manager now! This minute! Can’t you understand English?”
Giselle glanced at me again. She was really quite attractive in her languid, indifferent, skinny fashion, a look that had never particularly appealed to me. Her expression was filled with a new skepticism, even fear of a confrontation. Maybe, too, she hoped that I would step in and intervene, slipping her off the hook of this embarrassing situation. After all, I was a man, wasn’t I?
Moans and groans in the line behind us. “Make up your minds already!” someone muttered. I turned around. The queue had grown to a dozen customers. There were rolling eyes and nasty frowns. “Oh, for God’s sake! This is the last time I ever come here on Saturday!” bitched another. “And only one cashier!” a third chimed in.
Giselle hoisted a telephone receiver from beneath the counter.
“Seven-one-one to women’s wear. Seven-one-one to women’s wear, please.” The cashier was broadcasting our problem in code all over the store via the loudspeaker.
More griping behind us. The lousiest place in the civilized world to kick up a stink is in a long customer line in a ladies’ wear department. Giselle leaned on her elbow and waited. Livy glowered, refusing to give an inch. When I tried to touch her, she flinched. Some of the customers behind us fell out of line andscattered. One middle-aged patron dumped her garments—pants suit and hosiery—into a bin brimming with brassieres on special sale and stormed off with a curse.
Seven-one-one appeared. She was a carbon copy of Giselle but forty years older. Her glasses sat primly on the tip of her nose and were attached to her neck by a black cord. She stared at Livy and me over the tortoiseshell frames.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
“This dress was flawed and I didn’t notice until I got it home,” fumed Livy.
Seven-one-one handled the dress with an adroitness born of years of experience.
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Let me just have a look—”
“There’s no need to look, lady,” Livy shot back. “I just want my money back!”
Amazing. I never realized clothes could cause such a vile disturbance.
Seven-one-one ignored her. Evidently she’d heard it all before. “The tags have been cut…. ”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I cut them because I thought the dress was in one fucking piece!”
Seven-one-one froze, then pointed. “This garment is stained. It’s obviously been worn. This store would never sell a worn garment!”
Giselle’s eyeballs twitched toward me again. Livy slammed the counter with her palm. “Are you accusing me of lying?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, miss. I’m only saying that it appears this dress has been worn, and our policy is not to refund or exchange worn garments under any circumstance.”
Livy’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson.
“I demand to see your superior!”
“Liv, come on,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Why don’t we just forget it—”
“Forget it! And let them get away with this! No way! This is highway robbery! I want satisfaction, and I’ll get it!”
It was bizarre. I’d never seen Livy like this before. I couldn’t understand what had gotten into her. Worse, I hadn’t noticed that tear in the dress during the modeling session, and if my memory served me well, I’d seen her walk out of the apartment wearing it one night for her shift at the Turtle.
Seven-one-one was immovable. A faint smile had begun to pull at Giselle’s cheap purple lips. I felt like smashing her with a straight right, then crawling underneath one of the clothing racks.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tanga,” said the manager.
“Oh, give it up already!” called a voice in the line behind us.
“Let’s beat it, Liv,” I tried again. “Who gives a fuck about their dress? I’ll buy you a new one.”
She turned on me like a cornered animal. “Aren’t you going to defend me?”
“But Liv, I—”
“MAX!”
Motherfucker. I didn’t give a damn for
Giselle glanced at me again. She was really quite attractive in her languid, indifferent, skinny fashion, a look that had never particularly appealed to me. Her expression was filled with a new skepticism, even fear of a confrontation. Maybe, too, she hoped that I would step in and intervene, slipping her off the hook of this embarrassing situation. After all, I was a man, wasn’t I?
Moans and groans in the line behind us. “Make up your minds already!” someone muttered. I turned around. The queue had grown to a dozen customers. There were rolling eyes and nasty frowns. “Oh, for God’s sake! This is the last time I ever come here on Saturday!” bitched another. “And only one cashier!” a third chimed in.
Giselle hoisted a telephone receiver from beneath the counter.
“Seven-one-one to women’s wear. Seven-one-one to women’s wear, please.” The cashier was broadcasting our problem in code all over the store via the loudspeaker.
More griping behind us. The lousiest place in the civilized world to kick up a stink is in a long customer line in a ladies’ wear department. Giselle leaned on her elbow and waited. Livy glowered, refusing to give an inch. When I tried to touch her, she flinched. Some of the customers behind us fell out of line andscattered. One middle-aged patron dumped her garments—pants suit and hosiery—into a bin brimming with brassieres on special sale and stormed off with a curse.
Seven-one-one appeared. She was a carbon copy of Giselle but forty years older. Her glasses sat primly on the tip of her nose and were attached to her neck by a black cord. She stared at Livy and me over the tortoiseshell frames.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
“This dress was flawed and I didn’t notice until I got it home,” fumed Livy.
Seven-one-one handled the dress with an adroitness born of years of experience.
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Let me just have a look—”
“There’s no need to look, lady,” Livy shot back. “I just want my money back!”
Amazing. I never realized clothes could cause such a vile disturbance.
Seven-one-one ignored her. Evidently she’d heard it all before. “The tags have been cut…. ”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I cut them because I thought the dress was in one fucking piece!”
Seven-one-one froze, then pointed. “This garment is stained. It’s obviously been worn. This store would never sell a worn garment!”
Giselle’s eyeballs twitched toward me again. Livy slammed the counter with her palm. “Are you accusing me of lying?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, miss. I’m only saying that it appears this dress has been worn, and our policy is not to refund or exchange worn garments under any circumstance.”
Livy’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson.
“I demand to see your superior!”
“Liv, come on,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Why don’t we just forget it—”
“Forget it! And let them get away with this! No way! This is highway robbery! I want satisfaction, and I’ll get it!”
It was bizarre. I’d never seen Livy like this before. I couldn’t understand what had gotten into her. Worse, I hadn’t noticed that tear in the dress during the modeling session, and if my memory served me well, I’d seen her walk out of the apartment wearing it one night for her shift at the Turtle.
Seven-one-one was immovable. A faint smile had begun to pull at Giselle’s cheap purple lips. I felt like smashing her with a straight right, then crawling underneath one of the clothing racks.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tanga,” said the manager.
“Oh, give it up already!” called a voice in the line behind us.
“Let’s beat it, Liv,” I tried again. “Who gives a fuck about their dress? I’ll buy you a new one.”
She turned on me like a cornered animal. “Aren’t you going to defend me?”
“But Liv, I—”
“MAX!”
Motherfucker. I didn’t give a damn for
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