Macys is ridiculous. It’s a load of floors and it covers an entire city block between 6th and 7th Avenues. It’s a monster. It’s a souk. It’s a long way from home.
Today, Adam, my Recognized-by-the-State-of-California-Domestic-Partner, and I did some pre-holiday shopping, to get ready for winter, all that. But this is the trouble. They tell you the men’s department is on this or that floor, but really, it’s in the basement (underwear, socks and coats), it’s on floor 1 (most of it), it’s on floor 1 and 1/2 (Black youth, young stuff, Blingy), it’s on floor 2 (All the other designers). And how do you really make peace with all that?
All that stuff, made in China, India, Bangladesh, Vietnam. All those children plying the needle. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I thought. But I need my cheap cotton Macys shit. Kids in factories.
You can hear the screams up and down the aisles. You can hear them across the water.
I want my damn clothes.
Human desire. It’s like, it is. And it wants. It cares but it doesn’t care. Compassion, sort of.
I have to wash the chemicals out before I put the things on.