitant.
“Come now, Wedding Shirt,” the Slacks said. “After all, you only have one pocket on that perfect frame of yours, and facial symmetry is truly alluring, especially for a diamond.”
The Wedding Shirt recalled what the Slacks had told him previously, and he felt himself fearing association with mere needles and hay.
“You are right,” he said while ripping the pocket from his breast. “It must be done, and so, let us hurry.”
Into two equal halves, the Wedding Shirt split his former pocket, and the Slacks then artfully attached them like covers over the laces of the Oxfords.
“Oh, he looks stunningly wonderful!” the Slacks exclaimed once finished, and he kissed the Oxfords.
“The nightmare is dispelled,” the Wedding Shirt agreed, “and we may now return to sleep. I can hardly imagine the tragedy of my sleeping through tomorrow.”
Returning to his hanger, the Wedding Shirt enjoyed his resumed dream, but that is the way a night typically passes when one dreams of an ordained reality; however, moments before his dream’s conclusion, he was wakened by a whisper.
“Wedding Shirt,” the Slacks said, “I am sorry, but I cannot go with you today.”
“What?” the Wedding Shirt exclaimed. “Please, no. Why?”
“I am too embarrassed to say.”
“Tell me.”
“I do not have a belt.”
Forgoing all propriety, the Wedding Shirt frantically threw himself about the closet.
“Surely,” he said, “we can find you one.”
“It is too late, Wedding Shirt,” the Slacks replied. “Already, I hear the Prince approaching.”
Instantly, the Wedding Shirt was transformed into a madman.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “why must I be such a diamond?”
“I have an idea,” the Slacks said, suddenly gripping he whom was so recently pressed away. “We must remove one of your sleeves, belt it through my loops, then fasten its ends. A belt of this kind would truly be quite novel.”
Even in the circumstances, the Wedding Shirt felt resistance from within himself.
“What of my symmetry?” he asked.
“Dissymmetry proves character,” the Slacks offered.
The Prince could be heard coming ever nearer, and the Wedding Shirt had no time to consider anything but what he had been told about diamondity. Sloppily, he ripped his sleeve from his side, and the Slacks quickly tied the cloth about himself. Only narrowly, the pair finished before the entrance of the Prince.
“Come, Aide,” the Prince said, gesturing for that helper to follow him into the closet. “Let us design an outfit beyond my bride’s.”
“We shall do that very thing, Sir,” the Aide replied, “and I would, my future King, recommend in such a situation to begin with what proves to be the most impressionable and then to follow the slide of one’s eye.”
With the appreciation involved in an important day, the Prince appraised his Aide with a smile.
“You are,” he said, “truly to be a King’s Aide.”
“And you a King,” the Aide replied, and the pair then turned their attention to the closet.
The Prince first noticed the Slacks.
“What an alarmingly noticeable belt,” he said. “They will surely make quite an impression, will they not?”
“Yes, Sir,” the Aide replied. “They certainly will.”
Thus, the Prince wore the Slacks. He next noticed the Oxfords.
“Those shoes are without a doubt intriguing,” he said. “They will, I think, be regarded as most novel, will they not?”
“Yes, Sir,” the Aide replied. “They certainly will.”
Thus, the Prince wore the Oxfords.
“Now,” the Prince said, “where is this new shirt of mine that I have heard so much about?”
The Aide looked about the closet then worryingly reviewed it; for the Wedding Shirt had lost himself.
“I am not sure, Sir,” he slowly admitted.
Confused, the Prince became doubtful, but he then laughed.
“I understand you now, Aide,” he said. “There is no new shirt. You must know that the only novel way left to wear a shirt is to not wear it. Really, it is quite clever of you.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Aide eagerly replied. “Thank you.”
The Prince turned in place so that he could better evaluate himself in the closet’s mirror. Posing, he quoted from a popular play of the time:
If she be as brave as me,
Let her dress similarly
Sharing a laugh at the words, the Prince and Aide departed, the latter remembering to close the closet door behind them.
Very slowly, the Wedding Shirt removed himself from his hanger, fraying fabric swinging from his side, breast, and missing button. He wept, the inaudible tears streaming down him like stains, and he felt as if every needle in the world was plunging into him like so many daggers. Some noise near the door pitiably roused him, but it was apparent that no one was returning, and his despair deepened into a curse at himself for having such an involuntary inclination to hope. He drooped himself upon the center of the floor in a corpselike heap, and there, he settled, apathy allowing ugly creases to envelope his skin.
The historic day proved to be an immense success; the Slacks and Oxfords were lauded as ingenious, as was the King. In fact, the three so enjoyed what they heard that they stayed out all evening, then all night, and then all the succeeding day; fame will do that.
There was, however, no prolonged celebration for the Aide, and the morning after the glorious wedding and coronation, he was tasked with transferring all the King’s clothing to the Palace’s primary bedroom, where they would join the new Queen’s. He entered the new King’s old bedroom and smiled at the memories that arose from it.
Eventually entering the closet, the man suddenly recoiled. Rubbing both his eyes, he found the action to be ineffective, and he remained amazed. Then, to inform the world, he ran from the room; for on the closet floor lay all the King’s clothing in a considerable pile, the articles enveloping, and each particular piece tenderly embracing, the Famous Wedding Shirt.
Mr. Berg grew up split between rural Texas and a Seattle suburb. After graduating from Pacific Lutheran University in 2014, he moved to Austin, where he began publishing his Miscellanea series of eBooks before joining the Press. He lives in Marble Falls, Texas.