Atlantic City Suits

Seagulls caw, and show white as snow against a clear blue sky as you walk along A.C’s Boardwalk; hundreds of shoes clonk along the aging sun soaked wood. The Volstead Act has been repealed for two years now, but that bright Jersey sun with the crashing chaos of the Atlanta always brings flocks of tourists to town this time of year. Groups of young men, fresh from the pompous Universities of the East Coast, walk jovially by you clapping each other on their backs and having a good laugh. Men with pencil mustaches, and fedoras escort their woman into the shops, as the ladies beam with joy. Young packs of wild boys dart here and there, their clothes in various stages of ruin, looking for a the unsuspecting person to pickpocket, giggling all the while.

Among the hustle and and bustle you stroll, but your intent is only half pleasure today. You’ve recently been accepted into a crew and are on the up and up, and you’ve got to look the part. You’ve earned your way in, with fatter and fatter envelopes, and now you’ve got some spare clams to blow so you figure why not catch some good sea air and make a stop by Atlantic City Suits.

The General store turns into a theater, the theater turns into a Candy Store, and then into the suit shop. A large polished brass handle shines out in front of you now. Two large plate glass windows on either side of the door brandish suits of different varieties. As you pull the door open a small bell tinkles over your head.

Welcome to Atlantic City Suits! Feel free to look around. If you’d like to try something on, let the concierge know. You can try on something new, or better yet you can reach out to out in house tailor by ringing him up on the phone below:

RING RING

Nucky always slept with the windows open in the summer months on the Jersey Shore. Some mornings the Atlantic’s soft and steady motion lifted him from sleep, while others startled him with a dark breath against his ears. A wave crashes with a roar, and is sucked back out as if the water had actually taken a sharp painful breath. Then another crash. This morning, as most, she wasn’t angry and Nucky woke with the waves crashing, and his head thumping. The chorus of this tune was miserable. Nucky, through squinted eyes, rolled over and began looking for the bottle left over from the previous night on the bed side table. His hand brushed the bottled and it wobbled. He made a grab, and clutched the bottle determined to lift the vanilla scented rum to his lips.

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Pulling his suspenders up and over his shoulders he trods down the stairs and into his store. The coffee he just sat on the stove would come after the door he promised himself. Maybe some of the snow another voice rang from within. Just a maybe, he conceded. Life is a series of promises and concessions. He throws the lock on the heavy front door, flips the closed sign to open and swings it open. Nucky leans against the door jamb, his right leg kicked up, and he lights a smoke.