Stocking Suffer

A narrow, deep, white clapboard structure with two large front windows and a door that triggered a bell upon entering, GORDY’S Delicatessen was my adventurous safe space as a child.

GORDY’S Delicatessen was stocked from floor to ceiling with every item imaginable. And if you did not see what you needed, Gordy would disappear to the back and magically return with the requested item. I don’t think too many children, at my age, in our small village every truly appreciated his strong, intense, quiet demeanor. It was often confused for abrupt and cold.

GORDY was my personal childhood shopping superhero for multiple reasons, one of which directly involved my mother’s personal needs.

I started kindergarten at the age of four. We lived on the line that determined whether or not you were able to ride the school bus, and unfortunately we lived on the wrong side of the line, requiring an approximately one-mile walk to school. GORDY’S Delicatessen was 350 yards farther down Main Street from the school. For a young child, this distance was a daily adventure, especially depending on the personal note my mother provided for GORDY.

Typically, I delivered my mother’s note to GORDY two times a week, at approximately 3:10 p.m., after school. I walked through the door, the bell would ring, and I would reach up and hand GORDY Mom’s note over the top of the high counter. GORDY would disappear and then return with four regular items: a carton of Winston cigarettes, a box of tampons, a package of pantyhose and black licorice.

GORDY always tossed in a piece of penny bubble gum for my courage. I never gave much thought to my purchases until the age of 10, when a neighbor friend who was a year older schooled me on the use of feminine products and women’s undergarments. Despite my newfound awareness, I never disclosed it to Mother or GORDY and continued the ritual until I turned 5.

So, at the age of 63, it came as no surprise, while recently arriving to judging a dog show in Maryland, that I channeled my inner GORDY energy to assist a FEMALE-FRIEND-JUDGE (FFJ) in need.

“FFJ – hey! Michael here. Yes, all is well ... Listen, I’m at the hotel and I’m going to head out to pick up a few things before we meet for dinner tonight. Is there anything you need?” I ask. 

“Well, if at all possible, could you pick me up some pantyhose? If you’re not comfortable with it don’t worry, I can stop after the show,” FFJ shares. 

Thankful, the request only includes pantyhose. I take on the task and add on a trip to the local Walmart. 

“Please text me exactly the size, style and color you need. I will do my best. OK, see you later.” Our call is ended.

“Black sheer knee highs Large (I’m a size 10). But they’re usually one size fits all [happy face emoji].” FFJ’s text is received. 

“[praying hands emoji] I will give it my best gay shot #sheer,” I text back.

“Actually, make that nude / suntan instead of black. I have faith in you! [smiley emoji with star eyes].”

“Got you covered!” I text back while exiting the car. It’s cold, windy and pouring rain. I make a mad dash to the Walmart entrance. Adjusting to the overwhelming fluorescent lighting, I traverse through aisles of endless, unnecessary plastic items, through children’s clothes and enter ladies apparel.

The pantyhose section consists of numerous display cases lined up in a row with additional selections on the wall behind the dressing room. L’eggs, Joyspun, Hanes, On the Go!, LEGGS NB, Wonder Nation, Silken Mist, Sheer Energy, Opaque, Fleece — too many choices.

I start to panic. “GORDY, HELP!”

“Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out …” I quietly say to myself as I lower down in a wide-legged yoga pose in search of NUDE / SUNTAN KNEE HIGH LARGE. Nothing! I search every shelf at every display, including the wall.

“GORDY, I NEED YOUR HELP!” I mumble like a person in need of immediate mental health. There is no other option — I will have to ask for assistance.

Walking through socks and underwear, I turn left and on the opposite side of the changing station stand two women in deep conversation while sorting clothes. Based on their body language I know their desire to assist me on my pantyhose adventure is not going to be high priority. I approach with respect and caution. 

“Excuse me! I’m wondering if you could help me in finding a particular pair of knee-high pantyhose?” 

Both ladies, wearing glasses, slightly tilt their heads up, looking above their glass frames, and curl their lips like I just committed a crime. 

“HONEY, this one is all yours — I have to get back over to my department. Good luck and we will talk later.” She chuckles while waddling away.

“Sir, are the pantyhose for you?” HONEY asks to my shock. 

“OMG! No. I’m buying them for a friend. She needs NUDE / SUNTAN KNEE HIGH LARGE.” Like my mother’s notes to GORDY, I show HONEY FFJ’s text message note.

“Follow me!”

HONEY and I search each counter, shelf by shelf. Nothing! We find black, tan, sheer and every other color possible. 

“Sir, this isn’t looking good. Let’s go back and try again.” HONEY guides me back to the first display case we search. I look through every item while HONEY excuses herself for a moment. 

A few second later an announcement is broadcast over the store PA system. “Would the manager of ladies clothing please report to the pantyhose department to assist a gentleman in need. I repeat, assistance is needed at the pantyhose department.” 

I drop to the lowest level of the display case, pushing my head deep into the shelf, hoping to hide from twirling heads looking to see the man searching for pantyhose. While doing so, way in the back I find one box of L’EGGS, 10 PAIR EVERYDAY, ONE SIZE, REINFORCED TOE, MADE IN THE USA KNEE HIGH PANTYHOSE.

I leap up in joy as HONEY and the manager approach from behind. I swing around, startling the two of them. “Look what I found! There was only one, and I found it,” I say with a twinkle in my eye and the unmitigated glee of a young boy at GORDY’S.

Fits of laughter follow. HONEY and I take a selfie in memory of my shopping trip for my FFJ’s personal needs — for documentation that you can’t make this S##% up, even if you really try.