Because I’ve written about my summer as a fry-guy and my job grilling burgers, I thought I’d continue the theme. Does anyone else have any interesting reminiscences about a summer job?
Around the time I was in first year, I landed my first non-food-related job. I somehow found myself selling clothes at Tip Top Tailors — a conservative men’s shop. In addition to casual clothing, Tip Top sells suits, and its employees had to dress appropriately. I didn’t have a suit of my own, so I “borrowed” a costume piece from the theatre wardrobe department (shh… don’t tell Rosemary). So in a shapeless, faded old jacket from the fifties and a pair of rayon slacks, I hit the sales floor.
Tip Top is (or was) known for its sweater tables. The store would have two or three long tables piled high with shaker knits and poly-cotton abominations with patches of leather sewn on in seemingly random places. I especially liked the turquoise sweater with the one leather shoulder.
Sometimes, I worked with Sefa and Simon — the two other guys around my own age. When things slowed down, we’d stand in a line across the doorway and watch the foot traffic. It was a quiet moment like that when Sefa confided in us.
“You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I sometimes feel this overpowering urge to strip naked and throw myself onto the sweater table. And just kind of… roll around.”
We considered this. Come to think of it, rolling naked on a pile of sweaters might be really nice. We mulled that over until Pierre, the creepy old suit salesman, broke in with his own non-sequitur.
Pierre was an old hand in the polyester suit business. He’d sold them for decades, starting back in the seventies when his greasy toupee actually matched his hair colour. When business slowed, he’d emerge from the suit racks to irritate us with strange fantasies about Collette, our only female coworker.
“What would you do,” he asked the three of us, “if you were at a chicken barbecue…” He paused for dramatic effect before continuing. “And you saw Collette… naked?”
“Specifically a chicken barbecue?” Sefa asked.
“Yes. I don’t eat beef,” was Pierre’s answer.
We mulled this one for a bit longer than the sweater table idea. What would we do? Hmm.
“Well it might put me off my chicken,” Simon said finally.
Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he admitted. “Me too.” And he drifted back to the suit racks deep in thought.
“That one’s pretty good,” commented Sefa. “More imaginative than the one where he finds Collette naked in the change room.” We nodded in general agreement.
Eventually, a customer drifted into the shop and we abandoned our daydreaming.
“I see you have your eye on our selection of sweaters,” said Sefa said. “They’re 110% polyester. You couldn’t stain one of those if you tried.”
