December 1999
It was the evening of December 20th, three days before I was to depart for Indiana on my annual pilgrimage home. I needed a wheeled garment bag so that I could give my aching back a rest during the long journey. As usual, the week before Christmas turned out to be a frenzy, so I had put off my luggage purchase until the last minute. If I wanted a new garment bag, I had to get it that night. Not wanting to run the gauntlet of holiday-crazed suburb dwellers that were crowding the large shopping mall, I opted to visit a luggage store in a small strip mall near my office. I parked my car and strode for the store entrance, flush with the happy willingness to buy that seems to possess Americans in the busy days before Christmas. I pulled the door open, its bell jingling merrily. At the sound the saleswoman moved from behind the counter to greet me at the front of the store. As my foot crossed the threshold I immediately realized two things:
1. The saleswoman was extremely attractive.
2. My pants were completely unzipped.
To say that this woman was extremely attractive would actually be an understatement. She was gorgeous. She stood 5'7” and had shoulder-length black hair, high cheekbones, and a perfect button nose. Her well-proportioned mouth spoke English with a vaguely European accent, which added to the mystery. Her body was nothing but curves. She was a statue wrapped in a blue ribbed turtleneck sweater and stylish black pants, both garments tight enough to observe the sculptor’s fine craftsmanship from across the room. Her slender legs looked even longer when punctuated by square-toed high-heeled boots, their shiny black leather winking from beneath the hem of her slacks.
To say that my pants were unzipped would likewise be an understatement. In point of fact, they were about to fall off. The button of my jeans had apparently come undone in the car, and the zipper had fallen completely open under the inevitable tug of gravity. The only thing keeping the pants attached to their owner at all was a brown belt, and the 1-inch strip of worn leather did not look like it was up to the task. Not only that, but I happened to be wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans that day, purchased in a foolish attempt to look with it. (Damn you and your marketing, Tommy Hilfiger!) These pants were almost loose enough to fall off when they were fastened, and in their current state I feared that they would slip to the ground at the slightest encouragement.
I told this story to a friend who cheekily applauded my bravado, suggesting that approaching such a woman with an open zipper constitutes the sincerest form of honesty. To him let me just say that it's easy to laugh when your pants are well secured. I, on the other hand, was mortified. There’s nothing more dreadful than being embarrassed in front of a person you find attractive, and this seemed like the inevitable outcome of my current situation. I was instantly transported back to eighth grade, when my friend Kyle had yanked down my pants in front of a girl that I really liked at the time. I was devastated. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even look at her after that day. My ears burned for months afterward. Fourteen years later, I shuddered at the memory.
“May I help you?“ she asked again.
I had apparently missed her original query, lost in thought as I was. I quickly realized that there were only two choices: make my purchase and leave as quickly as possible, or walk out the door and never, ever come back. If I gambled and won, I'd have my luggage and no one would be the wiser. If I lost…well, it would be eighth grade all over again. As I looked at this radiant beauty, her smile lighting up the store, I felt that familiar sickly dread of junior high welling up inside me. The only thing that kept me from bolting was my poor, aching back.
“Yes,” I replied, “I'm looking for a wheeled garment bag.”
The saleswoman smiled at me.
“We have several excellent models, sir,“ she replied warmly as she strode with feline grace to a rack of luggage, leaving a trail of perfume and clipped vowels in her wake.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
Part of the problem was that Valentine, which I later learned was her name, was an excellent saleswoman. I have never met anyone so knowledgeable about luggage. She knew every manufacturer, she knew every bag and, most devastating to my cause, she knew where everything was in the store. I'd hoped that if I asked enough questions she might be forced to go in the back room for a minute and leave me alone to put my pants back on. Alas, this was not to be. She moved with the cool assurance of a master, ready to handle any question I threw at her. To make matters worse, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was beautiful. She made luggage sales look like the sexiest thing in the world. I watched, mesmerized, as her shapely fingers caressed glistening black nylon. Her silky voice enchanted me with a siren song of aluminum frame construction and lifetime warranties. My reverie was snapped only by the sensation of my jeans sliding down my legs. I realized that I had to regroup and concentrate if I was going to make it out with my dignity intact. I took a deep breath, cleared my mind, and got to work.
I adopted a two-pronged strategy. The first phase, the Hike, was an attempt to hike the pants up to temporarily prevent them from slipping off of my hips and onto the floor. To execute the Hike, I casually hooked a thumb through one of my belt loops and tugged the waist as high as I could get it. I imagined myself doing this contemplatively, as an aristocrat might pull on his sleeve to signal a bid at an auction.
The second phase of my plan, the Cover, was intended to prevent anyone from discovering the Hiking activities that were then taking place. I thrust my non-Hiking hand into the pocket of my long black coat and casually pulled that side of the coat around me. At the same time I pulled my shoulders into my coat to cover more of my front, as if a chill wind had just blown through the store.
I put my plan into action immediately. The resulting exchange would not have looked out of place in a Charlie Chaplin movie. Although I attempted to make it look natural by switching my Hiking and Covering hands, I had to adjust so often that my clothing was constantly in motion. I was a blur of blue denim and black wool.
Valentine: Zis bag has many expandable pockets.Me: Ah. (Left-hand Hike. Right-hand Cover.)
Valentine: Zis makes eet very useful for short trips or long trips.
Me: I see. (Right-hand Hike.)
Valentine: Zis bag also uses rip-stop ballistic nylon and durable polyurezane veels.
Me: (Left-hand Hike.) Polyurethane wheels, huh? (Right-hand Cover. Left-hand Hike.) That’s good. (Right-hand Hike.)
We continued in this manner for several minutes as I tried to focus on the important luggage facts being shot at me, machine gun style, from Valentine's perfect mouth. She gushed over a $300 suit bag made by Travelpro, enumerating its many features while frequently stressing its high-quality American manufacture. She claimed it was the very best bag in the store, second only to a more expensive Italian bag. I nodded appreciatively, not bothering to work out the math. (I’m telling you, she was good.)
I did not have $700 to spend on Italian luggage, so my choice was pretty clear after about five minutes. I couldn’t appear too anxious, though. If I my retreat were too hasty, Valentine might get suspicious and give me the once-over. One well timed glance at my nether regions and I was done for. I was also worried about looking like a cheapskate, even in this time of crisis. I had to examine a few other options and then, after careful consideration, choose the Travelpro not because I couldn’t afford the other bags, which of course I couldn’t, but because I had the Financial Acumen to recognize that it was a great buy.
I poked and prodded at the other bags, rubbing my chin thoughtfully whenever I had a free hand that wasn't busy Hiking or Covering. Valentine helpfully demonstrated every zipper on every bag, and each zzzzzzzzzip! ratcheted up my anxiety level. My pants kept slipping. The store, previously empty, was now nearly full, as if a tour bus of luggage-hungry sightseers had just pulled up. The time had come to make my move. I waited for her to finish talking about the quality of American ball bearings and then, with a thoughtful pause, I said, “You know, I think I'm going go ahead and get the Travelpro.” Her face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
“Oh, zat is an excellent choice, sir!“ she glowed, putting her delicate hand on my arm. The feeling of warmth at her touch was tempered only slightly by the thought of what might happen if she jostled me too forcefully. “Right zis vay sir, and ve'll get you all taken care of.” She pulled my new bag up onto its wheels, thrust the handle at me, and slinked over to the cash register, her pants swishing as she walked.
It was with horror that I realized my next predicament: getting to the counter. My pants were looser than ever, and the motion of walking would surely just speed their escape. My only chance was to walk quickly and use inertia to keep them up. I made it in two fast strides, but I nearly tripped on the way. Safely across the store, I could now lean on the counter to halt the downward progress of my trousers. The trip had frightened me, though; I was clearly losing my concentration. I had to get out of there fast.
Valentine gathered the paperwork needed to ring up my purchase. For some reason, it seemed that everything she needed to complete our transaction was in an extremely low drawer behind the register, which required her to keep bending over suggestively. I tried not to look, but my leaning posture put me in a perfect ogling position. Not wanting to move my legs and risk disaster, I turned my head awkwardly to the right and gazed at a display of backpacks to reassure the others in the store that I wasn't staring. The smirk on the face of the other store employee told me that I wasn't going a very good job. (Why couldn't he have been my salesman?)
Finally Valentine stood up and began to process my credit card. It was taking forever. I prayed that my credit card wouldn’t be rejected. I began to sweat. Finally the machine spit out a receipt, which Valentine offered to me, smiling. I signed it quickly and turned to go, but she wasn't through. She handed me a passel of items and explained each one at length: my credit card, my receipts, the owner's manual, the warranty card. I patiently waited until she was through and then, with as attractive a smile as I could muster, yanked everything out of her hand. Not even bothering to put my credit card back into my wallet, I turned on my heel and hurried out.
“Zank you sir, and have vonderful holiday!” Her accent played in my ears as I wheeled my trophy out of the store.
I stood on the sidewalk outside. It was 150 feet to the car. My hands would be full during the journey, so I wouldn't be able to make any pants adjustments on the way. If they started to slip at all, they were going straight to the ground. I had a horrible vision of myself standing in the middle of the brightly-lit parking lot with my pants around my ankles, surrounded by Valentine and the people from the tour bus, all of them cackling and pointing. I shuddered. This was it. I performed one final Hike, grabbed the suitcase handle, and made a break for it.
I took long strides, keeping my legs perpendicular to the ground for as long as possible. I looked like a football player high-stepping through a series of tires. I was sure Valentine was watching me; I could feel her cool blue eyes burrowing into my back. The parking lot seemed to get longer with every step I took, like that hallway in “The Shining“.
I reached the car (out of breath!) and frantically pressed the unlock button on my car remote (hurry up hurry up!) until the lights flashed and I heard the metallic snick! of the lock. I tore open the trunk (my God, they’re slipping!), threw the suitcase inside (faster, faster!) and tossed in the handful of papers Valentine had given me (no time, just go!). My credit card clattered against the garment bag's wheels.
I slammed the trunk closed (almost there!), whirled around, whipped open the driver's door, and dove for the safety of the cockpit. The darkness was like a tall, cool glass of water. After a long drink I pressed my back against the seat, slid the jeans up to my waist, zipped them up, and fastened the button.
Rapture! I was never so glad to be wearing pants in all my life. Happiness flooded over me. I wanted to sing a song. I wanted to hug someone. I wanted to apologize to Tommy Hilfiger and take back the nasty things I'd said about his questionable parentage. “I was emotional! No hard feelings?“
Most of all, I wanted to go back inside and talk to Valentine. I wanted to tell her about the whole silly situation and explain why I had been acting so strangely. In the end, she'd probably think it was cute. She'd laugh and put her hand on my arm again. She'd find the story charming, like in the movies, and insist on buying me a cup of coffee. But life, as I well know, is not the movies, and I was not about to risk humiliation twice in one evening. I sped out of the parking lot and into the night, my hips snugly ensconced in denim.
EPILOGUE: It turned out that the garment bag was too small, so I couldn't even take it on my trip. I wanted to return it, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back. The bag is still sitting in my closet. I haven’t worn those jeans since that night, and I haven't been back to the store.