“Did anyone help you today?” asked the guy at the cash register, next to the other salesgirl in an otherwise empty store. He was wearing lipstick and black harem pants tucked into knee high gym socks. The girl looked like an extra from Square Pegs. They’d been glued to the front counter while I had searched for a pair of tricot cycle shorts. Yet, now they stared at me for an answer, as if I was one of a thousand customers shopping at that moment, as if a line of people waited behind me, as if they hadn’t ignored me when I first walked in (save for a cursory glance that swept from the top of my head down to my shoes). For a second, I thought maybe some invisible person really had helped me sift through the racks of cotton spandex leggings and lacy see-through dresses.
Except the reality was that it was just the three of us.
“Um…No.” I gave him my credit card, the girl complained about something and I left with two pairs of cotton shorts.
And that’s why I hate going into American Apparel.