What Works--and What Doesn’t--After Work
H ow is the Friday evening after-work crowd looking these days, sartorially speaking? Does the dress-for-success ethic continue into the evening hours, or does the corporate armor get shed in favor of brighter plumage? To find out, two Times’ writers went to Mick’s, a nightclub in Irvine. It’s the sort of place that lends itself to after-work schmoozing on the patio outside or head-to-head shouting at the tables near the dance floor.
HE: It wasn’t quite the navy blue, regimental tie, cut-out crowd I thought it might be. I expected it to be yuppie hell. Maybe it was because it was Friday, but it ran the route from a lot of power suits, with the coats left in the car, to a guy who looked like one of the bad boys in a teen- Angst movie. He was wearing a sleeveless denim work shirt. The place was about as homogenous as a “Let’s Make a Deal” audience.
SHE: Given the venue and given that it was Friday night, I was more surprised by how understated much of the female plumage was. Interestingly, that created a great backdrop against which the more predatory women could strut their fashion stuff. You know, the tight miniskirts, plunging necklines and stud-bedecked body gloves that the “suits” couldn’t take their eyes off but couldn’t find the courage to approach, either.
HE: True enough. And I’ll bet more than a few of those women who looked like they were injection-molded into those little black skirts knew what sort of competition they’d be facing.
SHE: Do I detect a certain superciliousness here? I noticed your eyes sucking in the scenery.
HE: Yeah, kind of like a mongoose watching a snake. If they meant to turn heads, then the outfits worked. But that sort of bravado starts to look clownish pretty quickly, and the women who don’t dress like Catwoman start to look a lot more friendly and conversational.
SHE: You’re missing the whole point of dressing-as-primal-communication. When the music is so loud that the waitress has to ask you to repeat your order three times, clothes are the only currency that can communicate who you are and what you’re after.
HE: Some of these little outfits, though, don’t communicate as much as screech. They slap you around visually.
SHE: If those high-wattage lushettes didn’t press the call-of-the-wild button of someone like you, it just proves that the system works. You weren’t the only man there who turned his attention to the more demure types once he had pulled his eyeballs back into their sockets, and I’d wager that this suits these Catwomen just fine. For them, life is too short to have non-starters like you clutter up their dance cards.
HE: The flip side of those women is nearly as bad: the woman in blue pin stripes. Thank God the starchy female corporate business suit is nearly extinct, replaced by work clothes that make the transition well to after-hours wear.
SHE: They looked a lot better than some of the men’s work attire did after the dance floor was crowded and the black lights were blasting at the bar.
HE: Yeah, I’ve got to admit you can’t make a Brooks Brothers pin-striped business suit look more relaxed simply by taking the coat off and shoving the tie knot to one side.
SHE: Relaxed? Who was trying to look relaxed? There wasn’t a single tie on the premises that wasn’t crisply in place. Message: “I’m sensitive to not projecting myself as a slob.”
And did you notice that the only time jackets were removed was to show off the suspenders underneath?
HE: Suspenders. A dedicated-use item if there ever was one. There’s a subtle message there, too, I suppose.
SHE: Of course: “I’m Michael Douglas, the rich commodities genius and, yeah, greed is good. Non-like-minded babes need not apply.”
Using one’s attire to send messages is a serious ritual, and women aren’t the only ones who have mastered the art. Men have learned to send signals via the humble business suit.
HE: Actually, there was one guy there who hit the middle ground perfectly. On the Wallace Beery end, we had a guy in a sleeveless undershirt, on the E.F Hutton end, we had the standard bulletproof blue wool, and then there was this guy. He was in the eye of this storm dressed in cowboy boots, good Levi’s and a white long-sleeved dress shirt.
SHE: Good Levi’s? Is that your idea of watering-hole chic?
HE: Beats the hell out of the Wallace Beery guy. The point is, the booted guy looked absolutely relaxed. Simple, casual, clean, prole-elegant. Perfect for the time and place. This easy-going guy wasn’t sending any messages or making any bold fashion statements. He wasn’t working at it. But I guess that’s not calculating enough for the upscale after-work set.
SHE: Au contraire, my dear. His studied approachability was as calculated as the demure mien of his female counterparts, believe me. You were too busy paying the bill and fighting your way to the door to notice that a blonde in a hard-metal bustier had sauntered over to his table and was leaning over him with easy familiarity.
Who had fired the first volley in this wordless exchange? We can only speculate. My guess is that when thread meets thread across a crowded room, the weave is either immediate or not at all. Mere words, it seems, no longer cut it.
