The shirt I want costs $260.
$260.
I visit this shirt every once in awhile, holding out the slim hope that somebody in the store will screw-up and they’ll sell it to me for $26, but so far that’s yet to happen. And so, I just go in and look at the shirt.
Like it was a puppy.
Sometimes I touch it.
Yesterday some man followed me into the store. He was wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over his jean jacket and he had been standing in front of the store with a guy who was playing Won’t Get Fooled Again on a battered acoustic guitar. On the ground, beside a Toronto Maple Leafs baseball hat with a little bit of change in it, sat a sign that said, “I would rather beg than steal.”
The man in the Hawaiian shirt followed me about the store. Happily invading my space, he chatted away, telling me that the store was very expensive and that he’s had excellent luck finding stuff in the trash, citing a perfectly good pair of sneakers he found last week.
The girl standing behind the cash was talking into her phone. Her hair, pulled severely back, shone perfectly, and she had a look of utter indifference to the world around her, as if the only beauty she apprehended was her own. When she saw the man who had attached himself to me, a look washed over her face.
“Hey, hey!” she shouted at him, “can I HELP you?”
The word “help” sarcastic.
At this point, knowing what was coming next, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt quickly introduced himself to me—Peter. And then he added, “it’s a beautiful day out there, all blue and warm.” And then he scurried out of the store.
The cashier, now back on her cell, looked over at me, “I’m sorry about that, sometimes they come in from the street,” and then she continued with her phone conversation.