Promod

October 2nd, Saturday night. First day on the job at the ever so hip and preppy clothing retailer, Promod, and I was already thrust onto the busy sales floor with nothing more than a key to the fitting rooms and a flat transparent board to aid me in folding graphic t-shirts into a perfect square, as though a lifesaver were supposed to keep me safe in an ocean infested by sharks. Customers needed fitting rooms, customers needed different colors, customers needed larger sizes, customers needed to be greeted with the sales pitch of the day (“Welcome to Pro-Mawwd! Just to let you know, all of our jeans are twenty bucks or less today”—being the trendy retailer of a clothing store that I worked at, it was important to use “bucks” instead of “dollars” to convey our hipness).

In one of my very first lessons, I discovered that while it took me twenty minutes to recover an entire table of tackily branded t-shirts (“recover” is the retail term for refolding all the clothes), it only took one short minute for one single customer to transform the entire table into a morbid scene out of a nuclear holocaust.

Caught up with cleaning the messes left in the wake of the tornadoes that stormed through the store, I did not even sense the presence of my rather gay manager looming over my shoulder, who silently scrutinized every wrinkle I failed to straighten as I folded my shirts. I turned around and jumped in surprise, not expecting to come face to face with him. Sporting his blue patterned flannel and dark wash bootcut jeans, he greeted me with a smile so enthusiastic that each tooth glimmered under the light. He offered his hand for a handshake, and I reached to accept, glad that of all the sanity in this teen haven dystopia, this handshake was one thing that was the same, and it was one thing I was good at.

He retracted his hand. Swiftly and sharply before I could even close the gaps between my fingers, as though he thought he spotted an ebola-laced pin protruding from the palm of my hand.

“Your shoes are in violation of our dress code.”

I glanced down at my feet to be greeted by the site of my mid-top Nike SB Dunks, adorned by its maroon suede swoosh and its fat maroon laces.

“Here at Promod, we ask that our employees stick to the classics, such as Converse Chuck Taylors or Vans Slip-ons.”

At the very utterance of “Chuh—,” every hair on my body shot straight up as my face turned cold and pale and my heart sank into my stomach, where I could feel it streaming down every inch of my intestines as he went on to say “slip-ons.” Fuck, my Nikes were too cool for Pro-Mawwd.

“And just so you know, Brian, it’s pronounced ‘Pro-Mode’—the ‘o’ sounds are the same. It’s French. Now there’s a lesson on French pronunciation for you.”

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“Yummy!”
Written May 18th, 2007 (Excerpted)

I’ve basically had this huge (sexual) fetish for Nike SB dunks or any other Nike shoes similar to those. Like, any average looking person looks plain and boring with their Vans Shit-Ons and Converse Fuck Taylors. But if they slip on Nike SB dunks for a day, they’re suddenly hot. One time, when I was browsing photos on downelink, I stumbled upon a picture of two guys making out with Nike basketball shoes on both of them. I was like, “Dayum look at that!” referring to the shoes, not the kiss. The shoes were hotter than their kiss.

One day I will own my very own pair of sexy Nike SB dunks, and until then, you will never see a pair of Vans Shit-ons or Converse Fuck Taylors clamped onto my feet.
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Twenty bucks at a thrift store. I created a compromise, one in which I figured I could still buy a “classic” type of shoe without ever having to curse the delicate cells of my fingers with the abomination that is a pair of Chuck Taylors or slip-ons, but still, I would probably only wear this pair of non-self-sexually arousing shoes at Promod, for Promod, and no where else.