No-Cost Seamstress

I had ripped my pants and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to keep wearing the garment on my legs, but because the material was so silky smooth, I didn’t think a repair was possible. Past experience had taught me that the silkier the garment, the less likely it was that it could be fixed. But damn it, I had to try.

I went to my dry cleaner and asked if they did repairs. They said they did not. BUT they gave me the name of a seamstress named Mrs. Dayko who worked on my town's main street and said, "If anyone can fix it, she can!” Hearing that made me feel as energized as a character in an eighties movie montage. I headed off to find my seamstress.

I quickly located Mrs. Dayko’s alteration shop. It was two floors, and it felt more like a residence than a business. I wandered in through the entrance and around the first floor, which was covered with mannequins and dress dummies with partially-sewn outfits on them. This seemed like the real deal! (but keep in mind, I know diddlysquat about seamstresses).

I called upstairs and a woman’s voice called back, and though her response had a pleasant tone, it wasn’t a word I understood. Mrs. Dayko descended and saw me holding my ripped pants. I immediately started unloading on her.

“I don’t know if you can fix these,” I said. “There’s like, some kind of inner lining that’s also ripped. It looks like it started at the seam but it went a little outside of it. I wear these about once a week and I really don’t want to find another pair. The dry cleaner down the road gave me your name. So how does it work - do I leave them here? Do you need to measure my inseam or something? Is there a price list?”

Mrs. Dayko said something incomprehensible to me, and only then did I realize that the woman didn’t speak English, so I’d wasted all my pants-related concern on her. I think she was asking me a question, so I reverted to pure visuals and just held up my pants, pointing to the rip.

“Ah,” she said, taking the pants from me.

Mrs. Dayko went upstairs to what is presumably her workshop. Machine started whirring up there, and there was buzzing and that cool metal sound that scissors make. “She’s probably giving me that rare ‘Old World Craftsmanship’!” I thought. But then I realized that we hadn’t talked about a price. That seemed weird. What if she was super expensive? Old World Craftsmanship probably doesn’t come cheap. Uh oh.

I heard footsteps and there was Mrs. Dayko on the steps - carrying my newly-repaired favorite pants! I was so happy!

“So, how much do I owe you?” I asked. I pulled out my wallet to help convey the idea that I wanted to pay her with dollars.

“Thanks!” I said, inspecting them. They were as good as the day I bought them. “They look great!”

Mrs. Dayko smiled and said more words that I couldn’t understand. She was surely viewing me the same way.

“So, how much do I owe you?” I asked. I pulled out my wallet to help convey the idea that I wanted to pay her with dollars.

Mrs. Dayko looked confused. “Wha?” she asked. “Oh no no no.” She pointed to the clock and said something that I think meant, “It only took one minute.” I could probably get a job as a linguist.

“I have to pay you,” I said. “You fixed them!” I held up my pants to show her, as if she somehow forgot about her own repair work from a minute ago.

Mrs. Dayko shook her head again. “No no no,” she said, moving away from me and beginning her next project.

This seemed pretty crazy. The woman runs a sewing shop. She’s paying rent in the building. Probably utilities too (unless they’re covered in her lease agreement). Doesn’t it follow that she’d want to be compensated for her work?

Apparently not, because she left me and went back upstairs. I called up and thanked her again, and she made some sound in response before leaving.

And that’s the tale of how I got my favorite pants repaired at no cost to me. Every time I wear those suckers, I think of Mrs. Dayko and her magical, free sewing work. Was she even real at all…?

Particle Board Hater

After retrieving a package from my town’s post office - one that had been too large to cram into my mailslot - I passed an interesting looking furniture store. It was obviously not a chain store, but from the window I could see they had a fairly good quality selection. I had been in the market for an end table, so I entered.

Though the store took up two floors and had an immense array of furniture, I couldn’t immediately locate an employee. What I did see were the many placards spread around the store’s inventory, all proudly declaring: “ABSOLUTELY NO PARTICLE BOARD.” They were professionally printed, actually etched into plastic, but the small signs still had a crackpot sensibility about them. Under the text, an attempt had been made to reinforce the message with the circle/slash “no” symbol, but since there was no ready-made icon that represented particle board, the sign maker had just used the words “Particle Board” again, circle/slashed in red. It was a rather fanatical graphic treatment, I felt.

Eventually an elderly man approached from the rear office, obviously the owner and most likely the store’s sole employee. I told him of my end table quest, and he ushered me upstairs. As he was describing the benefits of a particular model, I saw that the bureau next to that item had the “NO PARTICLE BOARD” signage. Wanting to see his reaction, I gushed, “You have some really nice furniture here.” He smiled. “And what I like about it is, you don’t have that cheap…what is it? Particle board – you don’t have any of that particle board furniture a lot of the stores seem to carry now.” I expected I’d get a slight rise out of him, but it took a few moments before he even reacted.

“I been here thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years in this store.” (wow) “I seen other stores come and go. They sell crap. I SELL NO PARTICLE BOARD!!!”

The old man took a stoic stance. He clasped his hands, straightened his neck. Behind his spectacles, his eyes focused beyond the room itself. His tone was calm and unwavering as he delivered his speech.

“I been here thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years in this store.” (wow) “I seen other stores come and go. They sell crap. I SELL NO PARTICLE BOARD!!! They sell you a dresser, a bookshelf - you can punch your hand through the back. EVERYTHING IN MY STORE IS OAK, PINE, MAPLE – REAL WOOD FROM TREES!!! NOT PARTICLE BOARD!! I sell you a shelf, you have it for whole life. Then your kids have it. THEY SELL YOU SOMETHING, YOU’RE LUCKY IF YOU GET IT HOME FROM THE STORE WITHOUT BREAKING. My customers are loyal. They know quality. They know you pay for quality.” He paused before the final reiteration. “I DO NOT SELL PARTICLE BOARD!!!”

The old man was beet red at this point, and I feared my comments might have induced cardiac arrest. He was sated, though; sated and proud. I agreed – “Yes, yes, those people are bad people, with the particle board and all.” I then quickly excused myself, told him I’d be sure to return with my car, to purchase the end table, and then escaped onto the street.

A few months later I purchased two glass end tables at a less extreme store – one that did not seem to take any such radical stances on furniture materials.

Bookstore Nuzzling

I find I’m often mistaken for someone else, and I don’t really know why. I don’t think I look overly distinctive or overly bland. Maybe that’s just it - I’m in the middle somewhere. But the middle is a dangerous place to be.

Like the time I was in a bookstore, just perusing magazines. This particular bookstore has their periodicals on racks that cover one long wall, with benches semi-conveniently located behind each rack. “Semi” because it’s nice to grab a magazine and then sit right down to read it, but while you’re looking, the benches can make things a little crowded.

That’s what I was thinking about when, still browsing the racks, I felt a light touch in the center of my back. “Oh,” I thought, “someone must be walking behind me and they accidentally brushed against me.” I kept browsing.

Then I felt it again. It was more persistent this time, and - I had to admit to myself - it was a nose. The tip of a nose, gently burrowing into my back. I stepped forward as much as I could, but the nose moved with me. This seemed wrong.

I took another furtive glance at the couple. The woman was pointing at me and her bulky male companion was looking my way. She looked worried, and he looked angry and increasingly menacing by the second.

My next thought was, “This must be one of my friends messing with me.” But this was disproven when I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small woman, her head down, basically using my torso as her headrest. I stepped off to the side and lost her. If she was hitting on me, it seemed very forward - especially since the bookstore had a café. Couldn’t she just ask me if I wanted to get a cup of coffee?

I grabbed a magazine and took a few steps back behind the benches. I saw the woman again, but now she was standing next to a guy who looked like me - except he had many more muscles, and they were bulging. Then I realized - this guy (obviously the woman’s boyfriend or husband) was wearing a grey baseball cap, black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers - and I was wearing the same outfit. We both also had black hair and were about the same height. Uh oh.

I took another furtive glance at the couple. The woman was pointing at me and her bulky male companion was looking my way. Her lips were moving quickly. She looked worried, and he looked angry and increasingly more menacing by the second. And he seemed to be balling up his fists. “That's what people do before they punch you,” I thought wisely.

I don’t need a robot screaming “danger” followed by my full name to know when trouble is afoot. I vamoosed. Hightailed it. Took off. Skeedaddled. The last thing I need on my permanent record is a bookstore beating - especially if it comes from my musclebound double.

Jae the Cop

I was walking through a large tech store in Philadelphia, waiting to meet a friend for an impromptu lunch. I had my laptop in a case under one arm, and while I was standing near the front of the store looking for my friend, someone came up behind me and grabbed it, playfully pulling it away from me. My weird-o-meter immediately began going off.

I turned around, and saw something unexpected: a smiling police officer tugging at my arm and laptop case. He wasn't a store security guard but an actual city cop with a gun and everything. His nametag read “Jhai” and he looked at me and said, “Sal! How are you DOOOIIING?!” He was super happy to see me, which made me feel that much worse because I didn’t recognize the guy at all.

Even though I didn’t know this cop, I quickly remembered that twenty years earlier I had an acquaintance named Jae who’d joined the police force. It was all my brain could think of to connect the two things, so I said, “Hey - Jae, how are you?”

It wasn’t Jae, though it took me a few more seconds to make that realization. And by the time I figured out that this cop believed that I was someone else, I expected that he’d come to the same conclusion that I did - but that didn’t happen. Even after hearing my voice and seeing me animated from multiple angles, he kept thinking I was his old buddy Sal.

“Remember me from the hotel?” Jhai asked. I nodded and said “Oh yeah,” quickly adopting a weak Philly accent.

“Are you still the manager there?” Jhai asked. I smiled and mumbled something that sounded halfway between agreement and denial. I didn’t want to get caught in a lie - and plus, I really didn’t want to disappoint this guy. He was so happy to see Sal again after what felt like too long.

He kept looking me over, like, “I can’t believe it’s you after all these years!” What was I going to do - burst his bubble? Sal would never do that.

Now, I had just watched “The Talented Mister Ripley” a few weeks earlier, so maybe I was primed for this, but I kept up the charade for a good ten minutes. I asked Jhai how he'd been, how long it had been since we’d seen each other, what was new with him - that kind of thing. I almost asked him if he’d become a cop since I last saw him, but I stopped myself because it seemed like one of those questions that Tom Ripley might ask once he was feeling super confident, only to give himself away. Surely Jhai had been a cop back when we used to see each other. “We probably used to chat while he was walking his beat,” I thought, feeling like a highly-skilled profiler.

This went on a little longer, with Jhai giggling and smiling the whole time. He never suspected I wasn’t Sal. And he was really excited to see his old pal - they must have been close for a while, and Jhai missed seeing him. He kept looking me over, like, “I can’t believe it’s you after all these years!” What was I going to do - burst his bubble? Sal would never do that. Besides - he was a cop who had grabbed a civilian while he was on the job. People had seen us and were now watching our emotional reunion. It felt too dangerous to break the spell and tell Jhai the truth. He probably would have cuffed me and taken me down to his precinct or whatever it is city cops do to impersonators of their old acquaintances.

Eventually I looked at my phone and said I had to meet a friend (the truth). I told Jhai how great it was to see him again and said I’d try to stop back at the store sometime soon. Maybe I will - just to mess with him.

American Meat Deli Guy

One time, I went to a convenience store and I ordered my normal hoagie - american & provolone cheese, mayo, mustard, salt, pepper, lettuce. They took the order on a check-style sheet, so they check off what you want, you go shop, pay, then pick up. I got iced tea, paid, returned to counter. The tough guy 19-year-old kid Ray handed me a sandwich - sometimes you have to pick them up, sitting there (usually) with the yellow copy of your sheet taped on, to verify it’s yours. But he saw me, handed it to me. I went home, unwrapped...meat.

So, I took it back, walked to the head of the line, and in a nice way said, “Hi. You gave me the wrong sandwich.” I could have said, and considered saying, “I think you gave me the wrong sandwich” but decided on the way that was needlesssly wimpy and might cause confusion.

His response? “You probably took the wrong sandwich.”

Me, less nice: “No, you handed it to me. You put it right in my hand.”

Him: “Hold on.”

He made two sandwiches, I was watching him, because I figured if he made mine he’d spit in it. He was eyeing me, the line was very long now. He was whispering things to his co-sandwich-maker, then they’d smile.

So he gets to me, opens the sandwich, and says, “What did you get?”. I repeat everything. He’s verifying it in the sandwich, trying to prove me wrong.

“Oh, yeah that’s the confusing part. I thought you meant American MEAT and provolone. That’s what I thought you said.”

I said, “no meat. Just cheese.”

“What kind of cheese?” he asked.

“American and provolone.” I replied.

“Oh, yeah that’s the confusing part. I thought you meant (pretending he remembered this event, though it happened five minutes before, literally, he couldn’t even remember me when I walked in...but he now remembered his thoughts in making the sandwich) American MEAT and provolone. That’s what I thought you said.”

Now I was pissed off, talking louder while about fifteen people in line were listening, probably not happy I cut to the front.

“Really? I don’t think so, because I said, “American and Provolone” and you asked, ‘Both?’ And you checked off two boxes in the ‘cheese’ section, nothing in ‘meat’. Also, I’ve never heard of anything called ‘American Meat’, and you put tomatoes on that hoagie, too, which I didn’t ask for.”

He was really glaring at me now. He just said, “Okay. I’ll make it now.” So I watched very closely as he remade my sandwich, thanked him, cut to the front of the counter line and said to the cashier, “I already paid for this - they had to re-make it because they made it wrong.” He said, “wait a second.” Rung up the next guy, and either wanted me to keep waiting or forgot about me, though I was in front of him.

So I walked out, he called to me, said he wanted me to wait. People were looking at me as if I was a sandwich thief now, though one who foolishly pointed out he was stealing a sandwich to the cashier and waited before running.

I kept walking out, he said, “I just have to make sure you paid already.” I called behind me, still walking, “Ask Ray then.” And left. He started to walk out from behind the counter, but because he was the only one there, stopped, and was asking Ray something as I left. That’s it.

I have needless problems with people in customer service positions these days.

The Old Country

In my house, we have a tradition of ordering pizza on Friday nights. It just makes life easier after a long week. There’s one pizza place a few minutes away that we usually order from. Most of the time we have it delivered, but this one time I had a couple errands to run before dinner, so I wound up going into the pizza place to pick up the order.

But I wound up getting there early and our pizza wasn’t ready yet. I was the only customer in the shop, so the owner – who’s from Italy, and who knows my last name from our phone orders – he started talking to me about the fact that I’m one hundred percent Italian. He asked, “You ever been there?”

I said “The Old Country”, which is something you’d hear first-generation immigrants say when they were referring to a land they recently emigrated from. Not me, talking about a place I’d never been – and using the term on a guy who’d lived there for all of his life until recently.

I wasn’t totally sure if “there” meant “Italy,” so I was about ask him, “Do you mean ‘Italy’?” But I suddenly felt ashamed that I was in my forties and had never been to the one country all my ancestors came from. At that moment, it didn’t feel right to say the word “Italy” - it would have been too obvious. It’s like when people live close to a city like New York but they never say, “I’m going to New York today!” That would be way too on the nose. Instead, they sidestep the proper name of the place and say, “I’m going to the city” which sounds much hipper.

So all this was running through my head, when I second-guessed myself at the last second and said, “You mean... the Old Country?” I said “The Old Country”, which is something you’d hear first-generation immigrants say when they were referring to a land they recently emigrated from. Not me, talking about a place I’d never been – and using the term on a guy who’d lived there for all of his life until recently.

I felt instant regret. The pizza shop owner gave me look of pity and said, “...yeah... ‘The Old Country’.” I knew he’d lost all respect for me. I could tell he was saying it in quotes.

It took a lot of deliveries to dilute that faux pax enough so that I could show my face in there again.

Artistic Dry Cleaner

The interaction most people seem to have with their dry cleaner is typically very direct and simple: the customer brings in articles of clothing that need laundering, the dry cleaner works his magic, the customer returns a few days later, the dry cleaner locates the apparel on the automated hanger-train device, customer pays and the shirts, pants and socks are ready to be donned. For six years, this was the relationship I had with my dry cleaner, and it pleased me.

Then with no warning, something changed. I went in to pick up some dress shirts and slacks, and noticed three pieces of art sitting on wood paneled walls that previously held only a Chinese calendar. Each piece of art was an extremely realistic pastel rendering. Two images were of Steve McQueen – both in color, showing his rugged face from only slightly different angles. One of the two renderings displayed his name and the somewhat awkward tagline “The Man Who Knew No Danger”. The third face was a black and white charcoal portrait what seemed to be a Chinese Kung Fu master, with an aggressive expression on display. Though the draftsmanship was incredible, the art was mounted in cheap cardboard frames, and rather than being hung, each piece was lazily leaned on an overhead shelf.

I had to get more information on this curiosity, so as I was paying, I mentioned to the owner, “I see the new art.” He responded, “Ah, yes.” His grasp of English was not excellent, so I pursued the subject a bit more.

“Where…where did you get the drawings from?” I gestured to the McQueen/Kung Fu Guy pieces.

“Ah…from me. I do.” He looked up for the first time, shyly.

“Oh – oh you drew them?” I was truly surprised and impressed.

“Yes!” was his childlike reply.

“I am an artist, too, and I really like them. I draw pictures as well.” I tried to hit upon the right combination of words that might help him understand my meaning.

“Ohhhh… oh you are artist?!” My dry cleaner was clearly delighted.

“Yes. Yes I am,” I reiterated.

“You like?!” he asked eagerly. “Very much,” I said. We were bonding – customer and dry cleaner, but more significantly at this moment – mutual lovers of art.

He hastily put down the pen he was using to write up my order and told me “Wait two second!”, then rushed to the back of the store. When he returned, the man was carrying a large portfolio, its pages overflowing with loose sketches. Luckily it was slow in the store that day, because he proceeded to show me every painting, drawing, and sculpture he’d done in Hong Kong, before moving to the United States in the early 1980’s. It turned out my dry cleaner, whose name I never managed to discover, was a well respected artist and teacher – there were several newspaper articles featuring a younger, mustachioed version of the man in front of his many students. Though it took fifteen or so minutes to view all the art, and though he hovered over me the entire time, monitoring my expression intently, I enjoyed seeing his work and learning of his talent.

“You like?!” he asked eagerly. “Very much,” I said. We were bonding – customer and dry cleaner, but more significantly at this moment – mutual lovers of art.

Seeing the wealth of work he’d produced more than twenty years before, I asked, “Do you still do…art? Draw, paint?”

“Just starting again,” he said. “No time before now. Now I do.”

This made little sense. I’d been coming to the store for six years, maybe once every week or two, and any time I’d arrived when he wasn’t standing at the counter helping a customer, he’d been sitting at his lonely desk at the side of the room, listening to the radio, staring blankly toward the front of the store. Couldn’t he have been drawing then? Come to think of it, isn’t a job like that, where 80% of your day is spent sitting around doing nothing ideal for pursuing an avocation like art? Why didn’t he stick an small art table off to the side, so he could work on some new pieces for his McQueen series during the work day? I had many questions, but didn’t feel it would be helpful to ask them.

Instead, I merely offered, “Well, I hope to see more of your work.” My dry cleaner took my payment and handed me my clothing.

“Oh yes – now, yes!” I was pleased that this man, who was certainly skilled in his art, was once again going to have the opportunity to follow his muse. Good for him, I thought. Good for dry cleaner. I suggested he have a good day, and walked out of the establishment. He was still beaming, viewing his own work, and I supposed, looking forward to getting back to the easel.

I returned to the store maybe twenty more times in the next six months. The first visit after our discussion, I boldly asked, “So have you done any more art?” He frowned at my question. “No, no yet.” The next time I asked again, more casually. He only uttered, “No time. Hard to find time.” I felt like I was making this man sad, and though I did not want to do that, I had to wonder if he needed lessons in time management. As far as I could tell, he was still spending ten hour days at his store, with ample time available for drawing. What was his problem? Did he need another macho male action star, possibly one not deceased, to inspire his vision? Should I run to the video store around the corner and rent him some Vin Diesel films? Would that help?

The subject seemed to be closed, and I never inquired again. Eventually I moved a few towns away and had to abandon that particular store. When I picked up my last dry cleaning order, I took a last glance at the unintentional triptych, now gathering cobwebs. I hope my former dry cleaner eventually found his muse.

Bitter Convenience Store Cashier

My wife Sharon and I walked into a convenience store one wintry day, in search of a snow shovel. Convenience stores are the ideal place to buy snow shovels, especially when you don’t own a snow shovel, a humongo blizzard is predicted late on a Saturday night, and you live in an apartment complex that does a crappy job of plowing the parking lots.

We picked up a few sundries, as well as a small plastic shovel for $8.99, and walked to the counter. Sharon volunteered to pay for our items, which was nice. A haggard woman with a sour expression scanned our items with something less than glee. Looking to lighten the situation, I said to the woman, “The lady will be paying.”

She was not attempting to be funny. In fact, she didn’t seem to even be speaking just to us – it was more a statement she issued to the universe in general.

Her dismal response to us hinted at a lifetime of misery. “Be careful honey. We spend our whole lives paying. We pay…and pay…and pay…” She was not attempting to be funny. In fact, she didn’t seem to even be speaking just to us – it was more a statement she issued to the universe in general.

We took our bags and scurried out, spooked from the experience. Future home maintenance items were purchased from a home improvement store, to avoid further such incidents.

Cigarette Flicker

I joined my friend, who also has the good fortune to be named Steve, and a group of his friends at a pub in Philadelphia one rainy Saturday evening. The six of us were seated in a dimly lit booth near the crowded bar area.

As we all sat and talked, I noticed that one of the guys, Rick, would occasionally stare at a spot above my head. His eyes would dart between the person in our group who was speaking, and then back to my head, or more accurately, eighteen inches above it. This occurred several times before I became sure it wasn’t my imagination. I asked Rick if there was something wrong with my head.

“No man…no I just saw something. Listen to me though – don’t move. Just sit there a second.” Then he said to our mutual friend Steve, “Check this out… every time… watch…” – the words were unclear to me as Rick described, in whispers, the situation going on above my head. Then Steve saw what Rick had been explaining, and his eyes widened.

Calmly he said to me, “Don’t move, Steve – just stay there, don’t turn around.” I did as I was told. At this point, everyone in the booth was monitoring the scene.

Steve waited a few seconds more. His eyes were following something behind me, moving slowly. Then he stood. I could not hold in my curiosity, so I turned.

With a lilting tone, so as not to alarm the guy, Steve asked him, “Hey man… ha ha… did I just see you… flicking your cigarette in my friend’s hair?” Steve attempted to keep the tone light, but it was awkward at best.

My friend Steve was confronting a swarthy man who did not seem to speak in our tongue. The guy was holding a cigarette, and smiled generously.

With a lilting tone, so as not to alarm the guy, Steve asked him, “Hey man… ha ha… did I just see you… flicking your cigarette in my friend’s hair?” Steve attempted to keep the tone light, but it was awkward at best. I reached up, felt my head, and indeed the man had been amusing himself by creating an ash pile atop my cranium.

Steve pursued it further, but the man did not acquiesce. He laughed a little, spoke some words in another language, continued to take drags from his cigarette, all the while not appearing threatened or remorseful.

Feeling that the man would not continue this activity now that he had been spotted and confronted, Steve sat down and held his gaze on the flicker. While I continued to wipe my hair clean of ashes with whatever napkins were handy, my antagonist exited the establishment. The guys advised that he was most likely not completely stable, and it was best to not pursue him. I agreed. We went back to our conversation.

Twenty minutes later, we heard the sirens. Looking out of the pub, we saw a bloody heap on the sidewalk in front of a bar a few hundred feet down the block. It was the same man who had made me his personal ashtray. Apparently he’d moved on to the next alcohol-serving venue down the block and got himself into an altercation. He wasn’t dead but he also wasn’t conscious. Someone head beaten the poop out of him.

I felt somewhat vindicated. I believe he learned his lesson: cigarette flicking can be hazardous to your health.