“How much are they?” is all Faivish asked.
“Zombie,” I muttered under my breath at him.
Although many people came into the shop that day nobody repeated Faivish’s question. My father would emerge from the basement every so often in between putting in stints on the bespoke suits, holding chalk or needle and thread, to watch people walking past through the shop windows, to see how they reacted to the t-shirts. Most ignored them. Some flicked quickly through the items or frowned. At the end of that day the rail of t-shirts remained exactly as it had begun.
It was only on the third day that one of them sold. She was a young woman, about my sister’s age, long black hair, sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat that she kept on inside. Something of kaftans and the Rolling Stones and marijuana cigarettes about her. She walked slowly around the shop, chin held to the side to take in the garments as they passed as though she was a passenger on feet that wouldn’t stop. One lap of the shop and then back through the door, probably disappointed that we were a tailor’s, not a chi-chi boutique.
And then she stopped at the rail.
She took one of the t-shirts off and held it, firstly up to herself, and then out in front, pondering. I wondered about going outside to point out that we had a full-length mirror within, but she came back in, the bell on the door tinkling, and paid for it with a five-dollar bill. She waved the penny away and took her brown paper bag with our name on and was gone.
“Did she ask how much it was?” my father asked.
“She didn’t say anything. Not a word.”
“But she knew it was four ninety-nine?”
“Yes.”
My father looked unusually pleased.
Early the next week two other girls, as my mother would have called them, came in and bought a tee each. It was all giggles, furtive looks, and exchanged glances. Hanging on the rails were pants and jackets, shirts and ties. I wanted to tell them that they were acting like we sold fetish gear and if they wanted that then they should try Kordaski’s, three blocks down; we sold perfectly respectable clothes. I should know about Kordaski’s: I often finished the stitching for him.