Buying Socks
by Nancy Bowker
Don’s
home sick, which he often is. Although twelve
years old, he prefers I stay in the house, at a
great distance, of course. Not that our 1200
square foot house is big enough to admit of great
long distances.
Eventually I
realize I can go to the Footlocker nearby,
instead of Target, which isn’t. My mission:
two pairs of socks for Don. Even though we have
camp shopping coming up, he has no socks at all,
having either outgrown or lost all of them. He
prefers white crew and I carry one of his shoes
so there will be no mistake about sizes.
A six-pack of
crew socks is offered, and at not a bad price- $11.99,
but my friend has just agreed to help me camp-shop,
and I don’t want to undermine her process,
so I decline. The salesman takes me to a bin
where socks can be had, one pair at a time.
“On sale,” he says, “for $1.99 a
pair.” Hmm – 6 for 11.99 and one
for 1.99 – hard to see what the sale is
– a fraction of a cent per pair, I guess.
The bin is big.
The salesman roots around in it and announces
there are no crew socks of the appropriate size.
Don’s size has a red stripe across the
cardboard holding each pair of socks. The
salesman gives up after less than a minute. I say
I will look through the bin. Fifteen minutes
later, I have handled over 100 pairs of socks (they
probably didn’t put any large crew socks in
there in the first place, the stinkers), and none
are crew style. Just in case, I have set aside
two anklets of the right size. I am really sure
he won’t like the “peds” style
that was so popular in my youth.
Proud, but
rushed, since I’ve now been in the store for
over 25 minutes and I have another errand to run
before going home to Don who is alone, I zip to
the sales counter to pay. “Hi,” I say,
handing over to a young Hispanic woman my socks
and my credit card in quick succession. “Four
twenty six,” she announces, studying my
credit card carefully and slowly, and then
turning it over. It is unsigned. (I have a reason
for this.) “May I see your driver’s
license?” she says. Seething but trying to
conceal same, I hand it over. Carefully she
compares the name, and looks at me and then at my
likeness on the license, a couple of times.
“Would you mind signing the card,” she
states, handing back the card and a giant-sized
Sharpie with indelible ink in it. “Sure,”
I say, reaching into my purse for a more normal
pen. I say I prefer my own pen. She says nothing
works but the Sharpie, but I still use my own pen.
By now I am sweating profusely, not out of guilt
but on general principles. Who knew that the
stability of the whole economy of the Western
world rested on my four and something dollar
purchase of two pairs of socks?
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