I filled the iron with water and turned the dial to “steam.” I spread my shirt out on the ironing board, smoothing the yoke over its point. I sprayed fabric finish onto the yoke and raised the iron above the board; when I heard the hiss of steam, I lowered the iron to the shirt, and began to iron. I thought of when, some time ago, my good friend called and asked what I was doing. When I told her that I was ironing, she said, “I’ve seen you iron. You’re a good ironer.” She didn’t remember when she had told me (between husbands two and three) that she should have married me for my ironing abilities.
When I was in high school (the early 60s) my mother used to iron the shirts I wore to class. I bought these shirts with money I had earned, but my mother ironed them. The shirts were dipped in Argo starch, rolled into a ball and stored overnight in the refrigerator. My mother removed a ball of shirt from the refrigerator each morning and spread it onto the ironing board. She would quickly tap a wet finger to the iron to test its heat, then, begin to press my shirt into scalpel-sharp creases. She also ironed my trousers, for this was still the age when we “city kids” still dressed neatly for school.
My mother set the bar high for ironing, and I felt that it would be unfair to anyone else to try to clear it. I declined offers from others to iron my clothes until the offers died under the weight of “wash and wear,” and “permanent press,” and “casually crumpled” dress. Once while folding my clothes in a laundromat, a woman there said something about ironing; I replied that I love to iron, something that neither of my brides was fond of. In fact, I told both brides not to iron for me, citing the bar set by my mother. The woman said, “Maybe I should have married you,” but I reminded her of the two (count ‘em) brides: “I’m merely a good ironing prospect.”
I moved the iron over the yoke, spraying and ironing and rotating the shirt on the board. I moved to the cuffs, and ironed each into crisp compliance. I had already pressed the collar, first the reverse, then the outside. These next tasks came in this order: shirt sleeves, placket (first inside, then out), front of shirt (both sides) then across the back, taking care to form the box pleat down the back and press it halfway down to the tail. After another quick pass over the shirt to make sure there were no “cat faces,” I hung it up and started on my trousers.
On the last night of “Cabaret Poe” at the Lodge in Irvington, I sat in the front row, one leg crossed over the other, my pant leg high enough to reveal the black-and-white, horizontally striped socks inside the soft grey half-boots which were two shades lighter than the grey Tencel fabric shirt I wore beneath a black leather sport coat. That moment was crafted from almost 30 years of retail advertising and shopping. I had assembled, pressed and accessorized my clothing and self from the shelves, hangers and storage bins of my shopping life, energized and enervated by the huge number of dress shirts that I have not worn in six years. But for that moment, at the Lodge, listening to “Nevermore,” and the tintinnabulation of the bells, I thought, eat your heart out Tony Stark:
I’m the real iron man.