Tuesday, September 12, 2006

... creepy feelings at DSW ...

I needed both workout shoes and black low-heel pumps, so I went shopping, and ended up at DSW.

I had never shopped there before, and looking around, it seemed I could find something suitable in both categories. So I set to seeing some sights first, in the sandal clearance section, and then checked out the running shoes.

I saw some Saucony shoes I admired. There was one pair for 49.99 and one for 79.99. I decided to try on the most expensive pair first; I had worn the same workout shoes for 3 years, and these days, my arches seemed to fall after an hour's workout; I had refused to finish a workout with a set of jumping jacks because of foot pain.

So I tried on the Saucony 80-dollar shoe. Then I went to look at the 50-dollar shoe. My goodness! there didn't seem to be any difference! I looked at the model numbers on the boxes. Yes, there was a difference! I tried on the 50-dollar shoe. It didn't feel any different. I checked the model number on the tongue. They WERE the same shoe, the 50-dollar model. What was going on here? I looked in the 80-dollar stack for another box with my size, but there wasn't one. So much for experiencing the 80-dollar support; I decided the 50-dollar model would suit me, and I wanted to be done with it. So I matched box-model to shoe-model, nearly setting off with two right shoes, and getting it squared away, looked for my simple black pumps, allowing for more distractions.

There was a great mid-seventies soundtrack on, the Manford-man stuff, blinded by the light, afternoon delight, la-la, la-la-la, la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la-LA! And all that, and it was hard to pull away, but I did, going to the only clerk I saw at the line of registers to the right of the entrance.

Well, there was a placard on the counter that said, "This Register Closed," and so I waited for him to remove it.

He looked at me and said, "This register is closed."
I gestured down the empty bank of registers. "Where can I buy these shoes, then?"

"There's a register open over there," he said, gesturing to the left of the entry.

I was miffed that he wouldn't see to helping me himself, but okay, I'd go to the other register. By then I realized I was quite tired. The music, and the afternoon hour, had put me in a hypnotic torpor that I was becoming panicked to shake it off. I wanted to get out and get some fresh air.

The woman at the other register asked me if I wanted to join their club. I demurred, explaining that I didn't want to spend the time on it. She gave me her pitch, the coupons I'd recieve, etc., and said it only required a name and zip code. I said okay.

Funny thing: the jerky-boy who wouldn't help me at the other register bank had come over to spectate on this transaction and was pinching the register case between his legs, seemingly ogling me. The woman's asking me for my address.

"I thought you said you didn't need it."

"We do to send the coupons!" I decide it doesn't matter if he knows where I live, and the address isn't too much to offer, so I give it. She tries to get my phone number and email address. I beg off.

Then she starts to ring up the shoes. I tell her about the very similar models of Sauconys, and that they are mixed up, and that the only way to tell them is to check the model number on the tongue. She's checking the tongues, as I say, "I wouldn't tell you this if I were trying to rob you."

Suddenly I realize that's what all the creepy behaviour is about. They have no better way of dealing with suspected shoplifters. They didn't know to give me the line that I was giving them. Pathetic.