Holiday She-tale

I am the kind of person who takes enormous pride in sometimes confusing Topo Gigio with El Topo. How I came to work the Christmas Season In Retail, in The City's Fanciest Mall, at Your Dad's Favourite Store is a bit confusing to me, but there you are.

I last worked retail a decade ago, as the manager of a children's bookstore. The store owner was a strikingly attractive Jewish woman of a certain age; a cuckolding, violently narcissistic person with bony fingers and wild hair. She called herself a midwife because she once delivered a baby, and called herself a doctor because she believed herself a midwife. She once insisted on inspecting an employee's infected nipple ring because she was "a doctor", and frequently enquired about my "BMs". She also, tellingly, openly talked about how she thought herself to be "a charismatic leader, not unlike Jesus". Oh, and once, she cried while reciting the most beautiful poem she'd ever heard. THE POEM WAS THE LYRICS TO JUICE NEWTON'S 'ANGEL OF THE MORNING'.

The last time I worked in a mall was even longer ago than that. It was in the era of the Dress I Was Going To Get Married In, and I worked at both Benetton and Mr. Greenjeans at the Eaton Centre. I endured a lot of Japanese tourists miming out sizing requests that involved tapping the top of my head, puffing out their cheeks, then shaking their heads and wagging their fingers while pointing at me. Translation: my wife is a little shorter than, and not so fat as you. Mr. Greenjeans wasn't any better, as we had to advertise their loyalty program on our t-shirts. The program was called "The Eat It Up Club", and the "P" in "up" had an arrow on it that pointed down. Into our pants. Good times for a naive 19 year old from New Brunswick.

I have spent the last decade avoiding malls, and am surprised at how little they have changed. But maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like the assumptions people make about me because I am trying to sell them flannel-lined jeans and a cotton mock neck turtleneck. Maybe I'm still like I was at 19, feeling deeply out of my element amongst the consumers, people with money, being judged on my appearance. A woman snapped her fingers at me the other day. I nearly ground my teeth to dust. I developed an eye twitch during an exchange with a wealthy woman who was unhappy with the cargo pants we had on offer because they were "too casual". I just kept repeating "But they're cargo pants" over and over, in an even tone, as she repeated back to me that she wanted "pants like these with lots and lots of pockets that my husband could wear with a jacket and tie". "But they're cargo pants."

No matter. I work with lovely and smart people. I am not at risk of injury. I am not thousands of miles away from home, in the arctic. I am at the mall. I am okay.

post script: i just got a call from my boss, who is a very good friend. apparently, i didn't show up for my shift. this is heinous. and classic. i will now spend my wage on a cab to the mall.