Ed Nichols, 3/23/2015

 

Men’s Dress Shirts

Bobby Lee Sims walked down to the pond behind his house and sat on a bench.  He looked across the water, watching ducks frolicking.  He figured they were cheerful because they were headed south for the winter.  Don’t blame them, he thought.  Wouldn’t want to live up north either.  Cold, harsh winters.  High heat bills.  Bobby Lee leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.  Bills!  Bills!  What was going to happen to him and Polly now?  He had wanted to stop by her beauty shop when he got off work and give her the news.  But, he didn’t want her customers to hear him say, “The plant is closing!  And I won’t have a job!”  He rubbed his temples, stood up, picked up a rock and skipped it across the water toward the ducks.  They glanced to him, quacked, flapped their wings, and floated across the pond.  As if they were telling him, Leave us alone—we can’t help it you lost your job.

Bobby Lee went back to the house and waited.  He was sitting on the sofa when Polly arrived.  He gave her the whole story, straight out.  No use to downplay it.  The company was moving to China.  Mr. Maxwell was closing the plant.  He might sell the building—but, no one will want to buy a fifty-year-old garment factory.  No more will men’s dress shirts be cut and sewn here, or anywhere else in Georgia.  “Everything is moving overseas,” Mr. Maxwell had told the employees.  “Soon there won’t be any garments made in the US.  I hate it, but we stayed open as long as we could.” 

Polly said, “We’ve talked about this before.   You sort of saw it coming, didn’t you?”

“Yea.  I guess,” he said.  “But still—“

“Bobby Lee,” she said, reaching over and putting her hand on his thigh, “we’ll be all right.”

“I don’t know.  I feel so helpless.”

“Stop being so down in the dumps.  You, I mean us, have got to stay up.”

Bobby Lee rubbed his eyes.  He smiled, then leaned over and kissed her.  “I’ll stay up, but I’ve got to find another job.  We still owe six years on the house and a couple on your car.”

“You’ll get unemployment money for a while, right?”

“Yea.  And Mr. Maxwell is giving each employee six weeks pay.”

“That’s good.  We’ll be all right, with what I take in at the shop.  For a while, anyway.”

——    

For the first couple of months after the plant closed, Bobby Lee had agreed with Polly.  They seemed to be all right.  But as the unemployment started to run out, he became frustrated.  This economy stinks, he kept telling her.  There are no jobs for a sewing machine mechanic anyway.  “They’ve all gone to damn China!” he hollered at her one night.  Polly knew his skills were limited; now she figured his age might be working against him.  They were sitting on the bench at the pond drinking a beer late in the afternoon when he said, “I’m going to see if I can get on at Piggly Wiggly, bagging groceries or putting up stock.”

Polly looked at him for a long minute, and then said, “I hate you doing that.  You’re capable of so much more.”

“I know.  I know, but what we gonna do?”  Bobby Lee put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes.  “We need a little more money every month; pretty soon our savings will be wiped out.  Then what?”

She nodded, realizing he was right.

“You should’ve married that dentist you dated, before we met,” he said.

“Quit that talk, Bobby Lee.  I love you and we’ll ride this thing out.”  She added, “I remember what my daddy used to say, ‘This too shall pass.’”

Bobby Lee stared across the pond.  He said, “I sure hope it passes soon!”

——

The next morning Bobby Lee slept late and when he went in the kitchen there was a note from Polly stuck to the refrigerator.  It said:

I love you.  Stay up.  Something good will happen!  See you tonight.

He sat down, ate two donuts and drank three cups of coffee.  He felt charged up.  He put on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, tennis shoes and a baseball hat.  Then he got in his pickup and drove to Piggly Wiggly.  He parked his truck, got out and stood facing the store.  He looked to the left and right of the grocery store.  On the left was Hanson’s Furniture, on the right was a café, then Alexander’s department store.  He decided to check out the department store before going in Piggly Wiggly.  Inside, he gravitated toward men’s clothing.  Looked to him like there were a lot of items on sale—everywhere there were little signs, 25% OFF or 50% OFF, sticking up next to piles of clothes.  He found the men’s dress shirts.  He started picking shirts up and examining labels to see where they were made.  Most were made in China, and then he found a pile made in Malaysia, another pile made in Indonesia, and a stack from India.  He said out loud, “Sonofabitch!” just as a short, bald salesman approached him.

“Sir, may I help you?” the salesman asked.  He looked at the shirt Bobby Lee was holding.  “That’s our most popular color, this year.”

“No. I just—“

“The salesman said, “It’s aqua blue, not too dark, and—“

“I’m not interested—“

“But it’s our most popular,” the salesman said, taking the shirt from him and pressing it against Bobby Lee’s chest.  “Oh, you’d look good in this, in your suit.”

“Don’t own a suit,” Bobby Lee said, looking down at the salesman as he backed up to get the shirt off his chest.  He said to the salesman, “Do you know where this shirt was made?”

“Well…no sir,” the salesman said fumbling with the shirt, looking for the label.  “It says, India.”

“That’s right!” Bobby Lee said loudly.

“Well…well, our finest shirts come from India now.”  The salesman winked at Bobby Lee and said, “Personally, I prefer them over shirts made in China, or South America.”

“Do you ever buy shirts made in America?”  Bobby Lee said louder.

The salesman looked around nervously.  “Well, sir,” he said.  “Mr. Alexander buys all of our men’s clothing, and he tries to get the best price, and—“   

Bobby Lee stepped closer to the salesman and swept his arm around the store.  “Do you have any shirts made in America?”  He noticed sweat beads on top of the man’s bald head.

“Do you!” he repeated.

“The salesman patted his head with a handkerchief.  “Sir, I don’t recall…seeing any shirts made in America.”

“Well, do you have any clothes!  Anywhere in this store!  Made in America!”

The salesman backed away.  “Sir, I believe we do have some women’s things—I remember hearing Mr. Alexander talking to Mrs. McCollum…about a new shipment of women’s scarves.  I believe he said they were produced in South Carolina.”

“Women’s scarves!  Damn, man,” Bobby Lee said.  His face was red and he suddenly felt nauseous.  He watched the salesman step slowly back into a rack of shirts.  Bobby Lee moved closer.  “I want you to do me a favor,” he said.

“Sure…sure,” the salesman said.

“You go find Mr. Alexander, and you tell him this!  You tell him, because he buys all this—all this shit!”  Bobby Lee reached behind the salesman and pulled a stack of shirts onto the floor.  “Because he buys these shirts from China and India and everywhere else, he’s helped put one hundred and ten people out of work.  Out of a job, not twenty miles from here!”

“Well, sir, I—“

“And you can tell him my name, if you want to—Bobby Lee Sims!”  Bobby Lee turned and walked out of the store.  He didn’t look back.  He got in his pickup and drove out of town onto a county road. 

As he drove, he tried to figure out what had happened to his country.  Thirty minutes later, he stopped at an overlook near the top of Low Gap Mountain, got out and leaned against the fender.  He could see nearly to Atlanta.  He wondered if any clothes, or shoes, were being made anywhere in America.  He wondered how many people out there had lost their jobs because of foreign imports; there were probably thousands of people in the same circumstance he was in.  He didn’t know what he could do about it—what anybody could do.  It’s just the way things are.  Most people suck it up, he figured.  They try to find another job—one that pays anything, most likely a lot less than they were making—and get by as best they can. 

That night, sitting at the kitchen table, he told Polly what he’d done at Alexander’s department store.  She laughed, and then said, “You almost lost it, didn’t you?”

Bobby Lee smiled.  “Yea.  Guess I did.”

“Good thing that Mr. Alexander didn’t come out and call the police,” she said.

“It wasn’t that bad.  Although I think the little bald-headed salesman was shook up.”

“You think he told Mr. Alexander what you said?”

“I hope so.” Bobby Lee said.

Bobby Lee was sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when the phone rang.  He picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello.”

A pleasant man’s voice asked, “Is this Bobby Lee Sims?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Sims, my name is Boyd Alexander.  I believe you were in my store yesterday.”

Bobby Lee had a sinking feeling, but there was no sense in lying.  “Yes sir.  I was.”

“Well, I was wondering—“

“Look Mr. Alexander, I’m sorry for what I said, and did in your store, and I—“

“Oh, don’t worry about that.  I understand your frustrations.”

“I appreciate that…I—“

“I wonder if you could stop back by the store today.  I would like to chat with you for a few minutes.”

Bobby Lee rubbed his neck.  “Well, I suppose so…I’ve got all day.”

“Good.  How are you with one o’clock?”

“Fine.  I’ll be there,” he said, hanging the receiver up.

Bobby Lee ran through the conversation with Mr. Alexander several times in his mind.  He was puzzled.  Was it a ploy to get him in the store and have him arrested?  He thought about not going—he didn’t have to go.  He could stay home and sit by the pond.  But, what the heck, he didn’t have anything to lose.

At twelve-thirty, he combed his hair, put on a pair of khakis, a pressed shirt, and loafers.  He got in his pickup and drove to town, thinking, wondering.  He entered the store at ten minutes to one.  He immediately looked for the short bald-headed salesman.  He didn’t see him, so he asked an elderly lady behind a cash register where he might find Mr. Alexander.  She pointed to the back of the store.  

Mr. Boyd Alexander was tall and slim with silver hair.  He shook Bobby Lee’s hand and motioned to a chair in front of his desk.  “I really appreciate you coming by, Bobby Lee,” he said, as he sat in a large leather chair behind the desk.

Bobby Lee sat and crossed his legs.  “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday, and I—“

“No problem,” Mr. Alexander said.  He smiled.  “I know what you’re going through—went through a rough spell myself when I started my first store.”

“You’ve got other stores?”

“Five.  All in Georgia.”

“I didn’t know that,” Bobby Lee said.  He uncrossed his legs and said, “I guess your salesman thought I was nuts.  Hope I didn’t scare him, or anything.”

Mr. Alexander laughed.  “No, he’s okay.  I just glad he told me…about your visit.”

Bobby Lee glanced around the office.  He said, “I guess you know about the plant closing.”

“Yes, I do.  It’s sad.”  Mr. Alexander leaned forward and put both arms on his desk.  “I called Bob Maxwell last night and asked him about you.  He told me you were one of the best employees he had.  Said you knew more about men’s dress shirts than anybody.”

Bobby Lee felt his face turn red.  “I enjoyed working for him.  He always treated me right.”

Mr. Alexander reached to a box beside his chair and removed a man’s shirt.  He held it up.  Bobby Lee noticed a monogram on the pocket.  “Bobby Lee, the manufacturing business and the retail business is constantly changing.  I have to be on my toes—always trying to do something the big box stores are not doing.  See this monogram?”

Bobby Lee nodded.  Mr. Alexander said, “Bob Maxwell told me you could run and fix any kind of sewing machine.  I’m going to buy a monogram machine and we’re going to offer a new service to our customers.  Not only for men’s shirts, but for women’s clothes, too.  Even pocketbooks and so on.”  He paused, laid the shirt down, and looked at Bobby Lee.  “I want you to come to work for me, set the machine up and run it.  If it goes like I think it will, we’ll buy four more for the other stores and you can set them up and train our people to run them.”

A month later, Bobby Lee had the machine humming and monogrammed shirts were selling faster than Mr. Alexander could get them in: from China and Malaysia and Indonesia and India, and even South America.  Bobby Lee liked the shirts from India best.  They seemed to hold the monograms better and didn’t pucker or wrinkle.