The Only Customer

BY MICHELE HERMAN |

Walking along Fourteenth Street
I came upon a rare new clothing store.
Billy Joel’s bouncy mock-doo-wop
“For the Longest Time” played
invitingly. A male employee, I’m
guessing the owner, greeted me
warmly and explained the M.O.: nothing
over forty bucks. A smart salesman,
he took one look at me and said
we don’t have a petite section
but look around — they’re sprinkled
through the store.

I keep sewing up tiny holes
in my current crop of cotton tops;
the fibers are so flimsy now, the knits
so thin. I wanted to fall in love with one
of his tops. I so wanted my needs and his
to match. But the clothes were shapeless
drapy synthetic knits good for a season
or two, the kind that catch on every hangnail.
I roamed the store trying to find something
I liked at least a little, and almost apologized
when I walked out as the song’s last chords
faded. I give the store a year, tops.

Before it moved to Herald Square and traded
itself up into the world’s biggest store,
Macy’s occupied a skinny building a few doors
down from this store; until recently,
when it got covered over with one too many
coats of paint, you could still see the ghost
of the name above the entry, complete
with the star that represented Rowland
Hussey Macy’s tattoo, circa 1858.

A mile up the avenue, Macy’s is now a ghost
of its former self, stocked with limited selections
of shiny things for status-hungry tourists.
I remember real stores packed with goods,
cardboard boxes in the back with all
the odd sizes, knowledgeable women
with glasses hanging from a chain
on their chest, finding the items
people needed. I’d cry but you can’t find
a handkerchief for sale in this town anymore.