Tremendous Opportunity

The saleslady’s much older than me, but still very sexy; her hair is dark with a web of gray traced through. She is slender, demure--looks like a night clerk I once saw in a hospital.   

She folds clothes behind the cash register. She’s carefully tending to chocolate dress slacks. Her pale, freckled fingers pass along the pleats and then curl under the waist as she drapes the slacks over a plastic hanger. Her old face is girlish, and beautifully weary; her bangs shake across her skin when she looks down, or sideways.

I wonder if she has a husband and if they watch the Weather Channel together. I wonder if she brews the coffee in the morning, or if he does. I wonder if they are quiet after sex or if they talk and laugh a lot.

She picks up a pastel blouse with deliberately frayed sleeves. She drops it into a plastic bin; she shakes her bangs madly and taps on the register keys. The machine pops and beeps and a drawer shoots out. She rests her hands in the drawer and closes her eyes; she looks like she’s sleep-walking. Her bangs separate and look like pine needles spilling.

I hatch a plan: I’ll purchase underwear and have her ring me up.

I leave Women’s and walk to the underwear aisle. I see blurred freeze-frames of my reflection as I pass mirrors attached to supports.

The tighty-whities are neatly arranged in rows. I quickly find my size: Medium, 32-34.

As I walk back to Women’s, I consider purchasing a larger size instead--Large, or even better, Extra-large. So I go back to the line of reflective packaging and grab some Extra-large briefs. I also pick up a package of really large tube socks--this way she’ll see I have big feet.

But maybe I shouldn’t buy white underwear.

When I finally get to her register, she looks at my large, dark purchase and then at my diminutive frame.

“So who are you shopping for today?” she asks, waving her white wand.

“Just me. I wanted to do a little shopping before the hurricane hits.” My voice is shaky, brittle.

“It’s going to be a bad one. We finished boarding our windows this morning.” She slides the wand over the barcode; the register beeps.

I must get to the meaning of “we,” and as soon as possible.

“You’re lucky you have help. I had to do it myself. Is your husband handy around the house?” I avoid her eyes, fumble with my credit card.

“Oh no, I mean it was me and my son who boarded up the house. My son’s the strongest in the family. He plays football for Bama.”

I hand her my Visa. She’s a white blur and I have trouble tracking her face.

“Do you have a big family?” I must find out whether “family” means “immediate family” or “extended family.”

“No. Everyone’s old and dropping like flies.”

I must know who lives in her house; I must find out without sounding like I’m casing the joint.

“Same with mine. We’re a small clan. Of the people in your house, who is the oldest?” I am aware of how strange this must sound.

As I sign the sales slip, she responds: “Oh, I’m in my forties. But that’s not old, is it?” She giggles and puts my underwear in a plastic bag.

“No, absolutely not. These days, forty is young; your life is really only half over.”

I wish I hadn’t said this.

She curtly thanks me for my purchase. Her locked arm holds the bag in front of my face; she grips the handle using only thumb and forefinger, like she’s gripping something very very small, like she’s picking up a single grain of sand on the beach.

I walk toward the exit. I’m disappointed; I despair. Tears sting my eyes and I ruffle through my coat for Visine. The drops are cool and exhilarating.

I reach the exit and look back and notice a line forming at her register. A guy in a cowboy hat’s checking out; his right hand rests on his belt buckle and he speaks with his head cocked. She’s attracted to him and touches his hand briefly. Her face is girlish again and her hair is light, weightless; the air-conditioning lifts a few hairs from her forehead and she looks angelic.

I wonder what he’s saying to her. Is his dialogue smoother than mine? He’s buying underwear, but they look like Mediums.

I’m depressed. And should someone ask me how I feel, I would say, “I bleed!”

Again I place two drops of Visine in each eye; this time I trap the fluid by keeping my lids closed and looking up. I can’t see, but I find my way to the line by carefully tracing the clothes racks with my hands.

I wait in line, my eyes still closed. I take two steps forward every time I hear her say, “Thank you.”

Finally, it’s my turn. When I feel the counter press against my legs, I open my eyes and glare at her through a teary blur.

Disgusted with social graces, I declare: “Husband: Do you have? Boyfriend: Do you have?” I’m aware of how unlettered I sound; but I must get at this important information, I must know how I fare.

“What?” She looks alarmed enough to call security. “Do you want to buy something else?”

“I must know the boyfriend situation,” I say. “I must know your deal.”

Her hand races along the counter’s underside. I fear she’ll call security, so I act normal--I turn from the counter and stalk away, Neanderthalish. On the way to the door I turn around periodically, shake my fist, and yell, “See if I care, you slut!”

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