Blunder # 3: Nelson’s mask comes off

Podiatry boasts a “generous” discount for its employees.  If we desire a full-priced item of clothing, we pay a mere 60% of the full price.  If we desire a home item, we pay 75% of the price.  Anything on sale, however, is available to us at the price listed on the tag.  But every once in awhile, when employees are least expecting it, the company announces, via email, surprise periods of time during which ALL goods are 40% off to its employees.  These periods are called (for the purposes of this blog) THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  

Being excellent times to actually purchase some quality things for somewhat reasonable prices, all employees look forward to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  We whisper excitedly and semi-constantly about when the next AGE may be.  “Haven’t had an AGE in awhile, you think it’s coming?”  “I heard we’d have an AGE after this next markdown.  I sure hope so.”  “I’m waiting for an AGE until I buy that vase.”

A few weeks ago, we got the messiah of all emails: “Announcing THE AGE OF PODIATRY now through Sunday!”  It had, indeed, come immediately after a payday; they get you right when you’ve got cash in the coffers.  Having only purchased a few candles throughout my time as an employee and anticipating the overwhelming number of August birthdays I have marked on my calendar (3 family members, 4 good friends), I suddenly decided that it was time to break down and truly give in to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.

I meant to do my shopping immediately after a shift when I was still in costume and makeup, but once my time to clock out came round, all I could think of was getting out of there.  The days left in the AGE were dwindling, and I had yet to do my massive bout of shopping.  As I scrubbed the bathtub while a pot of mustard greens were steaming on the stove (I was cleaning the house and making dinner for a pair of friends coming to stay the night), I realized with horror that if I did not stop what I was doing and dash immediately to Podiatry, I’d miss my window of savings.

But what about Nelson?  If I went then and there, it’d be ME going into Podiatry, NOT Nelson.  I needed an hour at least to get into character, and what with the dinner to prepare and the catbox left to clean, I didn’t have that kind of time to spend on my facade.  The choice was clear: get in and get out as quickly as possible.

As I drove over to Podiatry, I began to realize fully just what a grand mistake this was.  I’d chosen the entirely WRONG moment to be caught without a disguise.  The miserly side of me refuses to let our thermostat go below 78 even on the hottest of days; thus I was particularly sweaty and red-faced from a day of cleaning at that moment.  My outfit of choice: oversized, burlap-resembling shorts and a faded racerback tee that I claimed after finding in a dryer somewhere.  Oh, and a sports bra.  I smelled like bleach-cleaner and sweat.  My legs were unshaven.  My hair looked like a mushroom cloud around my head.  

It was in this state that I rushed madly into the store, carrying my own bag and shoveling things in it left and right.  I ran into Tiny Tim first.  He gave me not just a once over, but a twice and three-times-over, his head literally moving from the top of my body to my shoes three times in order to fully take in the horror he was witnessing.  “Yeah, heh, I know, I’m uh...still cleaning my house! Haha!  But I ran over here in the middle of chores because I just, you know need some...” I looked at what I was clutching in my hands--dish towels for my mother-in-law-- “dishtowels with birds on them!  Haha!”  He smiled an odd smile and pranced away on his chopstick legs.  

I dashed from fixture to fixture, hiding behind towers of candles or racks of long dresses to conceal myself yet could not seem to escape coming across other coworkers as the floor was crawling with them on what seemed to be a busy sales day:  Zebulon, Mama Skaggs, and of course Moonblood who I’ve come to dread as of late.  (Moonblood’s one of those who literally ends every shift with a clothing purchase, wearing only the latest fashions displayed in the store...never seen her repeat an outfit...and how can she afford all of these luxuries?...living at home and spending all of her Podiatry earnings on body-coverings, not on rent or food.)  Moonblood had just returned from a 2 week family vacay to various European countries.  “Oh wow, I guess I haven’t seen you in about 3 weeks then,” she said in reaction to me as she rung up my pile of purchases, giving me the thrice-over as did Tiny Tim.  When not regarding with curiosity the things I was buying, her slit-like eyes were burning into my body, deconstructing the mess she observed before her and trying to connect me with Nelson.  

My things unnecessarily wrapped up in the signature Podiatry tissue paper and thin packing tape, I headed for the door, weaving in and out of the various fixtures obstructing my quick exit, turning a last time to see my colleagues puzzled faces turned in my direction.  

The ruse was up.  

Nelson's final bow

Here I sit on the couch, out of breath after a frantic on-foot trip to Walgreens where I went--slightly tipsy--in order to attend to an emergency: the cats were hungry and we’d already served them the last scoop of dried pellets to be found in the bag.  I had just consumed a single Paulaner hefeweizen and one third of a glass of 2 week old cabernet sauvignon (to be fair, I thought it was fresh).  As I jetted out of the house in the direction of the little store, I realized in the light of the evening sun that my dark brown cotton dress was covered in short, white animal hairs.  "Great,” I muttered to myself, “this’ll just add to my prowess...bloodshot eyes, ashy, chlorine-coated skin, stiff, unkempt hair; I’m gonna turn some heads in there.”  After an afternoon at the mini water-park with a four year old, I was left suffering from a stubbed toe, a mild case of housewife’s knee, and the beginnings of pinkeye.  Limping a bit from my pool injuries and swaying slightly to and fro from the influence of one unit alcohol taken on a relatively empty stomach, I was pleased to find few people in Walgreens and hastily conducted the transaction.    

But I’m home now.  My weekend babysitting gig is through, the cats are satiated, and I’ve just discovered a fresh bottle of merlot.    

This is my life: living in a sports bra and cotton tees from one errand to the next, having fun cooking with my man friend, then worrying about how long I can leave the dishes in the sink before they start attracting fruit flies.  When I’m me and not Nelson, I don’t worry about ruching or empire waists or “back interest” and nerdy chicness.  And now I can be me all the time.  Let the celebrating begin!  

My run as Nelson came to an end at noon yesterday.  As the curtain fell for the last time, I slipped out backstage, opting not to take an elaborate series of final bows preferring to make a quiet exit.  An arduous child-wrangling afternoon ahead of me, I needed to avoid a long chorus of cutesy goodbyes from my coworkers.  So I drove away from Podiatry for the last time like it was any other day.

I’ll reflect on the experience in this space as opposed to trying to process it while still in the store, surrounded by things that I felt a serious urge to buy and by people who, while nice, I never felt at home with.  In the end, my time at Podiatry was a lot different than I expected, and I learned a lot.  After explaining blunder number 3, the blunder that heralded the end of Nelson’s career, I will begin to pick apart the Podiatry world, examining its constituent parts, and making conclusions about this wacky world in which we live. 

Blunder Number 2: Birds, birds everywhere

Before the doors are unlocked every morning at Podiatry and the quivering ball of humanity that had previously been pawing at the windows for entry is finally allowed to surge through our faux-rustic doors to begin grabbing at that particular day’s assortment of luxuries, we have a morning meeting.  It is at this moment that we learn a litany of facts about how the company as a whole is performing, how our particular branch fares in comparison, and how much money we are expected to weasel out of our customers for the day. 

(Personally I feel that, although this information can be somewhat interesting at times, it is of little use for us, the underlings, to actually know.  I believe that they throw these numbers at us in an effort to coax us into feeling that we have some kind of true stake or ownership in the swirling shitstorm of corporate, bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo that takes place entirely outside of our awareness or control.  Whether or not the company makes their sales quota for the day does not mean that my hourly wage rises to a reasonable rate or falls to the slave labor category.) 

If time permits, after we do the numbers, we participate in a product-knowledge-building activity.  I previously explained JIVETIME!, wherein we select and try on clothes from the salesfloor based on some kind of game-like prompt and then compete to have the best outfit (I’m not kidding).  This is but one example of product-knowledge-building during morning meetings.  Some activities consist simply of reading about and discussing the design philosophy behind the latest fashions and “concepts” as they call them.

The other morning’s product knowledge chat began with a prompting question from Zebulon: “So what are the new trends you see in the pieces we’ve been receiving and putting out for the fall collection?”  

Ask me to see trends in national literary movements over the span of a couple of centuries, and I'm dandy.  Ask me to spot trends in some clothes in a store, and I start to sweat.  

There are two ways to fool someone into thinking you have some kind of knowledge.  The first is to answer confidently but with something vague.  The confidence throws them off of the scent of your stupidity, and the vagueness hints at the possibility of knowledge.  The second tactic is to listen to the expert knowledge of others then do some creative semantic tweaking; say what they say using bigger words or with a different example.  

Maybe I hadn't consumed quite enough coffee for my brain to be properly functioning at the time, but I was the one to voluntarily vomit out the first answer, unfortunately employing neither tactic.  "Well, I've noticed a lot of bird prints lately," I said, looking around for some nods of approval.  Stares.  "You know, there are birds on things?  Like on that shirt over there?  And that...thing...over there?"  

More stares. 

Zebulon finally spoke, "Yeah, but, I was kinda talking more about, like, textures and themes, you know?  I mean, Podiatry kinda always has a bird motif going on."  Everyone nodded.  I realized she was right.  Apart from knowing for sure that there will be expensive things, you can almost always count on there being bird things in Podiatry.  Not everywhere, but somewhere there's a bird, watching you.  

"Well, what I was getting at was how our new stuff is really, you know, nerdy chic, like lots of structured, masculine stuff with an edge."  Tiny Tim chimed in, "Yeah, it's like, very...collegiate....but feminine."  Way to use tactic number 2, TT: semantic scrambling of stuff people already said. 

Much like my cape of fear incident, the magnitude of the failure did not encourage me to work hard at recovery.  It was an admit defeat and retreat moment.  The punctures are forming fast in my hot-air balloon of a story; how much longer can I stay aloft over the expensive, bourgeois, retail landscape that is Podiatry?

THE CAPE OF FEAR

As my time at Podiatry wears on (clothing retail pun intended), Nelson’s glossy facade is beginning to weather much like a golden obelisk marking the middle of some Italian piazza that has been exposed to hundreds of years of precipitation.  Whereas in the early days, my performance shone brilliantly, my bit has become harder to sustain as the rust gathers on my facade and the cracks begin to show.  I feel like Sinbad’s character in the smash-hit film and timeless classic Houseguest; initially able to fool the world into believing him to be a world-renowned dentist only to become subjected to a series of ever more difficult tasks impossible to fake.  And where did he end up?  Well, if I remember the plot correctly, AND I DO BECAUSE I LOVE THAT MOVIE AND WILL UNTIL THE DAY I DIE,  even though his true identity is discovered, he still ends up with a sweet book deal and a red Porsche.

I fear that, soon, my identity will be found out.  (But worry not, dear readers, for I have no doubt that a career as a novelist and a new automobile is in my future just like it was for Kevin Frank of Houseguest.)  Why does Nelson fear that the Podiatry community may soon turn on him and  instead of lavishing him with applause, throw weeks-old, moldy tomatoes at him on stage from their seats in the audience?  3 substantial blunders, my friends.

First, the cape of fear.  I was on a fitting-room roll for two months, relying on my master instincts to kick in and give me the perfect hook-line-and-sinker when customers came out looking like clowns.  “You look dashing,” I could say with a wink, and they’d head for the register, wallets already drawn.  That is until I met the cape of fear.

More sweater than cape, these hideous things had been hanging in the sale room for ages, cast aside by the sane, inspected cautiously by the adventurous, and touched by the fools.  But until this day, no human had been asinine enough to actually TRY ONE ON.  Out comes...we’ll call her Elmo...wrapped in the cape.

Let me try to explain what this thing is.  Pattern and colors: (I’ve got Sinbad on the mind, so I’ll keep going with him as my referent for awhile) A mix between a Cosby sweater and the perplexing conglomeration of shapes and colors you’d see on one of the jumpsuits Sinbad wore in his early 90’s stand-up specials.  Cut: A sweater, one side of which came down to the hip, the other side of which hung like a towel on a clothesline all the way down to the floor.  

“How do you wear this?”  she asked, tentatively. 

I knew I was in a bind.  “Uh,” I stammered, unable to truly recover from the disgust bubbling up in my body in reaction to this garment, “I, uh....” her stare went straight through Nelson and into my true self.  I rushed over to where she was standing in the mirror, trying to recover.  “You...TIE it!” I said quickly, grabbing the yard of extra material and twisting it into a knot with the other side which gave it a kind of straightjacket look.  

She regarded herself in the mirror and said, skeptically, “I...don’t think that’s quite right.”          

“Well,” I said, about to proffer another response, but realized that the hole I’d dug was insurmountable.  My character deflated entirely.  “I...DON’T KNOW,” I admitted and shrunk into the shadows to lick the wounds of defeat by humbly folding $100 pairs of yoga pants for backstock.

The other two blunders to follow...

Nelson is Shakespeare: My Bag-o-fashionwords

It was another smashing evening performance in the fitting room for Nelson; my clothing counsel was met with thunderous applause from those who received it, and countless cries of “Encore! Encore!” rang throughout Podiatry during my shift.  From the moment I opened the door to their fitting room saying “And my name is Nelson! Please let me know if I can do anything for you,” they were putty in my manly hands.  How does he do it?  How does he pull off a convincing performance when his true product knowledge is non-existent?  

Just as Shakespeare exploited the power of puns, metaphors, and malapropisms in order to create dramatic masterpieces, Nelson has discovered the power of certain words...certain turns of phrase.  The thing is, these literary devices did not come from a script.  No one instructed me in “fashion-speak,” and my understanding of fabrics, cuts, and styles is limited to none.  These are words that entered my world at some point in time in my life (i.e. that time I actually committed to watching Project Runway, season 3 I believe it was), rolled around my subconscious, became buried in the wrinkly folds of my brain, and were then resurrected magically when Nelson first got into costume.  Read and learn.  

Nelson’s Bag-o-Fashionwords

Ruching.  (My definition: the use of gathered fabric on an item of clothing, oftentimes achieved with elastic.) To reiterate, I have no idea how or when I came to know what “ruching” is.  In fact, I wasn’t even aware that it was in my vocabulary until I was suddenly saying to someone “Oh wow, the ruching on the back there is very flattering.”  Even if I’m not always certain if I’m using the word correctly, dropping it with authority always makes their eyes wide with respect and awe: RUCHING.  It sounds technical, and people who know technique understand clothing.  With words like ruching, it’s OBVIOUS that Nelson understands clothing.  

Tailored.  (My definition: adjective often used to refer to clothes that have a specific, more controlled shape.)  Originally, I’d say that “tailored” had some connection to the “tailor,” the human who sewed the garment; to be tailored meant that the garment had been handled and manipulated by the tailor.  In 21st century terms, then, tailored would have to mean that the garment has been handled and manipulated by a host of foreign child laborers.  However, the word must have lost this connection because now, instead of being a word that reminds people of their undue privilege, it’s another one of those terms that, used confidently, inspires belief in Nelson’s advice.  “That’s such a smart, tailored look,” I might say.  Again, the word is ambiguous but somewhat technical, giving the customer the idea that I am the keeper of fashion understanding.    

Empire waist.  (My definition:  when a dress or top has a seam just under the bust and then is un-fitted throughout the waist and hips.)  This is a term that most people know and use.  But Nelson takes it a step further by bringing a touch of exoticism to the table.  Any ole nobody can say “empire waist.”  But can they give it the French twist?  Instead of saying “im-pyre,” pronounce it as the French would: “ahm-peer” with the subtle back-of-the-throat French rrrrrr at the end.  Who knows if this style actually originated in France or England or some other European country.  History is irrelevant to today’s consumer whereas flair is everything.  “Ahm-peerrrr” turns heads every time and almost guarantees a purchase on the part of the customer. 

Take today for instance.  A woman, let’s call her Ashkenazy, was searching for a dress to give as a gift to a friend.  She was interested in something long and summery and wanted to make sure that it would be flattering on most all figures.  I immediately thought of the $268 summer-camp-tie-dye-session-gone-horribly-wrong dress hanging in the front of the store and led her in that direction.  “If you’ll notice the elastic ahm-peer waist on this one, you’ll see that it will give if it needs to or contract if it doesn’t.  These cuts are really capable of making anyone look classy.”  I wasn’t lying about the flattering cut.  But no one would look classy in that print.  It’s looks like what would happen if Lisa Frank suddenly felt that her calling was abstract art and started lamely exploring that aesthetic but with her same color palette.  Despite this print-transgression on the part of the designer, Ashkenazy grabbed it up, totally in awe of the ahm-peer waist, and added it onto her tab which ended up totaling $800.    

I’ll add on to the Bag-o-Fashionwords continually as I pinpoint the little gems that help Nelson fool the world...

They've roped me in...

It's happened. They've accomplished their sick, sad goal to dominate the brains, wallets, and lives of their customers and employees. They've ROPED ME IN. They may still be paying me (minimally), but now...NOW I'M PAYING THEM.

I bought a top from Podiatry. Granted, it was heavily discounted (60% instead of our normal 40%), but even with all those percents slashed from the original price the single top drained forty smackers from my humble checking account. It's a long white tunic shirt with elaborate embroidery on the neckline and cuffs of the three-quarter-length bell sleeves; despite the fact that the material is quite thin and see-through, it's of a pretty high quality (unlike much of what we sell for over a hundred bucks).

I'm not sure if I bought it because it is a beautiful top...it is...or if I did it because I felt I needed more options for work-clothes...I did need that, I believe...or if there is a more insidious reason: the need to belong. That in itself is not an insidious need, but giving in to a system in which you have to buy things in order to feel that you belong...that's not necessarily the best option.

Here's the shocker: it worked. I wore the magic top two days ago, and my coworkers practically SCREAMED with delight at the initial sight of my Podiatry-clothed body. “OHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYY GOOODDDDDDD! That looks SOOOOOOOOOOOO good on you!” or “Well, look at you!!!!!” etc. I've gotten not so much as a nod to my attire before this. If anything, the magic top made people notice more than my attire; it made some people notice NELSON for the first time.

Unless I'm mistaken, before the advent of the top, JubJub and I were not on the best of terms. Out of all the managers at Podiatry, I'd argue that JubJub has received me in the least friendly of manners. Her behavior was not out and out hostile, but it was markedly less friendly, and, at moments, somewhat passive aggressive.

For example, during my performance debut as Nelson, I was “processing” clothing in the fitting room (unnecessarily formal jargon for putting things back on the hangers that the lazy-ass customers leave littered on the floor), and Mama Skaggs informed me that a particular jean was hung in a special, confusing fashion. She quickly demonstrated the awkward steps: grab it by the crotch area then make it straddle the right side of the hanger allowing the legs to drop to one side then twisting the legs around the left part so that they hang limp over the back. Unable NOT to anthropomorphize the jeans, I felt dirty watching her do it, listening to her explain it, and then attempting it myself. She departed as I tried and tried to make my jeans match the example on the hanger, grabbing the crotch over and over again. JubJub came in to grab some “go-backs” (a no-nonsense term referring to the “processed” items ready to return to their rightful place on the floor), and before she whisked them away, I asked her for some advice on this complicated method, much to her chagrin. Although the store atmosphere was not particularly hectic at that point, perhaps she had a specific objective in mind and did not want to be bothered. In any case, she looked at me, annoyed, as she hastily fled my presence, throwing out an emphatic, “You know, Nelson, it doesn't really matter right now. We can talk about this later.” Well, which is it Podiatry managers? Do you want me to care about the jean-hanging? Or does it not really matter?

Maybe she was just having a bad day, but whereas the other managers and I have shared at least some personal information and joked around a bit, it has consistently been all business with me'n'JubJub. UNTIL two days ago and, of course, the top. Suddenly we're talking, joking, she's asking me this and that about my life. With the top on, I'm worthy of her attention?

The top-buying experience was an interesting one, but I think it's back to soap and candles only for my Podiatry purchases seeing as the top constituted roughly a fourth of my last paycheck (though the upcoming monies should be much greater...I hope). Maybe I should put into action a new experiment in which I wear nothing BUT the top for the next month. JubJub would probably do a 180 going back to giving me the cold shoulder...maybe she'd take it even further and not even look at me. Course after a month of wearing nothing but the same white shirt, I probably wouldn't want to look at me either.

Nelson is a FRAUD

*Note: This post may or may not make the true identity of Podiatry quite clear. Having only worked in this particular retail environment, I cannot speak to whether or not what I'm about to describe is a common retail practice or a program unique to Podiatry. In any case, I will proceed as normal, asking again that no one comment on this site with conjectures or revelations.

As I near my second month anniversary as a Podiatry foot solider (haha, pun intended), I worry that Nelson's cover is growing thinner and thinner. How long can I keep up this grossly untrue facade? The thing is, if I were endowed with hundreds of dollars to spend on a new weekly wardrobe, I am convinced that I could successfully dupe my fellow man into believing that Nelson is Nelson. However, I do not have those funds. My Podiatry paychecks pay little more than for my groceries. I've rotated outfits one too many times...the coworkers that were hired, oriented, and trained alongside me have acquired countless Podiatry goods with which to adorn their figures (that is, blown the entirety of their meager paychecks on high-priced, low-quality items) whereas I've given in only to the allure of the high-quality home fragrances (candles people...they're great when you have two kittens whose massive poop piles fill the house with the sharp and unbearable scent of an unkempt buffalo pen). If Nelson were truly Nelson, would he not take every opportunity to fawn over and purchase the Podiatry clothing with our “generous” 40% discount? And even if he didn't, wouldn't Nelson have an eternity's worth of cleverly conceived-of work outfits with which to dazzle coworkers and customers alike? How can Nelson be Nelson if he wears one of about 5 different ensembles each time he clocks in? How can Nelson be Nelson if all he cares about is candles?

Apart from my lack of wardrobe variety, another incident stands out among the various that have recently highlighted Nelson's fraudulent ways. At the beginning of each month, one of the managers of Podiatry hosts a one hour event in which employees are scheduled (and paid, thank god) to come to the store from 9-10 am (before open) to do a kind of community-building/product knowledge activity. This monthly kick-off is known by the Podiatry staff as “JIVE TIME!” (the name has been changed, clearly, though I wish we were called in and paid for something called “JIVE TIME!”). We all gather in the fitting room and are given certain parameters for that month's particular make-an-outfit challenge, the parameters changing each month to educate us about our brands, the new styles, and certain trends we are pushing.

The first JIVE TIME! I attended, we were paired off to complete our task (task: finding two outfits that matched the adjectives that we randomly drew from a hat...the word “ethereal” gave a lot of my coworkers considerable trouble, and extensive lessons on its definition and pronunciation took up a good 10 percent of our hour together). Because of this partnership, I was able to hide the fact that I was TERRIFIED by having the whole of Podiatry as my palette for creating an outfit for my employee peers to judge. Maybe if I'd been given several days advanced notice, I could have pulled this off alone, but 5 minutes was our time limit. Lucky for me, my partner powered through, finding both of us perfectly “romantic” and “feminine” attire. I was saved.

I did not, however, prove so lucky for June's JIVE TIME! I was on my own...a beached whale, trapped on the shoreline, and told, as it struggled and withered in the sun, to find an outfit composed of the two brands that it pulled from a hat. As the others practically fought their way into the store like a hoard of hyenas on a trajectory toward carrion into which they will eagerly tear, the ideas pumping through their fashionista-brains, I quaked in my boots and worked up a clammy-sweat.

The result on a scale from “Tragic” to “I can do some damage control” was closer to the “damage control” side of the spectrum. Nelson's on the spot oratory skills came to him even in his darkest moment to turn a hopeless situation into a survivable one.

When we had each emerged from our fitting room clothed in our self-selected ensembles, Zebulon, the manager hosting JIVETIME!, bade us give an explanation of the two brands we'd selected and deliver a short speech about the thought-process that governed our outfit choices. My peers looked stunning, taking risks on what to me are hammock-like crocheted sweaters or gauzy poncho-ressembling garments. They'd taken the time to go by the accessories table and choose a bulky piece of jewelry that, alone, looked like toy building blocks strung together or a scarf that I could have sworn was actually a ragged kitchen dishcloth. However, when they put these things all together, it was not a collection of disparate items; it became simply an aesthetic...an impression. If I hadn't been so embarrassed by my own attire, I'd have been in awe.

I on the other hand was wearing:

70s-ish high-waisted, stovepipe-leg jeans that were a size too big, meaning that the stove-pipe concept had turned into more of a smoke-stack concept. And even if the fit was too big, because I'm so tall, the high-waistedness wasn't quite high enough, hitting me JUST below the belly button. As such, it looked like I was trying to be one of those circus clowns on stilts whose pants are hilariously over-sized and attached to his body via suspenders. No suspenders here, however, as I'd chosen a sack-shaped, peach top which, on its own—or paired with skinny jeans—would look perfectly fine. But I was wearing billowy on top of billowy. I misguidedly attempted to give myself some shape with a belt (official commandment number 2 of Podiatry, “Thou shalt belt-it”), but I chose the utterly WRONG belt with tons of detail and textures that conflict with the texture-y details of the top. No matter how I stood or how poised I attempted to appear, I looked like a very clean vagabond.

Somehow, though, when it was my turn to share, I successfully went on the defensive, explaining the “idea” behind the choices and how the time constraint meant that the “execution” of the idea was not ideal...very heady stuff.  I spoke as eloquently as possible about the brand, citing facts about when it was first conceived and noting the highlights of its design philosophy. Furthermore, I dropped a well-placed “This brand isn't really consistent with my style," suggesting that I actually have an articulated, coherent style, "but I'm glad to know more about it so I can help the customers.”

Phew. Close one Nelson, but they still haven't found you out. Yet.

Nelson is Cinderella

When at Podiatry, I most enjoy doing tasks of a concrete, completable nature. “Help us meet the sales goal” is nebulous. “Vacuum the floor” is specific. I prefer the latter. Usually.

I worked the Sunday morning shift today, one that I've never worked before. Unbeknownst to me, Sunday morning shifts are the ones during which Podiatry sales associates hang up their heels for a couple of hours and don their janitorial coveralls. None of this bothers me, I just wish that I'd had a bit of notice so as to dress appropriately for my two hours of ass-busting cleaning.

I've learned to bring a pair of super comfortable shoes for the opening or closing hours during which customers are not around. For instance, last night, I ripped off my strappy, high-heeled sandals when the clock hit 9 and slipped my feet into the loving embrace of a good, supportive Chaco. I chose to forgo bringing the pre-open shoe today, assuming that I wouldn't be doing much walking for the first couple of hours...just putting clothes on hangers, moving minimally while doing restock, then chilling in the fitting room. Instead I just put on my 2 and a half inch-high leather wedges and clomped into the store at 10 a.m. ready to work. I went for the vacuum as usual (I do just a quick sweep of the fitting rooms before heading to work on restock) when Zebulon (a character I've not yet described) mentioned offhandedly, “Yeah, go ahead and vacuum the whole store before doing the fitting rooms. Oh, and mop them too.”

It's hard for me to gauge size, but just to put it in perspective a bit, I'd venture to say that Podiatry is housed in a warehouse-like space that is about a third (or more) of a football field in length and possibly about that in width. It's roughly the size of 8 boutiques put together or one small department store.  I joke not. 

So off I go, teetering about the store on my shoe-stilts wielding a great metal tube attached to a roving, gray pod on wheels that houses the bag in which a week's worth of Podiatry floor-refuse comes to rest. I vacuum and vacuum and vacuum. It sucks mightily. I vacuum more. It sucks more.  Sometimes it makes a great, high-pitched squeal, and I turn it off and dig a clump of twisted matter out of the mouth of the tube.  I switch it back on and vacuum more.

I regard my progress; an infinite amount of floor awaits me, it seems. I pull the gray pod along as I extend the tube into the darkest reaches of the establishment, sucking out gobs of dust, little fern leaves, stray coffee beans, buttons, hair, dried lentils?, a Subway club card, etc. The pod follows behind me as would an obedient dog, albeit a blind one, constantly bumping into obstacles as it tries to keep up with my crazy, sucking pace. If suddenly I can reach the tube no further, I check behind me, and it's indeed the dumb gray dog, caught on one of the hundreds of fixtures set up in the store. I proceed in this frustrating fashion throughout the maze of Podiatry, needing yet being impeded by the presence of this oafish, mechanical companion, frightened that at any moment it will smash into a table or rack, sending hundreds of dollars worth of breakable goods crashing to the floor.

I forge on, coming to a mirror that exists so that customers can hold things up in front of their bodies to test whether or not those items...would look good if held in front of their bodies. Instead of contemplating merchandise, I regard my disheveled self: sweating and hunched over, manipulating an industrial-sized piece of equipment while dressed in skinny jeans and heels. I look ridiculous.

To complete this gargantuan task took an hour and 15 minutes. And that was before I kicked off my shoes, rolled up the bottom of my pants, and got down and dirty with a mop in the fitting rooms.

As I pressed the lever that squeezes the water out of those mops that look like sticks with wigs attached to them, I had a violent flashback to my last-summer job in which my 10 hour shifts would culminate in a solo, restaurant-mopping extravaganza. (I was the equivalent of a night-manager and would end the days alone in the store doing the manual labor that the other employees were too annoyed to complete.) For a moment, the vision had a PTSD-like effect on my psyche, dredging up the hateful ire of food-service woes and bringing a bitter bile to my mouth. The nice, clean, soapy water I had prepared for the fitting rooms suddenly became the mop-water from my restaurant days; dark, oily, and mysterious, with bits of shredded lettuce floating around in it. I felt for certain that I smelled that sour, rotting smell of all different kinds of half-eaten food discarded in the same trashcan, much of the residue hitting the wall just behind the bin and sliding down to the floor leaving a crusty, rancid trail to a pool of congealed stuff at the base.

But then I realized that I was in a food-free area, a brightly lit, well-cleaned world where I was merely performing perfunctory upkeep of the small space. The dark phantoms from my past receded into my brain, and I finished my tasks with plenty of time to spare before opening.

I feel that a comparison between food-service and retail is in order soon, and not just because of my flashbacks. So far, in my work, there seems to be a noticeable difference in the amount of and in the kind of respect that I have received as a human being in these two different worlds. Coming soon...

Some crazies in da fittin' room, ya'll

For the most part, Podiatry patrons have been generally easy to wrangle.  Despite the fact that I have had an experience with one inebriated customer (Seigfried, who stumbled into the back with an armful of clothes then, when in front of the three-paneled mirror couldn't stop from wobbling back and forth while staring somewhat blankly at her reflection), the rest of the folks I've dealt with have been mild-mannered, polite, or boring.

Today, the streak was broken.

First the mother-daughter duo, Sauron (the mom) and Nancy Drew (aged fifteen).  They were hunting for beach attire for Nancy Drew's upcoming trip with her fellow teen friends, and if I didn't know better, it seemed to me as if Sauron were trying REAL hard to introduce her daughter to hooker attire. Nancy Drew emerged at one point in a brown, sparkly, low-cut, racerback tank top remarking, "Yeah, I like this, but where would I wear it?"  Sauron responded immediately, "Oh you know, when you go clubbin."  There's no way she can be referring to "clubbing" as in the activity in which packs of friends dress themselves in as little clothing as possible then visit one over-21 only establishment after another for the purposes of drinking themselves silly, gyrating on strangers, participating in "drama," and going home with boys who smell of equal parts sweat and Hollister fragrances.  She MUST be referring to clubbing as in using large weapons to bludgeon animals to death.  That would make much more sense in the context of this FIFTEEN YEAR OLD'S upcoming summer plans.

But instead of the "clubbin'" top, Nancy Drew ended up settling on a skin-tight (but at least skin-covering) top.  "You sure it's not too tight?" she asked her mother, turning from one angle to the other.

"Honey," Sauron exclaimed, "if you got it, FLAUNT it!"  Wow. Good advice for a sophomore in high school.

The second group of crazies: Hanz, Malibu Stacey, and Cowshark.  For the most part, the men who accompany Podiatry patrons are of a quiet, submissive type.  Most plop down on the furniture in the store while their lady-friends shop, play with their Iphones, and hope for a speedy exit.  Some venture into the fitting room and sit cowed in the corner, waiting for their lady-friends to come to them asking "Honey, how do you like this?"  The answer is almost always an unenthusiastic "I like that," and then the lady goes back, puts on more, and repeats the process.  There's an even sadder situation, and that's the one in which the lady-friend barks at the man to get her different sizes or find her accessories.  The man obeys, dog-like.

Hanz was unlike any man I've ever experienced in Podiatry.  A tall, dark, salt-and-pepper haired dude dressed in a baby-blue button-down top and excellent dark jeans, Hanz was strangely present in the fashion experience of the two females he was accompanying.  My first interaction with him came when he ushered teeny tiny little teenaged Malibu Stacey into the fitting room to try on her teeny tiny little floral-print silk skirt and see-through white top.  I initially thought that he was her father until she referred to him by his first name.  It is for that reason, and because of the fact that most dudes take a back-seat role in this trying-on phase, that I was surprised--and a little creeped out--when he said "I REALLY wanna see those when you get them on."  She came out, he immediately inspected, and then began badgering her into consenting to purchase it.  "I love that skirt, it looks great on you, aren't you glad you tried that on?  I knew you would like that.  You HAVE to get that.  It's great."  Hmmm, I thought.  Perhaps he's the mom's boyfriend or he's the step-dad.  Yeah, the creepy stepdad trying to win his newly acquired step-daughter's love by watching her try on clothes and then buying them for her.

But I got a different point of view when Cowshark (who Malibu Stacey called "Mom") finally made her way back to do her trying on, Hanz and Malibu Stacey serving as the audience members and peanut gallery for this process.  Cowshark came out first in a dress that seemed to me to fit fine, but Hanz insisted she needed it in a smaller size.  "You want a different size?  I can go get it," he seemed to plead.  "No, Hanz, it's fine, I don't really want it."  "But I think it would be great in an extra small, really I can go find the size."  There was a pause as Cowshark continued her trying-on.  "So do you want me to go get it?" he persisted.  "No!" she almost yelled, exasperated.  "What did I say?  When I tell you something I mean it!"  Hanz backed off and chatted idly with Malibu Stacey.

"I really want to find a strapless dress for Wednesday," she told him.  "Didn't you find one in here?"  "No, there was a one-shouldered one," she suggested. "There is NOTHING worse than that," he said before commenting on his chair.  "You know this is really comfortable, but you can never get something upholstered like this if you have cats.  Bartholomew would tear this apart."

Cowshark whipped open the door and stuck out her neck, hissing at her posse, "Could you keep it down out there?  You are really embarassing me!" she said before retreating back into her room.  The two were silent for awhile.  Maybe I've been all wrong, I thought.  Perhaps this is Cowshark's dimwitted brother or gay shopping buddy?  But I don't know.  Malibu Stacey did not address him as uncle, and while sexuality is not a trait that one wears on one's sleeve, it seemed possible that he could be dating/married to this heinous woman.  Except she exuded nothing but hatred for the both of them.  Every time she came out to show them an outfit and they praised her, she undermined their comments.  What they hated, she loved.  "It washes you out," Hanz said of a blue dress with zig-zags running horizontally around it.  "How can it wash me out?  It's BLUE."

I'll never know the end of their fitting room saga, nor will I ever know the details of their unique relationships, because I was cut 2 hours earlier than I was scheduled to leave.  Podiatry wasn't making a ton of money today, so little in fact that there wasn't going to be enough to pay its employees to watch the crazy goings-on of its customers.  Although I'd love the extra $18.50 (yes, that's how much I make in two hours...splendid), I cannot say that I don't find beauty in getting to escape earlier than foreseen.

ALERT: BRAIN ATTACK. I repeat: BRAIN. ATTACK.

So far, my month-long run as Nelson Mandela on the stage of Podiatry has had a strange effect on my psyche.  I feel that not only do I play a part but that at some moments, when working, Nelson begins to infiltrate my very self with the purposes of erasing vital parts of who I really am and casting me into a sad, garment-centric abyss. 

Podiatry is a hyper-concentrated otherworld in which the most valued activity is dressing oneself.  For 5-7 hours out of a day, my whole being is consumed by CLOTHING.  How does that look?  Fit?  Feel?  What flatters your skin? Your face?  Your small frame?  Your broad shoulders?  What's the best color?  Cut?  Size?  By hour 2 on the job, I begin to truly internalize the idea that the most important aspect of life is buying and wearing apparel. 

In these stupors, I forget the concept of love, happiness, fun, and meaning outside of the context of scarves, jeans, cut and sew tops, blouses, and knits.  I forget the moral principles by which I live and replace them for that time with the moral principles of Podiatry:

-People are theives.
-Put a belt with that.

Surrounded by mirrors, and thus provided with overwhelmingly frequent opportunities to regard myself, I am highly aware of my physical trappings.  Because when in Podiatry, the Golden Rule is to "dress others and yourself as Podiatry would like you to be dressed," my identity exists only in terms of flesh and cloth.

Life is bleak.

But soon, I'm released.  I clock out, walk into the night air, and survey the few iterations of "nature" that exist in the parking lot.  I look at the two trees and realize that they did not agonize for an hour over what to wear that day.  I stop into a neighborhood grocery store and take in the warm and welcome sights of my slovenly-dressed fellow citizens: no makeup here, a grotesque rip in pajama pants there, neglect for "socially acceptable" bra-wearing procedures over there.  I breathe a sigh of relief, pay for my cottage cheese, and jet home where I immediately tear off my work clothes and replace them with a stained t-shirt and soft black pants that someone once asked if I'd worn during my "obese days."

Life is bright.

Does this mean Nelson has to be racist?

I spent the first month of employment basically penned in the Podiatry fitting room like a caged chicken confined to a life of shitting out eggs, except instead of tasty protein-rich embryos, I've been expected to birth from my cage a pile of women ready to spend money. Recently I was released from this pen to perform a new job, that of flitting about the store greeting customers, relieving them of their clothing burdens by starting them fitting rooms (seriously, if I did not take things from them as they shop, by the time they got to the fitting room, they'd by so buried with clothing they'd look like donkeys packed with the goods necessary to make the precarious trek down into the Grand Canyon), straightening things up as I go, and, most importantly, more diligently patrolling the perimeter for would-be shoplifters. In such a liberated capacity, I have had more extensive experiences with my coworkers, and I'm beginning to understand them both on an individual and a more cohesive level. Before I draw broader conclusions, I will analyze some of the yet-to-be-analyzed ones below:

Tiny Tim: One of two males who work in this lady-clothes/home-good store, Tiny Tim looks exactly as you are probably picturing him...that is if you are thinking of the waifish, crutch-wielding Dicken's character and not the Jheri-curl-sporting ukulele player who made a name for himself thanks to his falsetto rendition of Tiptoe Through the Tulips. Tiny Tim is fourth-year university student majoring in fashion or marketing or something and working at Podiatry for some cash and experience for his future career in deceiving people into buying over-priced, low-quality things. Not only is he unique in the store because of his maleness in a female-dominated environment (the other male who we'll call Mr. Goodbar because I really like him...he's Canadian...may not be discussed because he only works early mornings and exclusively in the back), but I would venture to say that he holds another in-store record: tiniest employee on payroll. Seriously. His legs, always wrapped tightly in denim right down to his Converse-like shoes, are like chopsticks, his torso like an inflatable bath pillow, and his little arms, always aloft in a dainty Mr. Burns kind of position, are like those of a kitten. Having worked in the store for a few years, he is very knowledgeable about the product and about where thing are to be found. He was very welcoming of Nelson, as they all creepily seemed to be, and appears to treat the customers well, though certain events contradict this surface-reading of TT's sweetness. The incident includes Tim and one other coworker who I will describe before launching into the sordid tale.

JubJub: JubJub, a manager, is the one who conducted my first interview, which was a generally professional affair during which we both sat up straight, made eye-contact, all that job-interview jazz you learn in 7^th grade in Career Discovery, which is the most logical time (13 years old) to start honing your interview skills (in a job market where almost all applications are done online and the chance of even getting an interview depends on luck or your ability to network). From her intelligently posed questions and subsequent scribbling to her timely follow-up concerning all things hiring process, not to mention her severely angular, shiny, dark bangs framing her impeccably made-up face on her smartly dressed form culminating in meticulously manicured toenails, I had the impression that I was dealing with a serious female in her upper twenties whose positive professionalism could be rivaled only by the most ethics-obsessed businesswomen. I soon learned, from the frequent outbursts of sharp giggling and squealing and the obsessed chatter about upcoming Britney concerts that she, too, had mastered a kind of Nelson-like work persona, but one that she chooses to turn on every once in awhile. She's got a strange lilt to her voice that isn't baby-talk or valley girl but a kind of preppy hybrid of the two.

I will pause from my character descriptions to detail an incident that occurred one fateful evening in the minutes after Podiatry had closed its doors for the night. For some context, I will say that Podiatry locks its doors when the arms of the clock indicate the closing time. At this hour, music is turned off. There may be customers who entered before the lock-down still milling about and/or trying things on. On the evening before Mother's Day, for example, there were about 6 ladies still dressing, undressing, and buying for a solid half hour to forty minutes past lock-down. And even once all of those had been flushed from the store, a single male remained, (clearly a confused Mother's-Day-gift-seeking husband), walking circles around the store looking blankly at his surroundings in a desperate way as if he didn't know where he were anymore but knew that he needed to buy something for some reason. This man did not check out for a full HOUR after the store “closed.” The only words addressed to this (white) man were “Sir, do you need any help?” or “how are you doing?”

To get back to the Tiny Tim/JubJub story, upon closing one evening, two ladies remained. They had, granted, timed their entrance perhaps poorly, entering 5 minutes before our scheduled shutdown, but according to precedence, they were within their right to continue shopping. They joyfully went around the store, cooing over this and that, suggesting items to one another, holding a couple of things that they clearly were planning on purchasing. I went about my closing duties as I had on the eve of Mother's Day assuming that we'd respect their right to keep shopping; but mere minutes after the music was switched off, JubJub was already bitching about their past-closing presence. When they came within eye-contact range, she gave them nothing but concerned looks, offered no help, etc. As I ran fitting-room-rejects back to the floor, she communicated to me her anger and annoyance at their continued shopping. Tiny Tim remarked, “Man, JubJub's really pissed about those ladies.” 10 minutes later, JubJub finally approached them saying that she was required to shut down the register as soon as possible and that, if she did not do this, corporate would give her an angry call wondering why their sales day was not finalized for the evening. The women happily complied, expressing remorse at not having realized that the store was closed, and bobbed happily over to the register to pay for what they had clearly been planning on purchasing. Once processed and released into the night, Tiny Tim pronounced his judgment on the whole affair:

“HOW IGNORANT. They were so ignorant. How could they not know that we were closed? I mean, the music was off. I just can't believe it.”

JubJub chimed in with her hearty agreements. “Ya'll, I don't usually do that, but I just had to get them out of here.”

They continued blowing off steam about the “ignorant, inconsiderate” clientele who (seemingly unknowingly) had taken up an extra 15 minutes of the store's time culminating in a purchase. What was different about these women in comparison with the man who spent an hour past closing looking for a Mother's Day gift? My first guess: they were black. Two L/XL black women who stay 15 minutes past close are “ignorant” whereas six XS women who stay 40 minutes past close are...just six XS women who stay past close.

If I were following this experiment to the T, that would mean that I would have to add another characteristic to Nelson's profile: subtle racism.

IT'S ONE BIG FARCE, PEOPLE!

The fitting-room is Nelson's stage. Outside of Podiatry, I'm a mere pedestrian: generally makeup-less, roaming about clothed in whatever fabric can be comfortably draped over my body. But going to Podiatry means preparing myself either for a matinee or an evening performance. I get into costume. I apply my stage makeup. I am transformed. I enter the theater of consumerism when I clock in, and I step out into the lights of the fitting-room stage. Here is where I take on Nelson's personality. Who am I? What's my motivation? How do I...my real self...inform my stage persona? I will begin to answer these questions.

After a few weeks of working, I know who Nelson is. If you met him on his stage, you'd think that he were a spunky girl with a keen eye for fashion, ready and willing to dole out tips and ideas concerning any clothing quandary.

Reality: I don't know nothing 'bout no fashion Miss Scah-let. But because mine is the warm body that is letting you in and out of your little changing cage and taking your piles of unwanted, unfolded, crumpled and inside-out clothing after your try-on extravaganza, you think that I KNOW EVERYTHING. And I'm Nelson. I DO know everything. So when you ask, I have to respond. Hesitation is not an option. Even if I don't know, I simply make something up. And the bitterly funny thing is: EVERYONE BELIEVES ME.

Example: There was a woman, let's call her Miss Grizzly, who came out in a deep-yellow top with strange military epaulettes resting majestically on the shoulders. “What do you think?” she ventured. My heart raced: WHAT DOES NELSON THINK?! What would someone like Nelson think? I wasn't exactly on the ball that day, so I let something rather generic fly: “The color is really flattering on you. I personally cannot wear that color because of my skin tone, but it really complements yours!” Miss Grizzly stepped back and admired her goldenrod-self in the three paneled mirror. “I do love this color....Do you have anything else in it? Do you think it would go with an indigo skirt?” Indigo, indigo, I thought frantically, Is that purple? It's either blue-ish or purple-ish because it's in the rainbow song! Red, orange, yellow, green blue, indigo, violet.... Unable to determine the true identity of indigo, I just went with it. “Oh absolutely! That would look SO funky with indigo.” Miss Grizzly beamed and headed out to scour the store for every top in that dark yellow color, returning minutes later with arms full and full of praise for my decision making.

Another example: Middle-aged woman who we'll call Frau Schnitzel (why the German? Because I initially thought she was a German professor from the university I'm currently attending, and I stupidly greeted her with a “Gutentag!” as I let her into her room which, for the record, is NOT standard Podiatry procedure. I realized that her occupation is probably not German-related when my foreign greeting was met with a mildly annoyed look and a quick duck into the dressing room). She emerged from her room in a great-billowy midnight-blue sack, one breast covered by the built-in slip-dress, and the other breast (sheathed in a bra, thankfully) strangely liberated from its clothing confines.

“How is this supposed to be worn?” she asked desperately, trying to find a way to smash both of her lady lumps into this glowing ensemble. Dammit, my inner monologue began. I DON'T KNOW! But my outer character jumped into action. “Actually, you just have to....” I started, confidently, and proceeded to work my magic. Well, if you'll agree that working magic involves basically groping Frau Schnitzel in the process of pulling and disentangling and smoothing out the fabric of her dress, then I worked magic. It was a back-bending, topsy-turvy, hold-your-mouth-just-right kind of experience, and by the end, my hands knew well the intimate contours of her German stature, and somehow the dress took shape and she was all covered. She left the store with the dress and a sparkly belt to wear with it.

Example number three: Hortense. This lady was a strange contradiction. The conservatively dressed Hortense—long black skirt, solid-colored cardigan, and non-descript clog shoes—did not go for the predictable items such as, I dunno, shirts, pants, dresses, etc. Instead she filled her 5 by 5 room with an assortment of unique, experimental, un-Hortense-like garments, and then angrily emerged, demanding an explanation for each piece.

“I don't mean to sound stupid,” she said, turning the handle and stepping out in her clogged-feet, “but what is this?”

It looked to me as if it were a Halloween costume for someone going for the butterfly Ninja Turtle look. Instead, Nelson kicked in and said matter-of-factly, “Oh, it's a kind of spring, poncho piece. Just wear it with an off-white cami” (Podiatry-speak for camisole). “It's supposed to be billowy” like the sails of the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria I wanted to add, but stopped myself. “It's really fun and playful.” I added for effect. Hortense did not buy this item, but she seemed satisfied with my response.

The thing is, I could go on and on with examples of Nelson's fashion smarts taking over for me in a bind. Where do I come up with this stuff? I'll explore that question in posts to come. But I'm off to Podiatry in about an hour, and I need to get in character: do my vocal warm-ups, don my Nelson garb, and plaster my face with stage makeup. My public awaits....

From the salon to the fitting room: Nelson finds his voice

For the past weeks, Nelson has mainly been a passive learner, observing the pros and learning the ropes at Podiatry.  But as he gets more on the job experience, he is becoming a deeper character.  This is finally shaping up to be the performance art piece I intended.  Before I explain Nelson's recent character development, allow me to provide some insight into the real-life experiment from my past that inspired this current one.

Unlike many human beings, especially female southerners, I do not have a particular person to whom I go when I fancy a trim of the hair.  I've been a haircut-hopper all my life, and as a youngster, it wasn't so bad.  However, I discovered as an adolescent the hideous social torture that is the haircut experience if you don't happen to be an extremely outgoing, whore-for-gossip equipped with hours of insane stories to recount to your necessarily hip, young, gossip-hungry hairstylist.

This awkwardness reached its peak when I was an undergrad as initial small talk revealed that I was a college-aged lady, AKA a perpetually drunk, sexual fiend whose downtime was split between going to frat parties in which gallons of communal "punch" was served, doing it with anyone who would have me, and attending mass gatherings of similarly-aged youth in serendipitously abandoned warehouses.  When the succeeding 5 minutes of conversation proved that I was none of those things, rather a philosophy major with nothing exciting to reveal (except perhaps for the revolutionary bouleversement that Bergson brings to a hundreds-of-years history of otherwise subject-centered metaphysics), the enthusiasm of the person handling my hair would plummet, silence would reign, and the cut was over and done with before she had time to spin me around with a mirror in my hand so that I could assure that the back of my head wasn't slashed-at in too unseemly a manner.

Fed up with the alienation, I decided to simply become a different, more exciting person on just the moment that my ass hit the swiveling chair and the plastic hair-catching cape came swooping down over my body. I would take on the personality of whatever hairdresser happened to be cutting at my hairs. I do this even now: I take their vocal cues and pick up on their syntactical tendencies and become them in order to easily find common ground for conversation.  And I of course pattern my stories after their own.  The tactic has so far been a success, totally eliminating the awkwardness and insuring that my hair is in caring hands.  Oh, and I've had a ball making up and telling tall-tales on the spot to rave reviews.

...Like the one about how my boyfriend's family hated me because he cheated on his then wife (an oncologist) with me, resulting in their eventual divorce and my being banned from all holiday functions.  I had the whole salon in the palm of my hand at that denouement which was followed with jovial hooting of female solidarity (as if breaking up a marriage is the most primal representation of what it means to be a liberated woman).

Then there was the time that I fashioned myself as a radical proponent of right-winged politics (just following the lead of the one with the scissors!), happily spouting-off conspiracies about Obama's mysterious origins and speaking reverently of Palin's shining view of our national future.

My recent Podiatry fitting room encounters have thus far conformed to this general model, yet instead of taking on the personality of the hairdresser, I take on that of the client, of course.  But I cannot tell you of these experiences yet as I am too busy stealing people's husbands and campaigning for the election of governor of Mississippi and tobacco industry lobbyist HALEY BARBOUR to the office of President of the United States in 2012.  Barbour to the White House first.  Nelson stories later.

Nelson goes to work NAKED

Okay, okay, I didn't go to work naked.  BUT DON'T YOU MESS WITH ME RIGHT NOW because after the events of the past hour, I'm THIS close to showing up to the doors of Podiatry tomorrow morning showing off the new spring fashion: a fleshy, slightly sunburned, yet-to-shed-the-winter-padding ensemble otherwise known as my uncovered, hang-out-with-your-wang-out, jam-out-with-your-clam out birthday suit to end all birthday suits.

So what kind of events would create in a person the desire to bare their bits to the world?  Trying to decide what to wear to work tomorrow morning, of course.  Man, I'm really starting to smash myself for accepting this job.  I'm not Nelson!  I don't look cute all the time, half the time, or even a quarter of the time! 

My preferred winter outfit: polar bear sleep pants that I pilfer from the man who lives with me, knee-high socks of any print, design, or material (though I usually end up wearing one fuzzy pink one and one striped hot green and blue...it's too hard to keep up with both of them), and any number of thick things swaddling me up top...again probably stolen from that man.

My preferred summer attire: as little as possible, but consisting mainly of thin, solid colored t-shirts and nylon shorts. But if I feel it's socially acceptable to eliminate either of those at any given time, you bettah' believe I take advantage.

I've exhausted all of my Podiatry-like outfits for the past several shifts I've worked, and I find myself back at square BORING.  So I pooled my meager resources this evening and did a massive try on of all the things I own in an attempt to find something edgy or cute or interesting so that I can not feel like a Podiatry outcast tomorrow.  Outfits that came out of this great attempt:

1. What I thought was going to be an awesome high-waisted skirt + tucked in shirt combo had me looking like I was wearing bags upon bags of fabric. I sought the opinion of the man-in-the-house, and he beheld me with head tilted to one side and a kind of confused, brow-furrowed facial expression going on. "You don't like it?" was my immediate response to this bewildered contemplation. "Well, I'm just not used to you...in that kind of thing."  I think I heard him describe it as "vaguely 50's-ish" as I traipsed back to my closet, and I have no idea what he meant by that.

2. Some dark (way-too-tight at this point) kinda dingy grey skinny-cut pants and a sleeveless blouse that looks like it was ripped off of the wall of the diner from Saved-By-The-Bell: random streaks of 90s colors: hot pinks, dark greens, and brown.  Yeah, I don't know why I ever bought that or why I thought it would work for a Podiatry outfit as I looked like a punk teenager roaming the streets of Munich at night.

3. Some Gap "trousers" and some ole shirt.  Gap trousers are perhaps my favorite for "dressy" occasions (an insight into my fashion sense, no doubt).  But I couldn't imagine myself wearing them in Podiatry.  Next to my co-workers, I feel I'd look like their mothers.  Or worse, their 2nd grade teachers.    

All this I was doing, by the way, while man was cooking up a storm and blasting crazy avant-garde jazz.  This means that it was SWELTERING in our home and contributed to extreme feelings of hotflash as I hurried from closet to mirror putting on and taking things off.  Let us not forget that I was all the while being assaulted in the ears by frenzied honking. 

Sitting on the porch in the cool of the night and processing the event helps me reevaluate my previous desire to take it all off for my morning shift.  I'll probably just do the logical thing and recycle an outfit that I've already worn.  I have nothing to be ashamed of by wearing a shirt to work twice.  Just because it appears to me that my coworkers are constantly showing off new runway-caliber duds every time they step through the theft-detecting scanner and enter Podiatry's walls doesn't mean I am required to do the same.  I was hired to do a job, and do it I will.  Fully clothed, if I must.

XS: XTREME skinniness

Perhaps it's premature to post my observation of this phenomenon seeing as I've worked a total of two shifts at Podiatry, but I will comment on it briefly and flag it as something to gauge as I continue my travail: there is an abundance of LITTLE clothes at Podiatry.

Having completed the restocking task an incredible and noteworthy TWO TIMES, I notice that the most common size that I am folding or re-hanging is XS: extra small.  Furthermore, there seems to be an abundance of the XS and S sizes on display or available for pickin' up.  Not to mention that the common means of stacking clothing items or arranging them on a rack (in all stores) is to put the XS on top/at the front and follow with the progressively larger cuts.  This means that the XS is always staring you in the face when you regard a pile of clothes or approach a stand-alone rack.  If you want the XL, you are forced to demolish the carefully constructed mountain of folded clothes in order to reach your goal; if you want an XS, you just grab and go.

Yesterday, I attended (while remaining suspicious of her every move, of course) to a lil' thing in the fitting room who when I asked, "Mrs. Bratwurst, how are things going?  Can I get you another size?" responded with, "Why yes, Nelson.  I need one size down in this top."

I frantically ripped my walkie-talkie from its resting place in the waist of my jeans and radio-ed a CODE RED to Bad Bad Leroy Brown.  "Get you ass in here, Leroy, we got a customer WHO NEEDS SOMETHING, PRONTO!"  Minutes later Bad Bad Leroy Brown returned with an XS in the top which fit Mrs. Bratwurst perfectly.  I complimented her, saying that it was a perfect "fresh" look for spring adding also that it seemed "playful" without being "immature."  She said, "Yeah, it's really CUTE."  So much for the intelligent clientele.

Again, I haven't spent many days in the fitting room or in the re-stocking enterprise, but the theme that seems to be emerging is that an abundance of XS people shop at Podiatry and that fewer XLs even dare come in.  I don't think it's so much the case that Podiatry doesn't carry larger sizes; they do. But not as many of those larger sizes are out on the floor because the average lady that comes on in is simply an XS.  She's either of midget proportions, or she's damn skinny.  Nothing wrong with being either of those...just an observation.

Nelson on the other hand, being the aged, solid gentleman that he is, feels like a thick, towering OAF in the midst of all these XS folk.  But I count my stature as a totally useful and intimidating characteristic as I know my Podiatry loyalties will one day require me to tackle would-be-thieves in the parking lot as they attempt to flee with armfuls of giraffe candlesticks and verbena-scented candles.      

Never. Say. Cute

As of Wednesday, Nelson has been trained in the ways of the fitting-room, and already I feel more proficient  in the areas of (1) always suspecting customers of being potential criminals and (2) manipulating my language in order to beguile women into thinking of their shopping as an art, not just as a selfish, consumer activity.  But before I get to that, let me introduce another character to our growing Podiatry cast.

When I arrived at Podiatry's doorstep at 8am, Mama Skaggs introduced me to my training partner for the morning, a delightfully easygoing, pleasant person, the first who does not come across as an over-eager sorority sister.  Bad Bad Leroy Brown instructed me in her expert re-stocking ways for the first two hours of the morning (which involved me roaming around the cavernous interior of Podiatry trying to scrutinize every possible cranny in which clothes may be stuffed in order to find the pile containing the specific item I was restocking) and then gave me the scoop on fitting-room duties.  Let me explain the procedure below:

Step One: When any warm body holding clothes approaches the fitting-room proximity, snatch away the clothes from their arms as quickly as possible.  But do this while smiling and being amiable so that it won't look suspicious.  

Step Two: Hang their things (that they're definitely trying to steal) in the dressing room, and force them to tell you their name so you can write it on their door using a dry erase marker.  Also, don't forget to indicate how many items they have.  Because they are trying to steal all of the items and will definitely be shoving loungewear in their purses or stuffing v-neck camisoles down their pants or tucking decorative soaps in their bras.  

Step Three: Tell them your name, and tell them how much you can't wait to see them in that floral-print skirt and that you would be happy to get them ANYTHING they need, seriously, ANYTHING.

Step Four: Exactly three minutes later, approach their door and call out to them, using their name. "Ursula!" you would say, for example, if the woman's name were Ursula, "how are those sizes working out?  Can I get you anything?" A neck-massage?  A BLT? A gin and tonic?

Step Five: If they emerge to stare at themselves in the big, three-panel mirror, COMPLIMENT THE FUCK OUT OF THEIR OUTFIT but be honest.  TELL THEM HOW AWESOME IT LOOKS AND THAT THEY HAVE TO GET IT but just remember to keep it real.  Just say, "Oh my god that's so CUTE"

BEEEPBEEEPBEEEEPBEEEEPBEEEEP

NEVER.  SAY.  CUTE.  Bad Bad Leroy Brown very tactfully instructed me in this subtle but totally necessary trick.  After having a rousing discussion with a woman about how "cute" the sleeves were on an otherwise boxy, shapeless article of clothing that can only be described as a sailor-suit for adult, non-seafaring women, Bad Bad Leroy Brown informed me that, here at Podiatry, it's important to differentiate and diversify our usage of adjectives. Cute is a word that girls ages 7-15 employ on a regular basis to describe any and everything in the world.  Podiatry wants to make its customers feel as if what they are purchasing is special and adult.  We as fitting-room personnel are to play to their desires to be seen as intelligent, creative, and well-traveled by using words like "bohemian," "chic," "tailored," "vintage-inspired," etc.  Cute is out of the question.

Step Six: If they do request anything, tear apart the store to find it.  If unable to accommodate their request, lay your body across the wood-stumps that serve as fitting-room stools (I'm not kidding...I will describe these stumps at a later date), provide them with a knife, and offer up your body as a blood sacrifice for the indiscretion.

Step Seven: As they leave, dash into the room and search it thoroughly for any tags that they may have ripped off the clothing (that they are trying to steal).  The tags contain sensors that set off the alarm.  Ripped off tags allow for easy, undetected theft.  

Nelson now mistrusts all humans but will nevertheless cater to their every whim while speaking proper King's English. 

Day One: Nelson joins a sorority

Podiatry Bid Day, 2011

Today, Nelson joined a happy, glossy, super-enthusiastic group of new and veteran Podiatry employees in what can only be described as sorority bid-day on a slightly smaller scale.  Instead of a herd of white girls running across a field into the arms of new sorority sisters, 5 white girls crossed a parking lot and entered the doors of Podiatry to be greeted with cupcakes, name-tags, and a new-member, I mean EMPLOYEE, handbook.  There was sparkling grape cider in champagne glasses to toast the beginning of "a new journey in the lives of each of us" baby Podiatry team members.  Our pledge mom, I mean orientation leader, taught us about Podiatry's founder and the history of the organization, complete with pictoral illustrations of some of the original stores and followed by mini quizzes (to make sure we were listening).  Already I could feel a sense of loyalty creeping into my bones: their instructional, inspirational, educational, some might say propoganda-ish, material slipping its hands around our necks and tightening, tightening, tightening...

Orientation being packed with listening, smiling, eating cupcakes, and learning about our new lives, I had little time to develop Nelson as a character, nor did I have much time to get much of an impression of my coworkers.  But certain stereotypes about the typical Podiatry worker shone through in my new buddies:

1. As a friend of mine predicted about my possible new co-workers, there was indeed one amongst the new members--she will be known as Dr. Gutstein--wearing a pair of glasses that looked like they belonged a muumuu-wearing seventy year-old.   
2. The girl who I'll call Moonblood revealed that she was a food blogger, as if there aren't enough of those in this world. 
3. Our pledgemaster, Mama Skaggs, as she will now be called, rampantly punctuated all conversations with explosions of "Oh-my-god-that's-so-sweet!!!!"

Day one was a blur, so much so that Nelson was unable to begin coming into his own.  But my next shift is Wednesday when I'll be working with Mama Skaggs (but unfortunately none of my fellow new members) and will begin burrowing my mole tunnels all up in Podiatry.