“I’d like a suit, please.” I strode past the employee and ignored his greeting. From the water bottle in his one hand and phone in the other, he must have been going on a break. Did I care? Of course not. Does anyone care about people who work in customer service? No1. Not even their spouses or parents.
“Custom fit,” I added, over my shoulder.
He ushered me over to the three-way mirror, fetched a measuring tape and a tablet. After thirty minutes of fussing, he stood back up.
“So,” he said, stretching his back. “I’ll get our catalogue of styles and fabrics so you can—“
“No need, my friend. Make it like that one.” I pointed a sharp cut suit hanging from the wall.
“Okay, fine. And how about the fabric?”
I raised an eyebrow in what I thought was a both provocative and insouciant manner.
“Black velvet…if you please.”
He frowned. “We don’t carry black velvet. That’s not—“
“No, no. Black velvet. Like this,” I said. I took a breath, my chest expanding like a marshmallow in the microwave. “‘BLACK VELVET IN THA’ LEETLE BOHY’S SMIIIIIIILE! BLACK VELVET IN THA’ SLOH SUTHUN STYLE!2”
Point is, I’m not allowed in Moore’s3 anymore.
1This sounds cruel, but as anyone who’s worked in customer service (including myself) knows, it’s true.
2A song by Allannah Myles. Here’s the Wikipedia article
3Moore’s being a men’s clothing store here in Canada (and owned by a US company who’s probably owned by some other company situated on the Moon).
