Saturday afternoon Dena and I went to buy us each a new suit. As we rolled up to Eastland Mall, it brought back memories of my first suit-shopping experience fourteen years ago, when a kindly saleswoman helped a fashion-deficient bachelor pick out a quartet of middling suits that satisfied the State Farm dress code of the day.
Entering Bergner's with Dena, right away we spotted a good luck charm -- our cheery friend Carrie was working at a first-floor register. It gave us a perfect rendezvous point -- we'd meet back in a half hour once we got our suits, and then pay at Carrie's register for a chat.
Armed with 14 years of maturity and reason, I marched confidently up the escalator to menswear. Within twenty minutes I'd single-handedly collected a jacket and pants. I matched the colors perfectly. Black.
Off to the registers! Two steps, three...
"How's it going there, sir?" a surprisingly agile retirement aged clerk collared me from behind, in a tone reserved for shoplifters and misbehaving children. She herded me over to a nearby register, flattering me for my lucky timing and great sale price, and then released me and my emptier wallet.
I headed down the escalator, and noting how far ahead of schedule I was, decided to go back up for some shoes and belt. This quest proved even easier, and now I became more determined to bring the spoils down to Carrie for payment. With merchandise in hand, I slowly lifted my eyes and scanned the room for the truant officer. Seeing that she was occupied with another criminal, I made a swift getaway down the stairs toward rendezvous point, not quite taking the steps two at a time.
My self-congratulating smile was tempered when I reached the register and learned that Carrie was on break. The merely semi-cheery replacement became less cheery still when she saw the shoes in my hand. I sensed that at any moment a siren might go off, releasing a troupe of guards who'd been waiting behind the secret panel all day for a chance to draw their guns.
"You need to go back to the shoe department for the shoes," she said grimly. "We can't do it because we don't get commission to."
Quickly I built a winning argument against the overlords and their idea of paying people to not serve me. And then I spoke.
"Okay, thanks."
Dena happened to be walking toward me as I stepped away. "I'm heading back upstairs to pay for the shoes because of the commission rules," I said in the friendly tone that I use in public no matter how illogical something sounds.
Then Cheerless Cashier spoke up from behind. "Actually, you can just go over there if you want," pointing to the register in the women's shoe section.
My mood brightened at the prospect of the shorter walk. I mean, except for the salespeople upstairs being gypped of feeding their families with a commission they'd unwittingly earned, a register is a register, right?
The thing is, 14 years of experience in a man's body brings no preparation for women shoe shoppers. The air seemed to grow slightly thicker with a substance that I soon identified as tension as I penetrated toward the service desk. Briefly, something struck me as odd about the gray-haired worry-lined gentlemen behind the counter. Then I figured it out: They were twenty.
Scattered about were ladies of all shapes and sizes seated in chairs, garrisoned behind mounds of half-opened boxes, idle shoes and swaths of tissue paper. Some chattered animatedly about topics of angst, some sat stoically with one or two bare feet. All of them intermittently shot glances toward the front, re-evaluating their strategy of expectant waiting, and whether to storm the service desk.
I saw two clerks behind the counter frantically mulling about. On my side, I saw one lady customer off to the left, and to the right three stood in a line. Using my mathematics training, I headed to the left.
"Excuse me ma'am, are you in line?" I asked.
The look she gave me said that if she'd had an umbrella, then I'd be eating an umbrella sandwich. Keeping an eye on her for my own safety, I retreated toward the back of the line on the right.
The lady at the front of the line was in heated negotiation about something involving a half-size difference in shoe sizes, though I dared not make eye contact lest I appear to be critical. And soon, Mrs. Umbrella Sandwich lumbered away from her perch, having possibly devoured the other man behind the counter who had disappeared. One of the surviving clerks stepped up and asked who could next be helped in line. The tiny woman in front of me turned and met my gaze, as if to say "Go my son, it's too late for me, paralyzed and mute from the unholy terror of this place." Or maybe, "I no speak English." At any rate, the moment's hesitation was too much, as a shrill-voiced creature came flying over my back screaming something about needing a size six as if it were the last crust of bread on earth.
Eventually I shuffled safely to the front of the line, ignoring the cries of vultures all around, and huddled close to the weary soul on the other side with debit card in hand. I imagined us to be like two countrymen in a strange land. I thought I heard him say "Thank you, my patient brother, and now please flee from here with news to my family that I yet live." What he really said was "These are men's shoes, you have to pay for those upstairs."
I will say, though... these shoes and their gel-sole "technology" are the most comfortable dress shoes I've ever owned!
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