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....