"Meet me at the mall", he said. "I have to buy a Polo." These words, from this person, are as ridiculous today as Mother Teresa resurrecting herself to appear in a used car commercial. Nonetheless, it was what mattered eighteen years ago.
We walked into the department store on the end of the mall. That meant Fancy: it was the biggest, and it had it's own door. It had Polos.
Maybe it was because we were young (we were, back then). Maybe it was because we looked shifty (we tried our hardest). Maybe it was due to our very apparent lack of currently owned Polos under our heavy coats. An employee, an elderly lady finely dressed in skirt and hose, decided to follow us around. We were immediately insulted.
We cruised through the men's section taking four each of every color and size. Loaded literally to the gills, he asked for a dressing room.
"You can only take in 5 items."
"Hmm. Okay, you hold these."
I did.
He tried on three, and handed four back over the door. I handed him two, he handed back five. I handed him six, he handed me one. He passed me empty hangers, I threw loose Polos underneath. Soon the lady wasn't even trying to hide her spying. She gave me looks that had written all over her face, "I believe in corporal punishment."
I was inspired. I ran to get more sizes.
We continued this for at least a half hour, while the lady chewed her own teeth.
Finally, he announced he was done. It was a bust. Nothing fit. Can you imagine? The lady and I stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, waiting just on the other side of the dressing room door. Her anticipation was electric; I began gleefully preparing my speech of indignation.
The room got quiet. And quieter still. He was prolonging the moment. We heard a long, slow, deliberate ZZZZZZZZIP. Her eyes narrowed; my eyes widened.
At once the swinging door burst open with such force that it slammed against the neighboring stall. He brushed past with frantic speed, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his parka, as he grabbed my arm and whispered, "let's go." The dressing room was upholstered in Polos.
I looked back at the woman who needed to prove, but couldn't, that something was missing. She picked up a hanger and her hands dropped limp in front of the mess.
And we ran. We ran all the way out of the store, all the way across the parking lot. Screaming with laughter.
Next time: How to Fight an American Crocodile and Win.
