But last Friday night, I made a fatal mistake. I emerged from the subway on a Manhattan work errand and encountered Temptation #1: the shiny windows and well-lit, overstuffed racks of H&M. 20-something girls drifted blank-faced through rows of miniskirts and halters like the legions of the damned, and all I could think was: well! How convenient! I'll just run right in there and run right out. All need is a sundress and a skinny black belt. Two things. Two simple things. I would not eat the six pomegranate seeds, I would not turn into a pillar of salt. I would get 2 things and get out of there quick.
An hour later I was buried in the dressing room, surrounded by the carnage of my greed. Every item almost right but still just plain wrong, like the white drapey dress-t-shirt thing that could have passed for a sundress but was so see-through with even two layers of fabric that I would've had to wear a tank top underneath and gotten all sweaty and gross, and what's the fun in paying for $25 for that? The size 12 shirtwaist dresses looked skimpy and strained, the size 8 shorts actually fit (triumph!) but were too short to wear in public. But I tried, oh I tried, in my compulsive gotta-make-sure-I-get-it-all-
Right. I had to stop. Leave. Go. Get out of there before I turned around and turned into a pillar of tissue-weight t-shirts. But I'd spent all this time trying on all these clothes. I'd give them to the cashier. Have her hold them. Come back later in case I wanted them. Yes. But there was that line. That endless line...
So then I did a very bad thing. No, I didn't shoplift. I shop-hid. I stuffed the clothes in a corner, under a rack, so nobody could see them and take my shit, so that I could come back for it if I wanted. But I didn't. I left and I never came back. And thanks to me an underpaid employee, at the end of her very long, very bad day, had to bend her aching back and scoop up those clothes cause some dumbass just left them right there, on the FLOOR.
(In my defense, I will note that I put all the clothes I'd tried on and rejected back on their hangers as requested by the dressing room attendant, which I heard some other shoppers refusing to do because "at $7.25 an hour they get paid to do that." Still. That doesn't excuse me, I know. If I ever set foot in that store again I'll do a helpful deed. I swear.)
But that night, I spit out the seeds of temptation, turned my sorry tail, and ran. Left the 7th circle of retail Hell and marched to my initial destination: up the big stone steps of the Penn Station post office (the one that used to be open all night but due to budget cuts is now open till 10pm), constructed when post offices and banks were designed to inspire reverence, with 20-foot curved ceilings, stone detailing, and vast open spaces. I felt immediate relief at the quiet, the reversed ratio of space to people and stuff. But the line was absurdly, ridiculously, ire-inducing long.
So I left and got a Frappucino. Which has calories and solves nothing, I know. But it was so hot, and Starbucks was right there. And the baristas were friendly, even happy, it seemed, which reminded me that my mood was not one shared by the entire city of New York, but particular to my specific attitude and circumstances, a fact I tried to remember as I re-emerged, cooled and caffeinated, back into the humid night, back into the cool post office cathedral, through the (merciful Jesus!) shortened line, into the labyrinth of Penn Station, on the A train, finally, back to Crown Heights.
What a comfort to feel the cooler air, to see my corner Papaya Dog, and the Fulton Street Carib Grocery still open, with its rows of mangoes and plantains out front, and inside, stacks of salt fish, and coconut water, Anna's wafers, good chocolate, cans of Bustelo. And there, perfect timing, the B44 bus. A free transfer, air conditioning, a moment to sit. I missed my stop and scrambled up to get off at the next, dropping my copy of Leaves of Grass. "Your book!" yelled the big woman drinking a 40, with the urgency of one who's lost something that matters. I thanked her and stepped onto the sidewalk.
What was that singing? A church service? No, across the street: a woman in a long sundress and a rasta hat swayed, facing the doorway of a bright, narrow shop. It had to be close to midnight by now. Time to cut my losses, get myself home. But this woman was singing. I crossed the street.
She was younger than I'd expected, round-faced, pretty, eyes closed, a thick ankh bracelet on her right wrist. The lyrics were hard to understand, but I could make out "I and I" and "rastafari" and "hot fire burning". She felt me approach and opened an eye. It's not wise to close your eyes on this street. I pretended to be checking out the sidewalk sale of Nag Champa, but next thing I knew she had stepped away from the doorway and I there was inside the store: a tiny place hung with black Bob Marley Beefy-Ts, plastic beads, giant earrings - Carribbean tchotchkes, made in China, no doubt. But at least this place felt more like a living room than Hades, with a fan blowing and there along the wall, a teenage boy asleep on a sofa. Next to him were some long batik skirts, two tops, two sundresses. One pink, one black with splashy blue flowers. Thin straps, a gathered elastic back. Blue rick-rack trim up and down the front.
The woman, who hadn't stopped singing since I entered, paused for a moment, looked up at me. "That dress is ten dollars," she said. I smiled.
Three bracelets and one pair of fat earrings later, she gave me six dollars back for my 20. She advised me on the earring choice (the blue plastic rectangles bring out the dress), introduced herself, asked my name. The store is hers and has been for 6 years. Her parents are Jamaican, but she grew up partly in Europe, partly in Toronto. She was a street vendor before she opened her shop and still makes denim and cordurory skirts in the fall. She sells some handmade jewelry, wants to get more. The sleeping boy was her son.
As she was putting my dress into my bag, she saw a stain on it I hadn't noticed. "What's that?" she said, no attempt to hide it, then tried to clean it off. "That's the higher law working," she said. "Cause some people would see it and just stuff it in the bag."
As a stuffer-in-the-corner of tried-on clothes, was I worthy of her integrity? No. But sometimes grace happens, and it's not about whether or not we deserve it. I thanked her and asked her about the song. "Oh, it's not a song, it's a liturgical chant." From a Rastafarian church. About the purification of the soul, she explained. And inner discipline. I remembered the dark lure of H&M and wanted to ask if she'd teach it to me. But I could feel it was not the right thing to ask. And here was a customer. Time, now, to go.
As she turned to help a tall black guy with short locks, she stopped, looked me in the eye, and said, "Good to meet you". Pressed my hand. Thanked me. Said my name.
I walked home with my new treasures, singing inside.
