Upscale retailer Abercrombie & Fitch offered to pay the cast of “Jersey Shore” not to wear its clothing in order to protect its brand.
News item.
It’s a beautiful day–for once–in Boston, a fine occasion to play the role of le boulevardier, le flaneur; to stroll the streets, window-shop a bit. Maybe even make a little–as the saying goes–“walking around money.”
I make my down towards Quincy Market, one of the most popular tourist destinations in America. Why, only yesterday morning two foreigners asked me how to find it and I gave them step by step directions to Faneuil Hall, the “Cradle of American Liberty.” Police found them later in Medford, Mass., 6 miles to the north, but that wasn’t my fault. Probably forgot to convert kilometers to avoirdupois, or whatever.
I amble up to the display window of the Tommy Bahama store, and peer within. Two indifferent salesmen–and I use the term loosely–are folding shirts, pants, sweaters and socks that they will hock to Eurotrash college students when they invade our fair city in two weeks. I sense a score.
I hike my pants up to the latitude of my belly-button and enter with a breezy “Hello!” to the help. The one guy looks at the other, and it’s as if I’ve tripped a silent security system; instead of ignoring me the way counter girls the world over do, the two move in unison, like migrating birds, to head me off at the pass between overpriced “suitings” and overpriced “pantings.” How articles of clothing get changed into gerunds in the men’s clothing industry is something I’ve never figured out.
“May I help you?” the taller of the two, a tanned and moisturized floorwalker says discreetly, as if I’m a bag lady’s boyfriend.
“I was wondering if you carry any wash ‘n wear items?”
“You mean–something you would put in a washer/dryer.” I didn’t like the tone of that backslash/virgule.
“Yes–something that’s at least 60% polyester, so it doesn’t lose its shape in the spin cycle.”
The two exchange looks of condescension that a duchess would admire.
“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I can escort you to the exit . . .”
He moves to grasp me by the elbow of my boxy, off-the-rack suit, but I yank my arm out of the way. “You’ve got a nice little store here,” I say, with suppressed malice. “I’d hate to see anything happen to it. Like having your brand associated with a . . .”
“Dork like you?” the other says. “Forget it–we don’t pay fashion protection here.”
“Oh you don’t, do you?”
“Don’t you mean ‘Oh you don’t, don’t you?”
A struggle ensues as we try to wrestle our way out of the triple negative clinch we’re in and a managerial type rushes over to intervene.
“Security,” he cries aloud, but I shush him.
“You don’t want to wake the young fellow, do you?”
“What is it you want?” he says as the other two pin my arms behind my back.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m offering you a big fat nothing; I’ll promise not to wear your clothes–for money.”
The manager gives me the once-over, up-and-down with his eyes. What he sees is a grey plaid suit, white shirt, red and black repp tie. It’s all he can do to keep his lunch down.
“What are you asking?”
“A hundred dollars a month,” I say, leaving myself some wiggle room.
“That’s outrageous!” he screams, but I know I’ve got him where I want him.
“Let’s say I was to take a little walk through the market with a full Tommy Bahama outfit on me. What do you think that would do for your sales?”
He’s got his phone out and looks like he’s about to call 9-1-1. He scrutinizes my glasses, my cap-toe blucher model shoes, the spinnaker-like cut of my shirt.
“I’ll give you $90,” he says bitterly, “but that’s it.”
“Sold,” I say, proving in practical fashion the truth of David Ricardo’s postulate that trade benefits both parties.
The two 98-pound weaklings let me go and I collect my blackmail money at the register. “Have a nice day,” I say to the manager. “See you next month.”
I step outside and as always, arrange my bills in chronological order, with Washingtons on the outside and Jacksons on the inside. When I flash this “WASP Roll,” it sends the world the message that there’s no point robbing me, I don’t have anything worth stealing.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess–you got that at Brooks Brothers?”
But I do have enough–finally!–to purchase one of Brooks Brothers’ expensive ties; I’ve had my eye on one of their “Golden Fleece” models since, like forever. Wearing not just Brooks Brothers, but Brooks Brothers branded items says it loud and proud; I’m so insecure, I pay too much for my clothes and I want you to know it!
I enter the marble atrium on State Street where many white males are trampled to death each year in stampedes during Brooks Brothers annual after-Christmas clearance sales. I bow my head and cross myself to honor those who died in the name of WASP-unfashion, and enter.
“Hold it right there,” the security guard says as he stands up to block my way. “What’s with the stripes and plaids?”
“Well, it’s a deep red, with a thin stripe on a wide block, so I thought it would be okay.”
The guy squints, the better to execute the fashion profiling he’s learned in Brooks Brothers’ rigorous training program. “I’m gonna have to ask the manager,” he says. “Hey, Evan!”
A limp-wristed guy with horn-rimmed glasses–the $200 Golden Fleece model–scurries across the floor, sensing trouble.
“What’s the problem?”
“You wanna let this guy in?”
“Evan” makes a quick, “Blink”-style assessment. “Wherever did you get that awful tie?” he asks when he’s done, a nanosecond later.
“In the back of the Waltham bus,” I explain. “The 505.”
“And you expect to trade that in for one of our branded items?”
“Well, yeah. You’re a store and you sell things, right?”
The guy sniffs. I didn’t think it was allergy season yet.
“Forget it,” he says. “We wouldn’t let you wear our clothes for all the money in the world.”