Unlike most men, Lindsey McDonald enjoyed shopping. It was empowering. He could enter a store of his choice and know that he could have his pick of any merchandise he desired; that he could pay for it himself with his own earnings; and that the salespeople would treat him with respect. It was the most pleasant way he knew to spend a rare free Saturday or Sunday.
This Saturday was no different. As he entered Nordstrom’s from the parking lot, he dropped his key to the Mercedes into his left pants pocket. He looked good, and he knew it. Although he no longer felt it necessary to shop in his business clothes, the long-sleeved polo shirt and slacks were obviously top quality. Anyone who dealt in the finest men’s clothes would recognize them immediately. His loafers, too, polished until he could see his face in them, screamed wealth. People turned to look at him, and more than one young woman whispered to another, “What television show is he on?”
As he entered the store, the first department he passed was lingerie. There, on a headless, armless torso, hung a beautiful negligee, white, like a froth of seafoam. He stopped and his breath caught in his throat. How he would love to have someone to buy that for. He could see her face now as she opened the package. She would squeal with delight and hug and kiss him. Then, later that evening, she would sit at the dressing table brushing her long hair. He would come up behind her, put his hands (two; he could dream) on her shoulders, and kiss her gently on the neck. She would turn, rise, and kiss him gently on the lips. And he would slowly slip one strap off her shoulder. . .
Stop it, Lindsey! You can’t let yourself think that. It’ll never happen. No woman like that will ever want you. And if she did, you wouldn’t risk involving her with Wolfram & Hart. It’s just a dream.
Could he have ever bought this for Darla? No. She would never have worn something like this. It wasn’t sexy enough. And she would never have turned to him with that radiant smile of love on her face. Forget it. He moved to the elevator and rode up to the next floor where the men’s department was located.
The clerks saw him coming right away. Pamela headed for him, but Ronald cut her off. “Mr. McDonald. How may we help you today?” Ronald flirted with Lindsey, but Lindsey never gave him any encouragement. However, he was an excellent clerk. “We have some new shirts just in, and the blue would be absolutely smashing on you.”
“I’d like to see it, Ronald, but I’m not really sure what I want today.” Lindsey wandered through the department, touching a tie, feeling the soft material of a pair of silk boxers, the price of which would have fed his family for a week. If he had even dared enter this store when he was young, he would have been chased off with a shout of, “Get your filthy hands off those, you little brat!” But now it was different. Now he was somebody. Somebody who belonged in Nordstrom’s, in Neiman-Marcus, in Saks, in Gucci. Someone who had entrée wherever he wanted to go.
Ronald brought the shirt with a beautiful coordinating tie for his approval. He did have great taste. “This would go so beautifully with your eyes, Mr. McDonald.” He looked at Lindsey and blushed. He had never dared be so bold before.
Lindsey smiled. “I don’t think I want a shirt today, Ronald, but thank you. It is a very nice color, and the tie is a good match. I know I need some boxers. What do you have in silk?” On his way to the boxers, he fingered the soft thick terrycloth of a robe. Maybe a new robe would be nice. Well, I’ll think about it.
After a good half hour Lindsey was done. He had purchased a dozen pairs of black silk socks and six assorted silk boxers. He handed Ronald his platinum card and then scrawled his signature on the charge slip. He just did not write well left-handed. Ronald slipped everthing into a Nordstrom’s shopping bag and gave Lindsey one more hopeful smile. Lindsey returned a polite smile and headed out to the men’s fragrance section.
With the aid of a most obsequious female clerk, Lindsey sampled various after-shaves and colognes before purchasing a set of Calvin Klein’s Obsession: after-shave, cologne, and soap. He took great pains about his fragrance, remembering how the other kids used to say, “You stink, McDonald.” Of course he did. There was no bathroom in the shack. He had to wash the best he could at school until Tony started inviting him and Elaine over to shower. And of course they had no washing machine. Those were the days that came to him in his nightmares. Those and the days when his mother and the twins were dying.
On his way out of the store toward the rest of the mall, he passed the children’s department. There on display was a beautiful cherry red velvet dress, trimmed with red and white satin rosebuds. Again he stopped, picturing a little girl with dark curls held by a red velvet headband wearing that dress, white tights on her legs and black patent leather shoes on her feet, skipping along, her hand in his, as he and his wife took her to see Santa Claus. He would watch as the elves took her picture on Santa’s lap, and then he would order as many copies as he wanted. And no one would look down on his daughter.
Once his mother had saved enough money to take Elaine and him to the mall on the bus. Dad was sober enough to leave Artie with, as he was too young to go. He & Elaine were scrubbed and clean, and dressed in their best, yet people looked down their noses at them. When Santa put them both on his lap, he rushed them through their lists. Not that they expected anything, of course. But afterwards, the elves were horrid to their mother because she wouldn’t buy a picture. She couldn’t afford one. Tears came to his mom’s eyes as she turned away. Lindsey learned a valuable lesson that day. Santa Claus doesn’t care what kids want; he only cares about selling pictures. And Christmas isn’t about love or joy, it’s about who has the money to buy. Well, he has the money, but he has no one to buy presents for. Shaking these thoughts off, he headed for the bookstore.
One of the things he remembered best was finally having enough money to buy his own books. Paperbacks first, of course. Then, as his earning power increased, new hardbacks. Books he wanted to read without having to be on the long waiting list at the library. And the rare books he enjoyed that he found at places like Dusty Treasures. But today there was a special book he was looking for. Not that he had to look hard, of course. The new Stephen King, Bleak House, was the first thing he saw as he turned into Waldenbooks. He purchased a copy along with several magazines: Time, Newsweek, US News. Out came the platinum card again. He ran his thumb over it briefly as he slipped it back into his wallet.
Now he was hungry, and the California Pizza Kitchen was just a few stores away. It was rather busy, so he was offered a seat at the counter. No, thanks, he’d wait. There was something so lonely about eating at the counter. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt that way. The wait wasn’t very long, and he was seated at a small booth for two. Setting his bags on the opposite bench, he took his Time magazine out to read while he ate. He ordered his usual CPK lunch: a cup of white corn tortilla soup, a half serving of the chopped salad with gorgonzola & bacon, a glass of iced tea, and his favorite dessert—chocolate soufflé cake with vanilla bean sauce. His waiter, Jose from Costa Rica, the nametag proclaimed him, set a plate with a couple of slices of bread and two pats of butter in front of him. He could almost hear a little voice in his ear: “Butter my bread for me, please, Daddy.” He pushed the bread plate away and concentrated on his magazine.
The soup and the salad, for some reason, didn’t taste quite as good as usual. He didn’t know why. As he ate his dessert, he pictured a woman across the table from him sharing it with him. It was the woman in the negligee, of course. His wife. When the check came, he handed Jose from Costa Rica cash, probably too much, picked up his packages, and got out of there as fast as he could. He didn’t go back through Nordstrom’s but circled around to another exit. Depositing his bags in the trunk, he headed for his condo.
Lindsey parked in the garage, retrieved his bags, locked the car, and took the elevator to his condo. Unlocking the door, he dumped the bags unceremoniously on the nearest table. Then, sinking into his recliner, he looked around the empty, silent apartment. Lindsey McDonald, the man who could have anything he wanted, began to cry.