New Sweats

by
George Logothetis

he winter sun cast a dull yellow glow on the unwashed forks and knives standing upright in the dish rack. The clock on the wall hummed. A silver bead gathered beneath the faucet, growing larger and larger, dropping into the sink like a tear.

She sat at the table, cupping her palms around a warm cup of coffee, wondering what to do. It was Wednesday, her day off, and for once she wasn’t shelving videos or punching orders at the cash register down at Blockbuster, the job she hated more than anything. About the only good thing about working at the place was meeting Brad there. If that was good anymore.

She watched another tear form on the faucet and wondered where he was. He'd be home around nine, if the traffic on I-94 wasn't too bad and he didn't get another ticket. She imagined him up in the cab, smoking Marlboro Reds, playing any number of the old Whitesnake CDs he still had, his eighteen wheels of tail lights and chrome whipping down the road. Maybe he'd bring her something, she thought, imagining the large Domino’s with two toppings, Twisty Breads, and liter of Pepsi that Brad usually presented her with after a long trip.

She crossed her legs and gazed at the grayish crud ground into the bottom of her white socks. Her doughy legs plowed out of her nightgown like drumsticks, their dimpled skin interspersed with short black hairs. Her too-tight socks made red imprints on her calves and she slid a finger beneath one and scratched, simultaneously prying a morsel of yellow grit from the corner of her left eye. She decided to take a shower.

Perched around the bathroom on wicker shelves were the myriad bottles of nail polish, bath oil and cologne that she never used. The bath mat, flattened to a grimy pancake by repeated trips to the toilet, trailed over the worn linoleum, its color changing from white to yellow as it neared the bowl. She swept the shower curtain aside and turned on the water, testing the spray with her palm, then stepped carefully inside.

Hot needles splashed her chest. She found a sliver of soap and smeared it over her thighs, between her breasts, along her arms. After shampooing her hair she ran the pink Lady Shick razor over her legs until they were smooth and squeaky-clean. Maybe Brad would notice, if he wasn't too tired. Or drunk from the "few beers" he had at The Pumper to dull the memory of six hundred miles of gray, nonstop pavement.

She shut the shower off, wrapped herself in a towel and padded down the hall. In the bedroom she was half-tempted to burrow beneath the big fluffy comforter and wile away the morning watching Oprah, but she'd done that last week and the sight of the newly-think talk show hostess had depressed her. No, today she'd go somewhere. Do something.

She dropped the towel onto her feet and caught a glimpse of herself. Her face ballooned out at the jowls and sagged to her neck . Her steel-gray hair resembled a spent Brillo pad, limp and formless; the perm from Sherry's Mane Street had failed in every respect. She stared into her eyes in the mirror and they were there, anchored in her hefty face, two blue-gray stones of lassitude and bewilderment. She sighed.

She viewed her body with a grudging acceptance as well. She and Brad kept saying they'd diet and start walking, but it was too cold to exercise and too hard anyway, what with TV and all. It was easier to beach themselves on the couch, sweetening their palates with Pepsi, puffed treats, and flavor-dusted triangles, watching "America's Funniest Home Videos." She looked at the folds of fat, the rucked skin, the network of purple veins trellising up her legs. Sometimes she hardly believed she looked like this.

Now she faced her daily dilemma: what to wear. She wished she could just slip into a pair of Wranglers, but this was unthinkable—jeans, and pants in general, were simply too confining. She gazed at the stacks of clothes, the slacks, pant suits and old Levi’s that she no longer wore. She kept saying she'd throw them away, but some feeble ray of hope clung to the fantasy that she'd drop forty pounds and wear them again. The plain and simple truth was that she wore sweats nearly 100% of the time now, and only the most formal of occasions could force her to peel back her irresistibly comfortable, movement-enhancing outfits.

She turned her eyes to the floor. The white shag carpet was entirely obscured; socks, sweaters, underwear, nylons, flannel work shirts, her and Brad's discarded second skins wove around the room in a tangle of color. The thought of trying to squeeze into a pair of her old pants left her suddenly, and she bent down, pulling away the clothes, burrowing into the pile nearest her in search of something roomy and comfortable. Something that she’d fit into easily, without effort.

Eventually, after a few moments of fumbling search, she unearthed a pair of red sweat pants and slid into them. They hugged her legs and waist snugly, and she felt much happier .

Then, she sensed a problem. She plucked at the fabric, pulling it away from her thighs. The elastic waistband, once roomy and expansive, now pinched round her midsection, causing the loose folds of her stomach to jut over it in a shelf of overhanging flesh.

She felt stuffed, stifled. The sweats were too tight; they clung too closely to her shape, did nothing to hide it. And they were old. Burrs of fuzz clung to the tattered cotton and a dime-sized hole gaped at the knee.

Her mind raced for a second. There was another pair of sweats she owned, ratty blue jogging pants speckled with paint, but she hadn’t seen them in weeks. To root them out of the spread of soiled undergarments covering the floor would take forever. What should she wear? She eyed the floor, scanning the peaks and valleys the clothes made as they made small mounds around the room.

Then, all at once, an idea fell into her mind and she knew exactly what to do.

The parking lot was empty and she found a space right up front. She kept the motor running and sat in the heat-bubble of her Dodge Omni to finish a cigarette. Outside it was drizzly and gruesome, the fouled snows of late March thrusting melted peaks up from the black plane of puddles. She stuck the cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and flung open the door.

A gust of wind blasted her, and she tucked her purse under her arm, and walked between the piles of dirty slush. The cold knifed through the red sweats and she quickened her step. She couldn’t wait to get inside. The mall was so fun, with its colorful fountains and Hot Sams. The drive there had been stressful, what with the trucks bearing down on her, the rain, the confusing slalom of orange construction cones. All she wanted was to get inside and out of the drizzle.

A calm washed over her as she pushed through the revolving doors and stepped onto the long concourse of gray tile. Dreamy instrumental music piped overhead and islands of towering palms and fern-filled planters made her feel a tropical ease. Over the blips from the arcade she heard fountains rushing in a soothing, constant stream, a stream that grew more and more peaceful the longer she listened to it.

As she strolled inside, the gummy nutty sweetness of the Karmel Korn Shoppe rolled up to greet her. It only took a few more steps until the smell drove a pang of hunger through her, and she almost headed straight to the confection shop, but she decided to get her shopping done first. Then she'd treat herself to a nice lunch over at the Food Court, at Diamond Dave's Tacos or Wok It Up. And if she felt like splurging, Red Lobster, maybe. She considered the culinary choices available in the mall’s immediate environs, the retail strip of stores that it anchored, and was almost overwhelmed with the possibilities in the area. There was everything from Snaks Park Avenue to Popeye's, Olive Garden, Denny’s and Baker's Square. She decided to exercise a bit of willpower and get what she needed first—and then have a nice sit down lunch.

She walked to the escalator, where a step slid beneath her. As she rode the grooved metal step upwards, she gazed down at the fountains, at the hundreds of brown and silver coins lying scattered on the gray concrete bottom of the pool. As she stared at the mess of coins, she couldn’t help wondering what each person had wished for, but she couldn’t think of anything. At the far end of the pool, two children stirred their hands in the ripples the fountain sent outwards, and a pretzel bloated to twice its size bobbed on the surface like a tiny life preserver.

She watched the people on the other slope of the escalator glide by. Each clutched shopping bags and stared blankly ahead, entranced by the shops and stores and the laid back music overhead. On weekends it was different; the mall was alive, full of kids in letterman's jackets, couples holding hands, or people sampling the free toothpicks of smoked sausage at Cracker Barrel. But today, perhaps due to the dreary weather, it was quiet and strangely empty.

The escalator reached the second level. She shouldered her purse, and with her bunny-white Avias still wet from the slush, she squished over the tile. She made it past the Kay-Bee toy store, where a chorus of wind-up monkeys banged tiny drums before they blended into the mirrors and flashing strobes of Spencer's Gifts. Chess King, Orange Julius, Cinnabun, Sportmart, The Gap, Haagen-Daz, the stores flew by, each a neon-lit cavern of products staffed by smiling, uniformed bodies.

Finally, she reached the central square of the mall, where a golden pillar soared to a bank of skylights. Here, in a large, open, sun-lit space, the fountains and trees were at their most spectacular. She peered over the rail, examining the common area below. Children scampered across a prairie of blue carpet in haphazard tangents, their mothers following along behind. Senior citizens dozed on benches. Overhead, she noticed, a large colorful mobile turned slowly on its axis.

She pinched the red sweats away from her crotch and scratched herself. The sweats were dirty; she'd been itchy all morning—she had to get a pair of new ones as soon as possible. Where, though? She'd decided on Sears, but when she saw the elegant cursive of the L.S. Ayres sign glowing through the palms an exciting thought came to her, a forbidden thought. Ayres was expensive, a snobby department store more suited to Chicago than blue-collar East Gary, the grimy hinterland where she lived. The sign glittered through the trees. Should she do it? A moment later she found herself charging towards it.

As soon as she entered the store she felt out of her league. The glass counters of sparkling jewelry intimidated her, not to mention the pretty young salesgirl eyeing her as she wandered inside. Her first instinct was to slink humbly away, but a strange sense of duty and determination pushed her on.

She drifted between the carousels, trying to look natural, like she shopped here all the time. Mannequins frozen in a variety of poses towered over her, each with no face and only the slightest beak of a nose. $199.00, said a price tag dangling from one's sleeve. She gazed at the numbers, astounded at the thought of paying so much for an article of clothing.

"May I help you?"

She spun, to find the young salesgirl behind her. The girl's glossy blond hair hung in twin curtains, framing a thin face and ice-blue eyes.

"Uh, just looking," she said, slipping away.

She zig-zagged past the displays, drifting by an assortment of blouses and tops until she found the tile walkway leading back to the open mall. Then, suddenly, she stopped. Why had she been so intimidated? She was too insecure.

"Oh hell," she said, exasperated. She was being silly; the salesgirl was only trying to help. She turned around and marched back, her posture straighter, more assured, a feeling of readiness welling inside her.

"Excuse me," she announced, locating the girl, "Where are your sweats?"

The girl looked up from a table heaped with heavy wool sweaters. "Sweats?" she said.

"Yeah."

"Those would be in casuals." She folded one more sweater, expertly flipping its sleeves.

"Follow me."

The girl led her down the aisle. She watched her shiny black pumps thump against the carpet. The girl moved briskly and did not look back. They passed a forest of shoe trees until they reached a wall of floor-to-ceiling cubbyholes, where sweats of every imaginable color sat neatly folded.

"Voila," the girl said, sweeping her arm like a game show hostess, "sweats."

She pulled a purple sweat suit from the shelves. The fabric was heavy, dense, a sward of lush, soft cotton. She peeled back the collar and checked the stitching behind the label. It was very sturdily sewn, the fabric was thick and resilient. A pair of dress sweats like these would last a long time, she thought.

However, for the entire outfit, the pants and shirt, it was $49.99. She bit her lip. If she bought a pair for Brad, she thought, the total would be over a hundred dollars. The NIPSCO bill, swollen well into triple digits by the winter, was a week overdue. The Dodge needed brakes. And the gutters. When would they get to them? No, they couldn't afford it. The hundred would be better spent on bills.

But right as she started to wedge the sweats back onto the shelf, under her breath, she heard herself mutter, "Fuck it." She was tired of scrimping, of living check to check. She needed a treat. She’d just charge it, throw in on her Visa and pay it off later. Besides, the purchase was a practical one, as they both needed new dress sweats. She immediately turned around.

"Can I try them on?" she said, locating the salesgirl once again.

The girl scanned her from head to toe with a flick of her blue eyes. "You want to wear them now?"

"Yes."

In the dressing room the sweats fit perfectly, not too baggy, not too tight. She wedged her shoes on, grabbed the old red sweats, her purse, and left, clicking the door shut behind her.

"So," the salesgirl asked, a thin, satisfied grin crossing her face, "how do they feel?"

"Great."

The girl's red lips curled into a smile. "I'll ring you up over here," she said, motioning to a register.

She grabbed a pair of matching sweats for Brad—size 48s, as his 44s were looking a bit snug these days—and headed to the sales counter. In her other hand she clutched the old red sweats. They looked sad and ridiculous next to the plush purple outfit she wore now.
"Can you wrap these?" she said, placing the old sweats on the counter.

In one swift, dismissive motion, the salesgirl swept her old red sweats into a paper bag, tossed in some tissue paper and handed them over.

"VISA or Mastercard?"

"VISA."

The girl's fingers pecked at the keys. The machine spit out a receipt. The salesgirl handed it to her and she signed.

"Enjoy them," said the salesgirl.

She left the store and reentered the mall. The new sweats hugged her body, and she felt nice and comfortable, invigorated by her purchase. She'd braved L.S. Ayres, the salesgirl, and now owned two pairs of handsome new sweats.

Now. Shakey's? Chilis? White Castle?

Chilis.

That evening, as she and Brad settled into the couch, waiting for Domino's to bring them a large two-topping pizza, Twisty Breads and a liter of Pepsi for only $11.99, she felt happy in her new sweats. She could move easily, freely. They were warm. Soft. They were perfect.
Outside the wind blew fierce gusts; she could hear it rattling the storm windows and howling in the gutters. The furnace rumbled in the basement. Suddenly, she felt warm and sleepy. Brad was dozing, exhausted from six hundred miles of gray, non-stop pavement. She would wake him when the pizza arrived. She watched the figures on the television screen and became one with the couch.

It had been a good day. Started out depressing, but everything was fine now.

The new sweats felt good. She would wear them tomorrow. She would wear them for a long time.

The TV laughed. Brad farted.

Yes, everything was fine.