The Gamelan.

Mount Hemenhaw. Poughkepsie Range. The Krindle Republic.

As brick-and-mortar stores scramble to justify their continued existence, they’re trying to be all things to all customers, to blend instant gratification and infinite selection. And it falls upon the workers on the front lines to make it all happen.

Andy Newman. NYT.

It was early spring, a feeling of untrammeled longing in the air, and the swifts wheeled overhead in their immemorial mating ritual -- swooping down and circling the tall buildings until they smashed into one another and fell to the sidewalk, where hungry panhandlers made quick work of them. It's a grisly and disturbing annual spectacle, which I avoided that day by hurrying into the nearest store. 

A woman in a very stylish red dress immediately pounced on me from behind a counter, nearly groveling as she welcomed me to the store and asked how she could help me.

"I dunno" I mumbled, slightly embarrassed. "What sort of stuff do you sell in here?"

"Oh sir!" her eyes lit up like flambeaux on a winter night. "We can get you anything you want -- anything at all."

I decided to be facetious. 

"Can you get me a bottle of powdered helium?" I asked lightly. "Organic, of course."

"Let me check -- I'll be right back!" she said to me as she straddled a moped and raced off into the dim bowels of the store.

While she was gone a trio of children sidled up to me to sing the Whiffenpoof Song a cappella. They then offered to reblock my necktie. I politely declined. Watered silk is not a material you let strangers handle, no matter how well-intentioned and innocent they might be.

The woman in the elegant red dress reappeared on her moped. She dismissed the children with the wave of a palm frond. She looked very downcast. She also looked increasingly desirable in that silky red dress.

"I'm so sorry, sir" she said quietly. "But powdered helium is a product that will have many industrial uses but hasn't been invented yet. I consulted with our overseas agent at the Encyclopedia Britannica for confirmation -- here's his report, if you'd like to look it over."

"Uh, no, thank you" I replied. "That won't be necessary." I craned my neck to look out the window, hoping the panhandlers were done with their gory feasting. But now they were chasing plastic bags blowing around the streets, laughing maniacally, so I decided to stay put. 

"I can always use another pair of socks" I told the woman in red, in order to comfort her. She really did look ravaged. I thought she might start crying. She had no name tag, but wore a large, gaudy, plastic sunflower on her blouse. It started to make me nervous. "Does that thing squirt water?" I asked her.

"Do you want it to, sir?" she asked earnestly.

"No, not really" I said. 

"Then it doesn't" she said quickly. "What kind of socks are you looking for?"

Suddenly a sharp bitterness welled up in me. I wore socks every day, everywhere -- even to bed. They symbolized conformity and oppression. Right then and there I decided to discard my old way of life, like a thoroughly read newspaper, and start all over again.

"On second thought" I told the lady in the red dress, "forget the socks -- I need flip flops and a backpack. And will you go with me to explore the Gomantong Caves in Kalimantan?"

There was a heavy silence. I could hear apps clicking on and off from her smartphone.

"That's in Borneo, right?" she finally asked.

"Yes" I said simply.

"Will we drink wine under the stalactites?" she asked moodily.

"Anything you want, my dear" I cooed. I could tell her resistance was weakening. This was good, because I had just decided that I couldn't live without her in my life, and would go chase plastic bags myself if she turned down my wild offer.

Then she was in my arms.

Then she was in my wallet.

"Doesn't look like you have a lot of money" she said as she rifled through my credit cards and cash. 

"Trust fund" was my only response.

We flew to Samarinda the next day. I never asked her name. She never asked for mine. We were two untamed lovers, reveling amid an overripe tropical splendor. When she was eaten by a clouded leopard I went back to my old life at the gypsum board factory in Waukegan, and never played the gamelan again.