Suspenders on University Avenue

Thursday, November 02, 2017

“Do you still carry suspenders?” was my conversation starter to the owner of the work clothes shop on University Avenue. He had all the other necessary ingredients for the blue collar worker. Flannel shirts, steel toed boots, jeans tough enough to survive the next apocalypse. And, sure enough, on three carefully hung racks just past the register, suspenders. Jubilee is performing Louisiana Roadhouse this weekend, auditioning for the San Francisco Ethnic Dance Festival, and I was instructed to switch my suspenders from black to tan to match my 1930s earth-tone costume.  

This is not your normal request in a Berkeley clothing store, I thought. Looking for a tie-dyed Grateful Dead tshirt would be more common. Or a 7 ¼” GOLDEN BEARS cap to wear to Saturday’s game. Or tights with Mozart’s 40^th symphony score all over it. It is, after all, Berkeley. Hank—let’s call him that though I don’t know his name—would fit better in a small town in North Carolina than on the main street of the People’s Republic of Berkeley.

He carries that small town banner proudly. Metal bars cover all the windows to protect them from the periodic antifa riots on University Ave. Behind the counter are taped photos of Hank with dozens of customers, as you would see in a Hollywood restaurant. I didn’t recognize a single one of the “celebrities.” Nor are any autographed. Hank’s favorite customers seem to largely be young university women.  

Trump 2016 and Make America Great Again posters sit atop the bank of photos, presumably a warning to undergrads who wander in looking for a cool flannel to wear to the frat party on Saturday.

I’ve rarely seen anyone in his store. There aren’t many construction workers who can afford to reside in Berkeley. The ones who do shop for their gear at Target, not at this specialty store where a pair of new boots will set you back $150. I suspect his clientele is largely the pseudo-worker elite of Berkeley, despite the regular flow of shaggy Berkeley characters who drift down University past the entrance.

For them, there is a rough hand-written sign on the door that has been up every time I’ve been there:

“Inventory in Process. Only 2 customers allowed at a time. Ring bell for entry.”

The door has always been unlocked.

Hank is not a shy guy. Big booming voice, even bigger paunch, and the shock of white hair biggest of all. Barely through the door, I get the full story of the sales rep who couldn’t refund a return without the receipt. “But the customer took both receipts,” Hank laments. “She told me  ‘Let me tell you how Visa works,’ as if I were an 8 year old,” he growls. “I’ve been here for 30 years and don’t need any kid to tell me how Visa works… She’s gonna lose my business.”

I look around at the empty store.  

“She told me to contact them on the internet. I don’t have a computer. But I can borrow my girlfriend’s when I need it.” I wonder which of the women in the photos on the wall locked in Hank’s solid embrace was the girlfriend. Lenora is what I would name her.

I am able to pull myself away from the monologue long enough to riff through the rack for the suspenders I need. American flag ones, Halloween skeletons, and lots of solid, thick reds, blues, and blacks. I find a tan pair, but it’s wider than what I was told to find. With half an ear and an occasional “uh huh,” I stay with the outline of the monologue as I dig toward the back of the rack.

“You hear that? Papa John’s is gonna pull out all their NFL advertising. Serves them right. They’re losing fans every day with all those stories of sexual violence and the kneeling thing. And Eli Manning was their spokesman. He owns a bunch of them. What are they gonna do. They’re losing all their fans.”

No thin, tan suspenders. My eyes flash briefly to the racks of jackets behind. Going to Vancouver Island for December and January. Wouldn’t one of those be nice. But not today. The show is in 3 days.

I admit my failure to Hank. “We don’t carry many of those thin suspenders any more, but I thought we had a few of them left.” They did, but bright red won’t work for the costume. He kindly directs me to the army surplus store a couple of blocks down San Pablo.  They also have suspenders. That turns out to be much more of a Berkeley place. Backpacks, khakis, and jackets hung in asymmetrical racks, a Picasso portrait in shades of green. And the suspenders? All jumbled in a ragged box, mixed in with a couple of suitcase straps and a kid’s superhero tshirt. Not a tan set in there. I go back to Hank.

Still no customers. It’s hard not to feel some level of sympathy for him. A small businessman—I too ran a small company—fighting to stay afloat in a world that privileges gigantism. A Horatio Alger fan in socialist Berkeley. A work boots store in a town where no one works in boots except by choice. A law and order man on a street where glass windows are considered an invitation for a brick.

Another tirade about how nobody does their job any more. Another customer, another vendor. Another battle.  I challenge him with a story of my own from last week: a customs broker must have spent hours leafing through old invoices to rectify an error that he made three years ago on one of my company’s invoices. California’s tax authority had picked up the discrepancy and demanded payment from us. His error, he needed to fix it. And, after much searching, he did. There are good people in the world. And people who do their jobs.

“Maybe today is a tough day, but it will be better tomorrow.” I tell Hank. His face lights up as he repeats my mantra.

I leave with wide tan suspenders. Even Hank uses an electronic device to read my credit card chip. When I get home, there’s an email from Carolyn, showing me a photo of thin, tan suspenders, cheaper than the ones I bought, and deliverable to my front door for free via Amazon prime.

Would I have traded the right suspenders for my conversations with Hank?  Not a chance.

© Scholarly Roadside Service

Storefront image, Dave H. on Yelp. Surplus image ArmyNavy.com, NY.

Back to Scholarly Roadkill Blog