On a cold grey night in February I went to buy new sneakers.
Wandering into DNA Footwear on Fifth Avenue, the first thing I noticed -- after seeing how empty the place was -- was the age of the gentleman behind the counter. Not the young person who usually helps you fit your shoes and processes the sale but a man of a certain age -- that would be mine -- with a huge smile on this face.
“Do you carry Stan Smiths?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Your best bet is Nordstrom Rack. $48.”
I looked at him, surprised, and launched into my Thelma Ritter-in-Miracle-On- 34th-Street imitation.
“Imagine...Macy’s sending me to Gimbel’s…”
Ah, “Miracle on 34th Street,” the man said. “That was a good one.”
And therein began a 20-minute conversation about the pandemic, the plight of the small business, and how stores like DNA were surviving. The man told me he was the buyer and the sales clerk and sometimes the custodian. I understood. My husband works for a small business. He’s done it all.
In the end, I didn't go to Nordstrom Rack but purchased a pair of bright red Sauconys. It was a great shopping experience.
“We wouldn’t have had this conversation in Target,” I said to the man behind the counter.
“No, we wouldn’t,” he said as he flashed his smile at me and I headed back out into the cold February eve.