Spring in Los Angeles can be harsh. With temperatures occasionally dipping into the low seventies, it was easy to understand how Sandy, seemingly the picture of health on one day, could be laid low with a severe head cold the next. Tim didn’t know she had a cold when she wandered into the office significantly late. He thought she had gotten lost. With her knit cap, wool scarf, winter coat, and gloves (gloves!), he simply assumed she was headed for Anchorage but had accidentally shown up at work instead.
“I dressed like that once,” he told her. “But it was only because everything else I owned was dirty. What’s your excuse?”
“I have a cold,” said Sandy, as if Tim had once again missed something painfully obvious. “And we’re supposed to go shopping during lunch today. Have you forgotten?”
“Nope—credit cards and checkbook are right here. We are going shopping in Los Angeles, I hope. I didn’t bring any ski wear.”
“You are very ungrateful. I’m taking you to Century City because it has the best clothes. I could take you to the Westside Pavilion, but I think too highly of you. And since we’re going to Century City and I have a cold, I dressed accordingly.”
“Those malls are maybe one mile apart,” said Tim. “They’re even in the same area code.”
“Century City is an outdoor mall, stupidhead,” said Sandy. “And you’ll have to drive, because I took NyQuil by mistake this morning.”
On a classically warm L.A. day, being outdoors was part of Century City’s appeal. By the time Tim and Sandy arrived, the mall was swarming with office workers, racing to be first in line at the various classy fast-food restaurants so, in turn, they could get a nice outdoor table and not be forced to wander the food court with their lunch on a tray, lunging for a table the second it was vacant, eating their Tacone wraps amid a sea of Stage Deli litter.
Pizza by the slice is conveniently precooked, and thus terrifically efficient for the time-pressed shopper. There they sat—Sandy as if she were braving an arctic blast, and Tim, in jeans and a T-shirt, as if he was ready to paint the garage—surrounded by business uniforms: the women dressed as casually as the bank or law firm would allow (which was not very) and the men in suits, with the suit jackets still hanging on the back of their office doors and their ties tossed over their shoulders to avoid unsightly spills.
“I’ve never been a guy in a suit,” said Tim, surveying his surroundings. “I wonder if I ever will be.”
Sandy was pulling pills from a plastic container in her purse and arranging them in a line on her tray—two one-thousand-milligram
vitamin C tablets, one echinacea and goldenseal, and two zinc lozenges. “You will never be a guy in a suit,” she said with a certain authority. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“There’d be some sign of it by now, and believe me, there’s none. Your brother, on the other hand, I can see him ending up as a guy in a suit.”
“This is based on meeting him for three minutes?”
“You can tell these things,” said Sandy. “It’s not hard.”
After they dumped their trays, the duo headed off for Tim’s makeover. “Are you Structure or are you Gap?” asked Sandy.
“Right now, I’m Old Navy.”
“That’s a good start. We’ll go to the Gap. When you get older, you can move up to Structure. That way, you’ll have something to look forward to.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” said Tim as they wandered from store to store, comparing the Gap with Banana Republic with J. Crew with Structure with Ambercrombie & Fitch. “It’s like eating at a hotel. You have the coffee shop at one end and the nice restaurant at the other, but you just know all the food comes out of the same kitchen. These guys are just changing labels on us. I’ve seen the same cargo pants five times at five different prices.”
They lingered for a moment outside Restoration Hardware. “When Sandy Moore Life-Management Services graduates to fixing my apartment, can I buy my furniture here?” he asked.
Sandy shook her head. “Too good for the likes of you. You’re still in the Pier One phase. I’ll bet you still have your TV on a cinder-block bookcase.”
“The world is much too hard on cinder-block bookcases,” complained Tim. “You’d be surprised how well they withstood the earthquake.”
“If you’re very good, I’ll let you look in Pottery Barn or
Crate & Barrel. But no Restoration Hardware until you get a big raise. Anyway, your hair comes next. Where do you get it cut?”
“One of those strip mall places. Fantastic Sam’s, or whatever doesn’t have a line.”
“You’re making this extra-challenging, aren’t you?” said Sandy disapprovingly.
A stunning $475 later, Tim had new clothes. Not drastically different clothes, but enough of an improvement to make him feel as if they were his clothes and he was not some fashion imposter.
“Thanks,” he said as he loaded the clothes into his trunk. “I would have never done this on my own.”
“It was fun,” said Sandy, blowing her nose. “Dressed properly, you’re almost a good-looking guy. It’s too bad you’re gay.”