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On Sunday early afternoons along San Francisco\u2019s south of Market behind the Emporium, the bars open early enough to let in all the Saturday night drunks.\u00a0 That is the only sign of cognizant life until you get to the little corner shoe store, where boxes of poorly made girls footwear line a long table.\u00a0 My father came here armed with $20 and orders from my mother to find my next pair of school shoes, and he held my hand steady as I peered on tip toes to see rows of shiny black shoes, all with goldish buckles.<\/p>\n
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There was an urgency in this particular task.\u00a0 He was in a hurry to go someplace after the shoe buying, but I wanted to spend more time perusing the store\u2019s stock.\u00a0 When one is an unpopular student at Catholic school, maintaining some sort of acceptable appearance was necessary.\u00a0 I knew nothing of fashion, except from what I had gleaned from other students.\u00a0 Plain white oxfords were out, and I was never good at applying the white polish to my shoes without destroying floorboards or table surfaces.\u00a0 Instead, I wanted a more dressy style in fashion with the other girls who liked to wear shoes with soft blue pink silk lining and daring low heels.\u00a0 I wanted something similar, but not an exact replica that would caused raised brows and that terrible lunchtime roundtable meeting of girls who cast long fingers as they screamed \u201cCOPYCAT!\u201d<\/p>\n
With time running out, I chose a pair of low healed shiny brown shoes with a square lip and braided shoelaces colored brown and white.\u00a0 They were close in style to shoes worn by the small boned, delicate girls of my acquaintance, but the different color was enough to distinguish itself as being both different and, as I would come to find out, uglier.\u00a0 My father laid out the $2 it cost to purchase the shoes, and he held my hand as we made our way into the Emporium, where my father would spend a few hours perusing the men\u2019s aisles looking for an odd assortment of things to buy.<\/p>\n
At one point, he set me down near the bathrooms, where I looked at giant travel posters while squirming in my seat.\u00a0 My father kept himself within viewing distance, but a child in an uninteresting part of a giant store was bound to cause trouble.\u00a0 I began to wander up and down the aisles, bothering the poor travel sales ladies who were trying to have a quiet afternoon reading their romance novels.\u00a0 I would return to my seat every so often, until my father finally grabbed my hand and marched me off to the men\u2019s toilet.<\/p>\n
While the women\u2019s toilets in the Emporium were always well-laid out, with a large bouquet of golden sprayed fake flowers in an ornate vase welcoming its patrons.\u00a0 The design was clean, colored in muted browns and beiges to go along with a long marble counter of a few sinks and perfumed soap dispensers.\u00a0 The men\u2019s bathroom at the Emporium, however,\u00a0 was unoriginal and basic in design, tiled in triangular shapes of black and white..\u00a0 There were about six urinals with a long line of men behind each one, and they stood solemnly in their overcoats covering their Sunday best suits.\u00a0 I was the lone girl in the toilet, but hardly small enough not to notice that there were men casting long, shameful glances my way.\u00a0 Some stood with their penis in hand, and I would glare at the assortment of odd shapes of circumcised and uncircumcised penises.\u00a0\u00a0 I learned a few things or two about older men that afternoon, and I went home wondering why my father, who could leave me alone on a plastic chair while he shopped, forced me to experience the men\u2019s toilet.<\/p>\n
In retrospect, that toilet offered the most enlightening experience of the day.\u00a0 The $2 shoes he purchased brought a severe reprimand from my mother, especially when the soles burst open after a whole week of wear.\u00a0 That was the last time my mother ever allowed my father to bring me shopping, although I think he was trying to do her a favor.\u00a0 At least I never told her about the toilet.<\/p>\n
(c)2014 Slow Suburban Death.\u00a0 All rights reserved<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
On Sunday early afternoons along San Francisco\u2019s south of Market behind the Emporium, the bars open early enough to let in all the Saturday night<\/p>\n