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Stanger in a Strange Land

I prefer to purchase clothing at thrift stores. It's not simply that I'm a cheapskate, which I am, but the thrift store experience is, in my opinion, unsurpassed for selection, atmosphere, and price.

Yet there are certain items for which I demand retail procurement, money be damned. Everyone has their own unique comfort zone, and whether it's based on superstition, hard science, or religious affiliation, a personal boundary is something to be heeded.

I draw the line at underwear, for me or for the kids. I am perfectly aware that any decent thrift store washes the stuff, and that once hot water and chemical detergents have done their work there is probably nothing to be afraid of.

Which is neither here nor there, as far as I am concerned.

I have no problem with second-hand shirts, shoes, pants, sweaters, coats, hats, and even cookware, but when it comes down to underwear, give me that air-tight plastic shrink wrap every time.

So when Emma needed new underwear last week, it didn't have to be fancy, just new. It almost could have been a thrift store run, if not for my Unwritten Rule. In honor of my sense of Appropriate Frugality (cheapness) I decided to go to Kmart, which is only about a half a click up the food chain from the Salvation Army.

I didn't feel much pressure to exercise good fashion sense; as long as there were some assorted colors and patterns involved, I felt I'd be on safe ground. Still, I went while she was at pre-school, just to avoid any complications. 9-month-old Stella, whose lack of a vocabulary was deemed an asset, was allowed to ride along.

It only takes a split second, after walking into a Kmart store, to remember why you never go there. It's dingy, run-down, and disorganized. The merchandise is cheesy at best, and the store is full of creepy types, employees and customers alike. I started to feel trashy by association as I hunted and pecked my way to the Little Girls' Underwear Department.

It had to be somewhere. Under no circumstances was I going to ask a "Sales Associate" for any help; I've been down that road before.

I found it soon enough; it was a pretty sizeable display, although it was clear that no one had maintained it in quite some time. Packages of product had been torn roughly off their pegs and returned to random locations and also onto a large pile on the floor.

There was no logical arrangement of sizes or styles, so I had to scrutinize each individual package. This was taking longer than I wanted it to. OK, so I was unshaven and wearing a wrinkled T-shirt stained liberally around the left shoulder with strained baby food. That's no reason to glare at me for displaying a keen interest in several hundred packages of Little Girls' Underwear.

It was a good thing I had Stella with me; she lent much-needed credibility. I maintained a running banter with her, the better to demonstrate that I was a conscientious parent, not some degenerate freak, like, likeð like that cashier over there, for example. I heard other people talking to their babies as well, but on second look I could see that most did not actually have babies, and were talking to themselves.

I had to wrap it up and get out; I felt like a scuba diver with a nearly-spent tank. The whole experience was getting to me; the lighting, the dirt, the chipped floor tiles, the hollow-eyed employees wandering around like the undead, and of course, the Muzak.

Kate Smith singing "God Bless America," taken out of mothballs after all these years, seems to be at the top of the Muzak charts. It's everywhere now. Maybe it's a re-make with a sound-alike, who knows? A cultural classic to be sure, and you could get tarred and feathered these days for showing any disrespect. Still, it was ironic, bordering on cynical, hearing that song piped into that shrine of Third-World-outsourced cheap plastic junk.

And it didn't make me swell with pride, either. It made me think about those endless video clips of the Towers, all that fiery death.

Time to leave.

I listened in amazement as the Muzak segued inexplicably to Jim Morrison and the Doors singing "Light My Fire."

It didn't seem to bother anyone else in the store. I scanned the faces around me in the checkout line for even a glimmer of recognition, but everyone was somewhere else. I was flashing my best "does-anyone-else-think-this-is-weird" look, but there were no takers.

We made it home safe and sound, with our plastic shrink-wrapped kiddie underwear. God Bless America.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.