FROM OUR FEBRUARY ISSUE: LEE ALLISON: IN PRAISE OF COMPASSIONATE GENTLEMEN

The entire MR team proudly presents our February 2025 issue. If you haven’t received a hard copy, please page through  our digital version, and we’ll continue to post individual stories here on  MR-mag.com. If you haven’t been getting MR in print, be sure that you are on our mailing list for future issues by completing  this form.   

I don’t know how last August’s Chicago Collective was for you, but for me, it was horrible. I live in Chicago and was driving to the show Sunday morning on my scooter. (Think Vespa, although a different brand, but not one of those razor-like rental scooters). Dressed to the nines for the show, I turned into an underground parking area not far from The Mart, only to see a car coming out of nowhere, right at me. I had just a split-second to react, and with amazing cat-like reflexes I didn’t know I possessed, I somehow managed to avoid hitting the car.

That was the good news. The bad news was that, unlike a real cat that would have landed on all fours, I hit the ground on my right side HARD. I’m now on the ground, with my right foot under my 220-pound scooter, pulling and tugging to get it out. Just as I do, the guy who was driving the car now has his hands under my arms and helps me up, only to give me the once-over, a pat on the back and a “You look good!” He was likely referring to the clothes: a custom sport coat with a Lee Allison tie and pocket square!

Although I may have popped back up in style, I didn’t feel so hot. My ankle was throbbing, and when I put my hand up to my right collarbone, I felt a bump that hadn’t been there a minute before. But with the show waiting for me and the adrenaline flowing, I got back on that scooter to drive the final 100 yards and park. I then proceeded up one elevator, across Wells Street, over to the elevators in the middle of The Mart, up to the 7th floor, and then limped another 200 feet to my booth. Hours later, I learned this rather painful journey was all on a broken ankle.

When I got to my booth, the first words I heard were “Oh my God, what happened to you?” followed by “You’re white as a ghost and sweating up a storm.” Then a more succinct assessment: “You look like shit!” It didn’t take me long to figure out I was pretty messed up. So after scrawling a note saying I’d had an accident, my booth neighbor Jim Seaman gently helped me get back to the elevators, down to the lobby, and into a cab for the short ride to the emergency room.

In a flash, I was surrounded by a team of trauma surgeons, but just as quickly, they seemed confused. One doctor said, “We were told you had a motorcycle accident, but you don’t look like a motorcycle accident.” (It was probably the coat, tie, and pocket square that threw him. Or maybe it was the tie bar, still at a jaunty angle.) Another doctor joked, “Where’s the leather? And the beard?” A third added, “And the big gut?”

 

I wasn’t in a particularly jovial mood, but we did have a laugh over this. I was then in the ER for 10 hours, and when all the X-rays, scans, consultations, and tests were completed, I was handed a list of my injuries. From top to bottom: my right collarbone was broken in two places, I had three broken ribs, and the previously mentioned ankle was also broken in two places. Seven breaks total.

With no back-up team, the Collective was shot for me. I did have a friend sit in my booth on Monday afternoon, and I was able to return to pack up on Tuesday with the help of my sister and brother-in-law.

But all was not lost, and that’s why I’m writing this piece. Sure, my show and sales sucked, and I lost money. Sure, I had the worst accident of my life. But my neighbors at the show, particularly Jim Seaman, his son Chris, and Greg Kern across the way, all helped in any way they could. Several retailers stepped up, took photos, and wrote their own orders. My booth display guy, Steve Felder of Alex Displays, blew me away when he told me to rip up his invoice for my booth set-up and break-down (a four-figure savings!).

I’d often heard that the menswear industry is special, clubby in a good way – gentlemanly, if you will. The silver lining of this accident made me realize how true this is. I’m grateful that my injuries weren’t worse, that I had my helmet on, and that I had friends and colleagues around me to help when I needed them.

So here’s a toast to our clubby and compassionate menswear industry. And to 2025 being a better year, at least for this well-dressed scooter rider (shown, above, before the accident).

P.S. -Against the advice of basically everyone, I have not sold the scooter, but in fact got back on it as soon as I could. If you live in a city with limited parking, you understand.