Wobs shopping
In line in the men's department at the mall, a place I have avoided until today. The lone, beleagured woman at the teeny checkout counter (circa 1984 and piled high with returns) is swathed in a silver headscarf which no one seems to be casting ugly glances at, despite many internet stories to the contrary. Here in Montgomery County no one seems to notice or give a hoot. You're Muslim? Great! Happy holidays! The line is semi-long. Not truly long, but it's an almost-Christmas kind of line where people have their arms piled up with stuff they've snatched and no one is really in a foul mood, but there might be one brewing. The woman in front of me is tall and black and stylish, with high brown boots and a big swank purse that matches. A white overcoat. She's buying a big black briefcase for a man. Behind me appears a couple, hispanic maybe, the guy wearing a tee that says JUST DU IT. They are slightly stressed and tired. The woman asks the man if he needs a pair of pants. He says no. "But I could use a fedora. Those things are awesome. No? Be a ladykiller in a fedora."
There is a pause and then the woman says in kind of forced amusement, "You're a brat. You're not getting a fedora." She is embarrassed by him, maybe because he is so very far from a ladykiller. He is big and dopey and maybe a little young for his age. But he's shopping with his mom and they seem to like each other. It's just that some people are the kind of people who chat in public and don't care who hears them while other people know perfectly well that the person RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM is listening.
I am that kind of person.
I am married to the other kind.
So I feel for the woman.
The music is, somehow, the most depressing Christmas music ever, which is charming in the moment, as though we're in a movie. In the story, I am a depressed and frumpy failed writer who thinks her life is meaningless and I have just run into someone from high school who has been working at this mall for twenty-five years and is chipper and competent, dressed all in black with a Santa hat. She has a walkie talkie and poorly concealed grey in her hair. The hollow music indicates that the failed writer is going to have a breakthrough in indie film fashion before the ninety minutes are up. It's begun to flurry outside. The mall is jammed with people who all look as though they are stunned, simply struck dumb by how many delightful things there are to buy in a mall. Shoes with shiny buckles! And giant purses that look like they were made from someone's kindergarten raincoat! Plush slippers with reindeer antlers. And shiny shiny earrings. Sexy underwear. Scarves and gloves and hats in leather, pleather, fleece, wool, suede, microfiber, polyester. Obviously, these dumbstruck people, many of them are men. But not all. There are women with babies and grandmas in tow. There are teenagers in fake Uggs and animal hats and tight jeans. You can hear people talking in any language of the world. But mostly Spanish. And English with accents, African accents, and Asian. I bought three scarves, a wallet, a hat, and slippers of the extremely fluffy variety that someone special requested.
The woman in "Our Mutual Friend" says, "I hate being poor." Dickens is much on my mind right now. What he'd think of the mall and whether he'd find me wanting and what he was like. What energy the man must have had.
Before I got to the counter, the woman in the silver scarf covered her face with her hands. She just stood there. I have worked retail, so I always wait to be called even if the customer before me has already left. I waited. When she called, I asked whether she was ready. "I just needed a moment," she said. "A moment just for myself."
There is a pause and then the woman says in kind of forced amusement, "You're a brat. You're not getting a fedora." She is embarrassed by him, maybe because he is so very far from a ladykiller. He is big and dopey and maybe a little young for his age. But he's shopping with his mom and they seem to like each other. It's just that some people are the kind of people who chat in public and don't care who hears them while other people know perfectly well that the person RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM is listening.
I am that kind of person.
I am married to the other kind.
So I feel for the woman.
The music is, somehow, the most depressing Christmas music ever, which is charming in the moment, as though we're in a movie. In the story, I am a depressed and frumpy failed writer who thinks her life is meaningless and I have just run into someone from high school who has been working at this mall for twenty-five years and is chipper and competent, dressed all in black with a Santa hat. She has a walkie talkie and poorly concealed grey in her hair. The hollow music indicates that the failed writer is going to have a breakthrough in indie film fashion before the ninety minutes are up. It's begun to flurry outside. The mall is jammed with people who all look as though they are stunned, simply struck dumb by how many delightful things there are to buy in a mall. Shoes with shiny buckles! And giant purses that look like they were made from someone's kindergarten raincoat! Plush slippers with reindeer antlers. And shiny shiny earrings. Sexy underwear. Scarves and gloves and hats in leather, pleather, fleece, wool, suede, microfiber, polyester. Obviously, these dumbstruck people, many of them are men. But not all. There are women with babies and grandmas in tow. There are teenagers in fake Uggs and animal hats and tight jeans. You can hear people talking in any language of the world. But mostly Spanish. And English with accents, African accents, and Asian. I bought three scarves, a wallet, a hat, and slippers of the extremely fluffy variety that someone special requested.
The woman in "Our Mutual Friend" says, "I hate being poor." Dickens is much on my mind right now. What he'd think of the mall and whether he'd find me wanting and what he was like. What energy the man must have had.
Before I got to the counter, the woman in the silver scarf covered her face with her hands. She just stood there. I have worked retail, so I always wait to be called even if the customer before me has already left. I waited. When she called, I asked whether she was ready. "I just needed a moment," she said. "A moment just for myself."