The Tragedy of Retail

(I wrote this on 9/11 this year, after a trip to Ground Zero.)

If I could, I would legislate a grey drizzle for every September 11, which is exactly why I will never run for President. I felt as though the city itself wept to remember its loss, a slow, pitiful trickle of tears, the kind that seep from your eyes without a sob.
I didn’t cry today, however. I never can cry on sad occasions. I cry when I get angry; I’ve known myself to cry when embarrassed, but pathos has little effect on my eyeballs. Sadness makes me uncomfortable: I would rather look away.
In fact, one of the first occasions that evinced my stunted emotions was September 11, 2001. I remember receiving the news of the attacks with some measure of disbelief, perhaps shock, but I also remember a decided sense of bemusement. Now, even my thirteen year-old sensibilities found nothing amusing about the rising death toll; rather, I found the situation as a whole ridiculous: the enormous buildings, the histrionics of the planes-turned-bombs, the idea of a holy war against democracy and capitalism. It struck me as a drama whose plot was at best contrived.
I remember arriving at my mom’s office later that afternoon, and finding her huddled on the floor of her waiting room, weeping those same, silent tears as images of the falling towers flashed across a grainy television. That picture flattened me; the brokenness exuding from my mom captured the tragedy in a way that the numbers, video, and newscasts couldn’t.
True to my apathetic roots, I decided to visit Ground Zero today, less to remember the tragedy, than to shop. Yes, I will be the guy at the wake reading a book in the back row. I wish I were the uncontrollable sobber: in our enlightened age, guys can score points for emotional breakdowns, while the stony-face has finally proven itself as a sure sign of a brittle psyche. Now, I didn’t go shopping just to spite the world. No, I really needed clothes, and I mean needed: prior to today, I had exactly two dress shirts in my closet. No further explanation necessary. So, I needed some new clothes, and the world’s largest outlet store happens to reside across the street from the hallowed ground. Given my state of desperation, I likely would have climbed into a manhole had I seen a sign for 50% off menswear.
When I stepped off the W-train on Broadway, the skyline continuing its emotional meltdown, I felt an immediate sense of crushing guilt. Everywhere I looked, camera crews captured footage of solemn processions and sign-waving protesters, while swarms of police stared stonily into the crowds from behind metal barricades. An oppressive air clung to the streets more thickly than the shifting fog, such that everyone seemed to tip-toe, and speak in whispers; even the conspiracy theorists confined themselves to an extended pamphlet, followed by a muttered, “Bush did it,” and an ominous look.
I moved among the crowds like a thief, my gaze downcast, the somber monotone of the voice reading victims’ names reverberating in my ears. I turned down Fulton, Century 21 rising out of the mist on my left, the enormous crater of debris and detritus directly before me. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the spectacle that loomed ahead, I waited until the last possible moment to whip my body into an abrupt turn, and slip through the revolving doors, through the blast of fresh-scrubbed air that kept the misery outside at bay. Involuntarily, I glanced back over my shoulder: I think some part of my brain could not shake the feeling that I must have been tailed.
Of course, I hate department stores, so the shopping offered no real relief. I kept thinking back to the aftermath of that terrible day, remembering Bush’s ridiculous decree that all Americans should go shopping to prevent a recession. I pictured myself paying for a $600 sweater, and mouthing, “Take that, Osama!”
Retail stores always seem caught up in that kind of idiocy. The entire industry hangs on average Americans remaining convinced that unlimited, frivolous consumption holds the key to fulfillment and joy. I wonder if it ever occurs to these stock brokers’ wives and trust fund babies (or whoever else would join me to shop in the middle of the day on 9/11) to stop and ask, “What is any of this adding to my life?”
Yet, how can I judge them, as I seem to have joined them?
My shame grew with every moment I remained in the store: the names of the victims broke through the very walls, pursuing me like harpies from floor to floor. The tension became unbearable when the reader called for a moment of silence (of course, having shopped alone, I wasn't talking to begin with)--every customer froze timidly, as looks of shock leapt from face to face, like a crowd of somnambulists awakening to find themselves undressed on a busy street.
At that point, I had had enough--bundling the clothes I had picked out, I rushed to the register, and thence to the street, my breathing slowing only once I had entered the anonymity of the W once more.