Buffalo
Needed new pants for the new job. Two pair I thought would be good. Which made me think of Men’s Warehouse. Because there the salesfolk drive you to buy two of anything you only need one of.
Off I went.
A salesgirl with a mind for customer service greets me on arrival. She guides me to the place in the store where the pants are. “These are our pants,” she says. I thank her for her service. I browse the pants offerings. Eventually, I identify a brand I like. Buffalo brand. So-called, I presume, because the pants are tough? Or perhaps it’s because the brand is endangered?
The salesgirl spies my interest and returns to assist.
“I’ll take a pair in green, and one in black, 34×34.” Well, you’d think the size was Martian or something. Turns out there was one pair in that size in green in the entire store — not a small store by any means — but not a single one in black. She begs my pardon and scurries away to check the database. Only one black pair in a 34×34 in the entire company! They have >1000 stores nationwide. I was right, an endangered pant size. Whatever. She offers to get me the one pair that’s left. No charge. Inter-store shipment. I thank her for her service.
I wait and wait. No call. I go in a week later with Happy Wife and explain the situation to the store manager, an unctuous Italian man who looks like the villain from a cheap spaghetti western. He tells me the computer “says” the pants arrived in Anchorage. I resist correcting the error of personification. Nobody in the store can find them. We wait and wait while half the salesfolk search the back room. As we do, Happy Wife finds a couple sweaters she thinks I might like. I didn’t like. To me, either one would make me look like Fred Rogers, or some old fart delivering a fireside chat.
Finally, the store manager gives up, nobody can find the damn pants. He apologizes profusely for the wait, and offers to give me a pair of pants of my choice for free! Plus, when the pair I was waiting for eventually arrives (or is found), he’ll call me, he says. So off I go to browse the pants again but guess what: Not a single pair of casual pants in any color or any brand in a 34×34 in THE ENTIRE STORE. At one point we had like half the store’s salesfolk searching through countless piles of pants, none of which had the tag conveniently displayed on the fold of the pants facing the customer. Nooo. Each pair had to be pulled from the shelf and the size searched for on the tag inside the pants.
Frustrated, the store manager flips his greasy bangs away from his eyes and says, “Look, find a pair of pants you like, any pair, and I’ll search the computer and see if we have a 34×34 in that size at any of our stores.” I do. He does. Many exist! He’s pleased this is finally over. “I’ll order the pants today and call you when they arrive.” I give him my cell phone number. He circles it. “Tuesday,” he says,”Tuesday at the latest.”
A week passes, no call. Finally, come Friday, Happy Wife stops by the store and wouldn’t you know it the pants are there — not only the freebie I’d ordered a week earlier, but also the pair that couldn’t be found! Happy Wife texts me:
Got the pants.
What? Why didn’t they call me.
He said he did.
Pfft.
I get home and open the bag. Two pair of pants alright. But neither pair is what I had ordered. The original pair, the one that couldn’t be located, that ain’t them. And the other pair, the freebie, the one he told me the computer said was available in my size in hundreds of stores — nope, that wasn’t the pair I chose. The color’s not even right.
Sheesh.
I try on one pair anyway. Brand: Joseph Abboud. Evidently Mr. Abboud measures in centimeters, not inches, because this 34×34 wouldn’t have fit me when I was ten. Clearly I’m a Buffalo man. Back in the bag both pairs go.
I return to the store days later. A different perky blond in skin tight black tights and impossibly high stilettos ambles toward me. I give her the entire sad chronology. She gives me a pouty face. Together we search for a 34×34 — again. Finally she hands me a pair and insists I not look at the label and try them on. Humor me she says. I do. The waist is okay, but too long. Ah ha, she says, I thought so, that brand runs large. It was a 32×34. She fetches a 32×32. I try them on. Pretty good. I take them. Now for pair two. She continues to search through some obscure pile of black jeans, probably also endangered, and finds, guess what — a 34×34! I grab them like she’s a relief worker and I’m a refugee. I try them on. So so style-wise, but they do FIT, so I take them.
She hands both pair of pants to the unctuous store manager to handle the return. He asks me for the receipt. “What, you’re kidding, right? You took it from me the last time I was here.” He doesn’t remember, not right away. Slowly he does, and apologizes profusely for the rigamarole. I countenance his apology. He countenances my countenance. I leave the store. It feels like victory.
I wore the 32×32 to work to today and was pleased with the fit, even while sitting. They fit like Buffaloes!