Flashes of Panic

A few weeks ago at a race, A. won a gift certificate to a store in an affluent suburb of Springfield. Yesterday we set out to redeem it. The store bills itself as a “sports” store, but the packaging of the certificate and the outside of the store led us, correctly, to conclude that the only “sports” they had in mind were golf and, perhaps, shuffleboard. Polo, perhaps, but only watching it. I meandered around looking at clothes which looked about twenty years too old for me, then finally looked at a price tag. Wow. That was the first time I’d ever really seen someone selling khakis for that much. Or ties, for that matter, but I’ll admit that I’ve had a career path which hasn’t required ties so far, so I don’t really have a good feeling for the going rate.

A. observed that the size of clothes that fit her in this store had a lower number attached than in most places. Apparently, part of what you pay extra for is flattery.

They also had another nice touch: soft chairs by the door. I undoubtedly followed the example of hundreds of men before me by sitting down and dozing lightly for a few minutes before we left.

One of our next stops was in downtown Springfield, where we hoped to visit Edwards Books, an independent bookstore introduced to us by the recent book Shelf Life. It’s in a mall visible from the highway, but on a Saturday afternoon at 3:30 it had… closed half an hour ago. As was the rest of the mall. On a Saturday afternoon?

Well, this is the American urban core, isn’t it. The security guards who gave us the news (and pointed us back towards our car) observed that there weren’t any other going retail concerns in sight of Edwards. Every other space was either empty, or offices. “How much money are they losing on this mall?” I wondered aloud. “Lots,” answered one of the guards.

So we continued up to Northampton, and strolled around the sidewalk sale. I counted four open bookstores, and those were just the ones we walked past.