Are These For You?
story & illustrations by Paul Duane
Previously Published in Entre Nous Magazine
My mission: survey the situation, make a buy, and get out unrecognized.
…and hopefully enjoy the moment.
I have camped out in the luggage section. I am planning my march:
Proceed across the store to the men’s section. Traverse the women’s hosiery department. Gather intel without slowing down too suspiciously. DO NOT give off the appearance of enjoying the view. Hold steady speed and heading. Upon successful touchdown in the necktie section, we will evaluate and plan the second leg of the mission.
Midway through my march, I am nearly overtaken by the aromas in the air: the scent of a nearby perfume counter mixes with the MAC counter which mixes with the varied notes of the different brands, grades, and manufacturers of nylon in this garden of girl stuff.
The sights are even more tempting:
Every brand packages their pantyhose with different imagery, but the promise is the same:
“These veils of silken color will weaken the self control of all who lay eyes upon your legs.”
Everyone loves legs, and for a moment, in this temple, all preach the same gospel.
I stay strong. I test the limits of my peripheral vision and take in as many sights and product notes as possible while maintaining a steady pace.
The Air force missed out by not recruiting me: Using my peripheral vision only, I can simultaneously read the tiny printed sizing, style, and color information on a half dozen packages while walking past them. I would have made a fearsomely aware fighter pilot. I’m scanning for something new, or maybe a long lost favorite.
I do not want to be seen here. On top of scanning product styles, colors, sizes, and brands, I am I keeping my eyes out for enemy fighters – ahem – I mean, anyone that might know me or any of my friends or family. I want to avoid having the conversation:
“My roommate mentioned that said she saw you at the mall today wandering around the hosiery isle. She said you looked lost.”
My alibi is ready: ‘I wasn’t IN the hosiery section, I was walking through it. I was looking for a new work shirt.’
Taking a shortcut is actually one of the most manly things a man can do, after all – even if it involves walking through a patch of beautiful flowers in order to get to the place where they do manly stuff like puff on dried leaves and drink rotten grain water. We men are about efficiency.
I arrive safely at my waypoint: the necktie section. I am camped out adjacent to other friendly territory – the men’s dress shirt section. I pretend to shop for a white dress shirt. The visually and spiritually empty canvas of white Oxford shirts allows me bandwidth to unpack intelligence I gathered on that first pass.
The second pass will be slower and far more risky. In a perfect world, I’ll actually acquire a few pairs and then proceed to our third waypoint: the beautiful cashier girl.
I embark from the men’s top half stuff and into the women’s bottom half stuff. To allow a much slower pace which will allow me to stop, pick up various pairs, inspect, and possibly commit to buying – I pull out my cell phone and pretend to take a call.
“Uh huh….”
“Okay….”
“Yeah, I think I see that…”
“What size, again?”
I mumble lines to my inactive phone.
I pick up a pair Donna Karan pantyhose.
I furrow my brow.
I squint as if I am translating a foreign language.
I pretend not to be an expert on nylon yarn grades, extrusion, dye processes, and boarding. I pretend that I haven’t read the fashion retailers’ forecast for sheer hosiery products for the coming season.
I am a sommelier of silky things.
Nobody can know, except for one particluar woman.
I become an art critic:
Calvin Klein’s packaging photography is sublime.
Givenchy is minimal to a fault.
Hanes Silk Reflections is classically beautiful.
I settle on something experimental from Donna Karan, something aspirational from Calvin Klein, and something dependable from Hanes Silk Reflections.
I must now identify the most attractive cashier and make my way toward her.
Any onlooker would assume I am a A domestic hero husband, baffled by the endless options of woman-stuff.
My pretend call continues as a precaution to repel anyone who might know me and want to strike up a conversation.
A strikingly beautiful girl stands near the register at the Clinique counter. I adjust my headings and make my way to her.
For the next seven seconds, I envision the conversation that will ensue:
“Are these for you?”
I’ll be tempted to say, “No, they’re for my girlfriend.”
Instead, I’ll look her deep in the eyes and say, in my lowest baritone:
“Why, yes. Yes… they are.”
She will be struck by my spiritual resemblance to Don Draper.
“Oh, these are my favorites,” she’ll say. “I love them. They are so sexy. See?”
She’ll step out from behind the counter to reveal a short skirt, nylons, and killer heels.
“I love that you wear them too. My name is Christine. I’ll help you any time. I work weeknights from 5 to 9. Come back soon.”
She’ll wink and smile as she slides the receipt into the bag.
The time has arrived.
I walk up to her.
My hands sweat.
My throat goes dry.
She is polite and even more stunning up close.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?”
I look at the carpet.
“Yes”.
I am terrified that she’ll ask if they are for me.
“That will be $38.45. Cash or card?”
She slides the receipt and pantyhose into the bag.
“Have a nice day.”
She didn’t ask.
I am quietly devastated.
~ the end ~
