So, I was out on the edge of Lewiston’s downtown, poking my considerable nose into the matter of whether shots had been fired in the area.

I spoke with three or four people on the street, asking masterfully-crafted questions in an attempt to glean the facts for you, the reader.

“What’s going on?” I inquired, and “did you see anything? Or what?”

Hard to believe I’m this good without a journalism degree, isn’t it?

For the most part, it was business as usual. I ask, they answer, I scribble the new information into my notebook.

The fourth guy, though, he wasn’t having it. A neat little man with a perfectly trimmed mustache, he looked me up and down with one eyebrow raised.

“You’re a newspaper reporter?” he asked, all lofty and incredulous.

You could hardly fault him for the skepticism. I mean, look at me! The battered Wolverine boots that look like they’ve marched through a thousand miles of dung. The wrinkled pants (not tactical pants, but tactiCOOL) with various things poking out of various pockets. The ancient hoody flopping out from beneath the faded Carhartt work coat.

I imagine to the mustachioed fellow and others like him, I look more like a man who castrates sheep for a living rather than an anointed member of the Fourth Estate.

I don’t dress purty, yo.

Every once in a while I grow ashamed of my plebeian style of dressing myself and I take pains to remedy the matter – a nice sport coat from the discount rack at Kohl’s, a clean shirt freshly starched and ironed, a pair of pleated pants that aren’t haunted by stains from that pepperoni pizza I accidentally sat on, and a pair of shoes that were designed for style rather than for stomping through the muck.

Check me out, bruh. I’m hip, I’m cool, I’m a happenin’ fool. I’m so meticulously attired, I could be trading futures on Wall Street, whatever the hell that means. I followed that Men’s Health article on dressing for success to the letter, and now I look good enough to properly represent the proud profession in which I am employed.

And then my people send me out to cover a burning chicken barn located at the very end of a muddy mile-long road in East Overbite. Within 10 seconds of arriving, my fancy shoes are caked with goo, the starched shirt is smeared with soot and every last piece of me stinks of burning beaks and feathers.

Good thing I donned the cashmere coat for that action, am I right?

The problem with being a newspaper reporter is that unless you’re a firmly entrenched State House reporter, or something god-awful like that, you don’t know from one minute to the next what assignment will fall with a plop onto your plate.

Will I be sent to cover a school committee meeting tonight? Or will I be required to elbow crawl through a swamp to adequately cover an armed standoff out in West Canker Sore?

There’s also the matter of blending in. At a council meeting, business luncheon or anything taking place at Martindale Country Club, really, one with clean slacks, collared shirt and shiny loafers can blend in just fine.

In downtown Lewiston on Brawl Night? Not so much. Dress too neatly in the ‘hood and one runs the risk of being mistaken for a police detective, government official or preachy do-gooder. The last time I went into Kennedy Park dressed for success, a hoodlum did unspeakable things to my tie. I don’t like to talk about it.

So when the fussy man with the neat mustache looked down his sloped little nose at me, I pondered elbow crawling back to Kohl’s for another round of Shame Shopping.

The compulsion didn’t last long, though. Until they make dress slacks that are fleece lined and available with at least a half dozen pockets, I’m out. Until those loafers prove they can stand up to the deep mud of Greene, no thank you. Until your coat can out-drink my coat or beat it at arm wrestling, nah, bruh. I’ll stick with the Carhartt.

I may wear a tie once in a while, but it will probably be over a hoody.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal newsman who rides a chrome horse ’round these parts. Telegraph him at [email protected].