Black Friday, how absurd, Jacob thought. Sheep following a train of advertisements. Every day was Black Friday for him. He shops as if there are no restraints, often forgets what he already has in his closets, his dresser, his amour, his hope chest, and woolens inside cotton pillowcase, where moths don’t penetrate. He learned that cotton cases were moth proof—-but years too late.
If he loses something, or a pair of pants were too worn for wear, or worse yet, moths or mice ate through fine wool, he starts a search to replace things. Compulsive, obsessed as if it were a matter of urgency, he peruses through a Google search: Ebay, Poshmark, Amazon, Zappos. He searches as if he had lost a part of himself. And it infuriates him that the moths or mice have very good taste, expensive taste. They especially liked his Hugo Boss, or Brooks Brother’s, DNKY–top of the line.
On a Monday morning, a couple of years back, he discovered his favorite Boss black sweater, that fit as if it were tailored for him, often noticed by a stranger passing by, was moth-eaten, He was crazed. The black sweater with the pewter blue stripe down the side, was from the Winter Boss collection 2020. He searched for days on the internet to find a duplicate. It was like looking for a new car in a used car lot.
He was fishing in a barren lake looking for that sweater, casting his pole until he finally surrendered. So, he bought three black sweaters. Each a bust—sending them back, then trying another, and another. Since his twenties, Jacob has been cavalier and willful.
Black Friday, Cyber Monday, online Tuesday, what does it matter? If he wants red shoes, suede shoes, thick-soled, he searches. Or if his feet hurts when he walks to work; he sometimes stops for shoes at a nearby store—tosses the pinching painful pair in a trash can and moves on. He has shoes in a hanging bag, in two African woven baskets, under the Mission chair in his bedroom and a crate in the garden. He only wears, at the most, the same three pairs. He forgets he owns cool shoes.
His mother bought one coat every few years, but he habitually buys a jacket or two every Fall and Winter. Multiple overcoats hang in his closet. Regardless of the temperature, he slips on the same feather weight hooded jacket almost every day.
When November turned into December, surprisingly often, he pondered and regretted his urges and purchases. As Black Friday stretched into Black Saturday, he awoke with a pang. Pensive and uncertain, he twirled the corner of the pale blue sheet like when he was a kid. A few tears quickly moved into sobbing then trembling cries. What are you looking for? It’s not in the store, a small voice whispers. He sat up. I am shopping to cover up my failures, my shame, looking for beauty on the outside-long time, now passing. He wiped his tears and bowed his head like a monk at the alter–feeling, thinking, worrying.
He raised his tender head pondering if the root of his shopping is somehow genetic. His Great Aunt had closets of fine clothes, shopped as a past time. His other Aunt had trunks of clothes shipped home to her when she traveled to Europe. She had enough falls, the hair extensions of the sixties, for four teenagers and ten balding women. His Great Uncle, George was a watch-and-suede shoe man. The difference was, they all were loaded and he wasn’t. He teared up again.
The phone rang. He reached for his cell. “Save me,” a familiar voice on the end of the line. It was his friend, Geurtrude.
“I woke up last night and couldn’t sleep—I opened my phone in the dark.” She went on, “Oh, the clothes online for Nordstrom’s Black Friday. Why am I not rich! I tell you; skirts and exquisite tops are 3000, down to 1800.00. Who can buy those and the jewelry; you know I love jewelry. I kept putting things in my cart and taking them out.”
“I understand.” he sighed. “Believe me.”
“I know you do, so I called. I should be rich” she said.
“You’re not!”
She laughed, “I think my little girl wants to be noticed, or I want an escape. It’s all about creating an image.”
That struck a nerve. “Image, you’re right.” He leaned back on his bed pillows. “You know, Gertrude, I want an old image back. Or maybe my image inside needs help.” He sat up and tapped his head.
She took a shallow breath, “Believe me, I know that one. I have been working on that for years—therapy, workshops, self-talk.”
“So, are you still looking, or just talking to yourself or did you buy something, Gertrude?
“Well both—one sweater, then I closed the App. Progress, is it not?”
“Image!” he said again, “I have so many things, I could create multiple images. I think I will buy some manikins. And dress them. Call it Jacob walks the runway. I could stretch them out down two blocks in front of every house.”
“You’re funny.” Gertrude laughed, “Maybe try them in your hallway first. Start with five.”
“Oh, Gertrude, I missed my true calling–a window dresser or Manican dresser in a department store. It would have been a lot cheaper, and I would have more money in the bank.”
“Well, I am proud of myself.” She crackled on, “I only bought one thing, well actually two.”
“Never enough, or is it, Gertrude?”
“Well, Black Friday isn’t over ‘til it’s over—they stretched it out until Monday, you know.”
They disconnected the line. He savored the conversation, stored in the Cloud, still pulsing and penetrating inside him.
Andrew Pelfini writes in multiple genres and has been part of the Intergenerational Writers goup based in San Francisco for over twenty years. He compiled and published an anthology of their works. Andrew enjoys the craft of writing, the inspiration that comes from it and recieving valuable feedback.
