I was born without the shopping gene: my idea of hell includes shopping in all its manifestations, including browsing, window shopping and hanging out at the mall. For someone like me the Internet has been a godsend, but I have never been able to satisfactorily buy clothes on-line so about once a year I go to the mall, and when I do I know exactly what I want, I buy it quickly and then I leave. I am the definition of a “mission shopper.”
When I made my annual pilgrimage to Galleria last week my shopping list was limited: white underwear and black socks, and I followed my usual ritual: I parked in my favorite spot on the upper deck of the parking garage and took a short escalator ride to the men’s department where my favorite underwear and my usual socks are displayed next to each other. As I tend to do, I selected lots of underwear and lots of socks, enough to last me for several years, and I went to check out.
On this particular day the stars must have been in an unholy alignment. Maybe it was because it was the end of the month and I still had money in my checking account. Maybe it was because the store was virtually empty and they had some really good sales. Perhaps it was because a good friend had recently pointed out that most of my clothing is tattered and torn. Whatever the reason, today I felt like shopping.
On my way to the check-out counter I saw that khaki pants were on sale, as were Oxford shirts, both of which are staples of what I optimistically call my “wardrobe.” Also on sale were cargo shorts, which is what I wear 90% of the time when I’m not wearing gym shorts, which were also on sale, along with my favorite style of t-shirts. Feeling like a gambler let loose in Las Vegas I kept trying on clothing and everything fit. Soon I had attracted the attention of an officious little clerk who kept trying to upsell me by making inappropriate sartorial suggestions (“A pocket square?” “How about a thong?”) which so irritated me that I decided to call it a day.
At the counter the clerk was happily sorting my purchases, removing the anti-theft tags and asking me for the umpteenth time if I didn’t want to open a store account. Then he said, “Are you a visitor? Visitors get an additional 10% off.”
That got my attention: I will jump through hoops of fire for an additional 10% off. Never missing a beat I said, “Yes, I’m a visitor. I’m from New Jersey.” I am ashamed to admit that in a misplaced attempt at authenticity I actually said “Noo Joisey.”
The clerk brightened. “Just show me your driver’s license,” he said.
“It’s at the hotel,” I lied and he shook his head sadly. “Sorry,” he said, “the extra 10% is only for people who can prove they live out of state.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “You’re not a visitor,” he said acutely. “You just want the extra 10% off.”
Now I was annoyed. This was discrimination, pure and simple. Most merchants in the middle of summer try to reward local residents, not piss them off. I fought for my additional 10%, getting so far as the department manager, a tactless man to hold a position of such authority, who condescendingly explained that “We take good care of visitors here; tourists are the lifeblood of our economy.”
“Look around,” I told him. “Do you see any tourists here?”
Fighting to defend a stupid policy may work in Washington, but not at Galleria, and just like that my stars came out of alignment. A moment later when the manager told me I could take it or leave it I decided to leave it.