Kiosk Attack

So I was dissecting the Mall after my plan to hit Christopher and Banks blew up. Since when did they turn into a chic twenty-something boutique? Or maybe it always was. I just hadn’t been on a hunt for a modest and more conservative look, something between an old lady dressed like a sleaze and a has-been MBA trying to compete with this year’s graduating class. Whatever that look is.

The first stop Bon-Ton, the anchor store I have never been in because since it has been in Saratoga, I haven’t been. And when I returned to my hometown, I wasn’t dressing for my success any longer. Painting houses and protecting the general public from errant thoroughbreds doesn’t require Evan-Picone. But with a real career interview looming in North Carolina next week and any clothes remotely acceptable were long ago donated to Goodwill or tucked away in a Tennessee storage locker. I had to find that look.

A twenty pound weight loss wasn’t helping the situation. In the petite section, which really means short and not little, I couldn’t find a thing. I stood in the dressing room looking at my reflection and watching the skirt slide to the floor from my hips. Size 4P. The Gang-bang sag wasn’t going to cut it. After a laboring search I found a sharp black jacket with an acceptable sleeve length and a decent price tag. I hung it back up and headed off to the other end of the Mall.

JC Pennys. Same name brands and same sales. Thank God for the suck economy.

I have a patience quotient for this sort of shopping and it is very low. To beat the quotient, I’m a grab and run shopper. The technique proved fruitless. I had to slowed down. I began to leaf through the racks as if I were reading an instruction manual. Painful. One item at a time, looking at size tags. Praying something had been misplaced as the sizes bogged down in the twelves and fourteens. Score. I found a skirt that fit nicely and would go with the black jacket. I trudged back to the other end of the Mall.

Here’s the story. I had already blown off the lady at Seacrets, the kiosk hawking little packets of hand lotion containing some sea-cret ingredient found only in the Dead Sea. But her partner, a young man in slim legged blue jeans called after me with the greatest of sincerity in his voice, “Hey wait a minute. I want to ask you a question.” I fell for it. Okay, I gave the kid with a middle eastern accent my time of day. I humored him and he must have thought, “Sucker, I got you.”

He pitch was good. Smooth and charming. He caressed my hand and used some buffing tool with three distinct sides to put such a high glossed shine on my ring finger’s nail, he made me promise not to scream in delight. Okay, it looked like a professional nail job. He applied a little lotion to my mechanic and painter worn cuticles. I was almost embarrassed. They look masculine. Thinking job interview, I listened to the pitch and considered the product.

“How many thousands of dollars,” I asked?

“For you, just two thousand.”

He smoothed down the ridges on my thumb. Nice, I was thinking. “And you can use this on your toenails too.”

Finally, the price. “$59.00 for a year’s supply. Consider how much you pay for a whole year on your nails.” A whole freaking year? That’s zilch, buddy. I considered the price and my need for a jacket.

“I’m afraid not.”

“No, no, for you my first customer of the day, I’ll give you a deal.” He looked over his shoulder and moved in close. I could see every stubble on his young face. I could smell a faint hint of cigarette smoke. Putting a finger to his lips he said, “You must not tell anyone. I give you a deal. Normally this is $89. I will let you have the kit for $59. But for you I will add in another kit. What is your favorite fragrance? Sea or Cucumber?” He offered each smell to me.

I didn’t bite. I said no thanks. He pressured. “A gift for a special women in your life. Your mother or sister perhaps. A free gift for Christmas or someone's birthday.”

I said, “ no.”

“Would you pay cash or credit card?” He walked over to his computer like he was going to make the sale.

“Neither.”

“You’re killing me. What are you Jewish?”

The words stunned me. Not much I can do about the big shit in life, but I sure can between me and you. “You almost had me until you banged that one.” Ass hole. You lost me there. What are you? Fucking Muslim?

And I walked away.