Last October, I needed shirts, so I went to the department store in the shopping mall ten minutes away. It was the middle of the morning, always the best time to shop—fewer people, fewer parking spots taken, and a nice work-break. I parked my car and entered the mall, going from the clear autumn day to the always-same, slightly used air inside and the ever-on music hovering overhead. My shoes echoed in the corridor of a mall that was once the hub of local civilization but now lay on the far fringes of interest, even for the young people. I passed the center circle with its heavy vinyl chairs ringing Starbucks and walked down the hallway into the men’s department on the other side.
There are three sections in menswear covering both sides of the center aisle. The first section held casual shirts and casual pants. For the most part, pants were on the left, shirts on the right, a.k.a., browns and blacks on the left, plaids and bright colors on the right. The next section had less casual clothes on the left and dress shirts, pants, and jackets on the right, also neckties and suits. In the third and last section, kitchenware was on the left and bedding on the right—an odd way to end the tour of men’s clothes, but perhaps it was done to make women walk through menswear so they would buy something the hubby or boyfriend would never get on his own.
Anyway, at the edge of the men’s dressy section the solid wood checkout station stood like the quarterdeck of a man-of-war. Behind it, surveying all that lay before him, stood a tall man with skin the color of roasted pecans and glossy black hair. He looked about fifty, from Southeast Asia, India maybe or Sri Lanka. Well dressed, gray suit, conservative tie and a white shirt. He stood erect, hands clasped behind him in a stance of pride and dignity.
I think he was a professional in his native country, a doctor perhaps, or a soldier, maybe a high-level government worker. But here in this country, he was just a salesclerk in a small department store in a small city. Here his dignity did not serve him well. Instead, it held him aloof and kept him from waiting on his customers and being concerned with their needs.
He spoke when spoken to. Otherwise, he stood silent and straight behind his counter gazing into the distance beyond menswear — across the aisle to boyswear and beyond, maybe even to India and the city where he had been a respected professional. The grief for all he had lost and the humiliation of his fallen status must have been like a boil inside him, a boil rubbed raw every time he was questioned by the hoi polloi or treated with disrespect.
I’ve only been back in that store twice since that day, once two months later and the second time three months after that. The man was still at his post the first time, still erect, still looking straight ahead. He was not there the next time. I hope he found a job more suitable to his background, but I fear he either may have been let go or he stalked off after a confrontation with an irate customer.
America is not always the land of the right opportunity.