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September 8 - 14, 2005 Edition
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At Large: Fall fashion September 8, 2005 By Doug Cabral It was my turn to lead the back-to-school shopping trip. I was headed for the mall, and I figured getting an early start would pay off. We took the 7 am boat, and despite the early commuter traffic on 28, a crazed dump truck driver who tried to ram me, and a stop at Honey Dew Doughnuts to fortify myself, we were there and ready to shop at about 9:15 am. The mall was nearly empty, the stores were still in lock-down. Dad, he wanted to know, what was the big reason for getting the seven. The mall isn't going anywhere, they have plenty of clothes. We could have taken the 9:30 and been here in plenty of time. I said, I thought an early start might avoid the crowds, make the whole experience less stressful. Dad, it's not stressful to buy school clothes. And you didn't avoid the crowds. There aren't any crowds because the stores aren't even open. He was quibbling, and I told him so. The young man selling cell phones in one of the kiosks in the center aisle of the mall was obviously not ready to do any business. He was talking on his own cell and gathering his shoulder length hair in a ponytail at the same time. Multi-tasking, I think they call it. I suppose restraining the hair is required of young retailers handling telephone equipment. We wandered along, window shopping through the bars, until an alert fingernail polisher spotted my fingers. She wanted ten seconds of my time, but only if I had someone special at home. I do, so she drew me to her kiosk, and I held out a paw. Without pausing to take a breath, she described the miracle product she was selling, while grinding relentlessly over one fingernail with the four surfaces of an oblong block about four inches long. (Unfortunately, it was my middle finger, which led to some trouble later in traffic, but never mind.) She rubbed with one face of the magical buffer, and then another, and another, finishing off with some oil and the last and smoothest surface. My fingernail glowed from the friction and flashed importantly when she was done. The gleam would last two weeks guaranteed, she said. The nine other fingernails suddenly seemed like last week's news. I was disappointed in them. This persuasive young woman took down the fingernail polishing kit, $49 or so on sale, from the tiered pile on her kiosk and asked, Don't you want to take this home to the person you love? Well, I did, and I didn't. You know what I mean. I thought maybe I'd better talk it over with the special someone before jumping for the deal. Maybe her nails are just right the way they are. I equivocated, and what had seemed a promising friendship seemed to cool. In the Gap nearby, where we headed next, led by my flashing middle fingernail, my son made a pile of shirts and pants, jeans (or dungarees, as I call them), boxers and socks. I chatted with the guy my age who was behind the counter. So, you been busy? It's been all right, I guess, but there won't be anyone in here today. Nice days, nobody comes in. They all go to the beach. Cloudy, we'll be packed. You worked here long? Not long really. I used to work in girls, but I couldn't take it. What couldn't you take. I couldn't take the arguments between the girls and their mothers. You should hear what the girls would yell at their mothers. The girls want to wear these skimpy clothes, belly buttons showing and even more than that. The mothers say no, and wow, World War three. Oooh, yeah, I can imagine. Not pretty. Actually, it's a lot better now. The fashion toned down a little, not so slutty, so there are less fights. At the sneakers store, the young woman who helped us took a phone call while she laced up a pair of running shoes for my son to try. She could do both things at once, no problem. When she got off the phone, she said that was the fire chief, and she may be sent to New Orleans to relieve exhausted firefighters who've been working day and night for a week to find live Louisianans to rescue. She is a professional firefighter, petite, short, dark hair, serious, barely over a 110 pounds or so, maybe 140 in her gear, and she only works in the sneaker store to fill in. She said she'd like to go with the team from her town on the Cape to New Orleans to help out, but it will depend whether the town or some other government agency can fund the cost of a replacement for her at home. She said she is especially valuable in search and rescue, because she can go into small places, through cellar windows, or down drainage pipes, where a 250-pound colleague wouldn't fit. One time they put me into a basement through the little window, they were holding me by the hands and they said just drop, it's not far. It was eight feet down. I wasn't hurt. Another time, I went in a window, and they dropped me into a bathtub. That hurt. But I love it. The sneakers fit fine, and it was a two for one sale. She said she'd know in a day or so whether she would be part of the team going to New Orleans. We had ice cream after lunch at Blondie's. Drivers roared by on the busy road by the airport, middle fingers flying. I kept mine under wraps. As we walked into the store, I told the boy all about Dagwood and Blondie Bumstead and all the troubles they had, which I read about every Sunday in the paper years ago. But as we walked in the door, the woman behind the counter, who had heard my history lesson, acted quickly to clear away any misconceptions I might have had. It's not that Blondie, she said. It's named for the owner's girlfriend. We can't even have illustrations of Dagwood or his family because of copyright or something. We'd get in trouble. The boy and I didn't want that, so we paid for our cones and headed for Staples.

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