And everything is expertly tailored and put together for him by a small woman of indeterminate age and country of origin who has been doing this for years and knows these things, even though she herself wears a smock and sensible shoes and keeps her dark hair in a knot at the nape of her neck and never wears make-up. She speaks in broken English and makes sure Mac never has to think about what he's wearing. It all fits and it all matches. Mac visits her four times a year.
He is surprised to learn that PC does too.
The Seamstress lets it slip as she's making Mac's latest round of fitted T's more fitted and Mac slips and lets his reaction show. Afterward it makes sense: PC's shape is...distinct. Although Mac may work 'out of the box', neither he nor PC are 'off the rack'.
"Have, uh, have you been working on him long?" Mac asks, curiously.
She nods curtly, as is her way, and insists:
"I work on him all time. He no listen. Lot of work. He get so big in back lately. So big."
She tsks. Mac tries to choke back a laugh and a suspicious, 'I know'. The seamstress gathers his shirts and marches off. She's no-nonsense. No nonsense at all.
"You wait here," she commands.
Mac waits. And waits. He leans against a table. He listens to a tune or two on his iPod. He drums his fingers.
He hears a familiar sounding cough.
He finds PC behind a curtain in an adjacent fitting room attempting to be very quiet, and radiate an aura of Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. From the way he swivels his rear away from Mac, it's pretty clear he has been there this whole time.
He stands awkwardly in an unfinished suit. The blazer is a mock-up: pinned and chalked. His pants are draped over the back of a chair. His boxers are white. His socks are black.
"Um. Hello," PC says. He seems prepared to pretend he hasn't overheard anything. Mac is prepared to play along.
"Hey, Big Guy," he says, enthusiastically. He runs a careful finger along PC's lapel. "Nice. You're gonna look sharp in this."
"Mmm," PC mumbles. Mac gets the feeling PC doesn't like doing this very much. "I didn't know you came to her."
"Yes," PC says.
"She's great," Mac continues.
"Yes," PC agrees.
Mac uses this uncharacteristic lull in conversation to glance at PC's trousers.
Marketing is gonna flog him.
"You doing pleats?" Mac asks.
"Pleats. Did she suggest them, or do you just like them?"
"I need them," PC insists, a little glumly.
"Do not," Mac insist back.
PC looks faintly exasperated. As if he doesn't think Mac could possibly understand.
"Maybe think about it again," Mac suggests, and wanders back to his own fitting room. She's waiting for him.
"You talk to him," she says.
"Uh, yeah," Mac admits. "Listen. You could...do a little something for him. I know you could. You're the best. Make him look good, okay? He deserves to look good."
Her ego has definitely been appealed to.
"Mmm," she admits. "I give him two good seams, he look like he lose inches."
Mac knows how much PC would like to look like he's lost inches.
"Do it," Mac says.
"I do it," she agrees.
That season there are a few sleek new desktop options on the market. And a popular magazine says the black Macbook with its matte finish resembles something by Dell. Mac doesn't mind the comparison.