Butch Tales: May I Help You, Sir?

“May I help you, sir?” asks the clerk politely.

Wearing a nametag that reads “Tori” pinned to the label of her red blazer, she is waiting eagerly to serve me. She is the third such young woman to ask me this question since I started browsing in Macy’s ten minutes prior. Tori wears her long raven hair up in a way that makes her look sophisticated despite her age. I have seen women effect this ‘do’ a thousand times before, their educated fingers working unconsciously to gather up the wildest tendrils into an elegant style in one sweeping, feminine motion.

Once again a tumult of conflicting emotions swells within me. I’d dismissed the other two helpful young women with a quick “No thanks”, but this time I do need help. Assessing the situation quickly, I opt to allow Tori to remain ignorant and to take advantage of the service afforded me by her assumption.
”Chanel 5”, I mutter as I continue to stoop down to peer into the bottom of the glass encasement that is the perfume counter. “I’m a bit lost, really”, I confess as I look up to see her standing before me, her full attention focused on me. “You see”, I continue, “my girlfriend…she loves Chanel 5, but she already has the perfume and I think she has one of those travel perfume things for her purse…I know there is some other Chanel stuff, but I don’t know what it is…I guess I was hoping you could tell me what you would like if you were her…”

I still haven’t figured out what ‘perfume accessories’ are, so I am actually relieved and grateful when the young woman starts to pull items out of the case before I can even finish my confession. She opens boxes and sprays samples and explains the mysteries of the world of Chanel to me.

When I leave ten minutes later, I have spent about $70 dollars, I have some powder and lotion in white boxes and I am headed for the gift wrapping department following Tori’s directions. I am convinced Kat will love my choices. She will think I am the most thoughtful suitor she could hope for, I am certain of it, so well has this young woman performed her duties. I will be back, I think to myself – and then I remind myself.

I remember that not two weeks ago, Kat and I had been strolling in the courtyard and stopped into Macy’s. Kat had found easily the Clinique eyeliner she was looking for in some specific shade that was out of stock last time or something like that. She required no help from anyone except to take her money, but when she was ready to make her purchase, she was kept waiting for no reason I could decipher, and then for some reason known only to the clerk, she’d had to walk to yet another counter to make her purchase. By the time we left, I was thoroughly dusted by the many odors of the perfume department and visibly aggravated by the unhelpful clerk. Kat was confused – or perhaps bemused – by my aggravation. This was always how it was. Macy’s has good service compared to most department stores, she’d said, that’s why she pays these prices.

I know perfectly well why I had just received such stellar service. I am wearing a blazer, so I may look a bit more formal and moneyed than usual, but there is nothing else special about me. I display no signs of wealth or prestige. I don’t know the owner, nor do I regularly spend large amounts of cash here. Nothing would warrant the undivided attention this young woman had just lavished upon me, while other customers – all obviously female – waited. Nothing except that she saw what she wanted to see: a romantic, clean-cut man buying a gift for his sweetie, a gift she would love for a man to be thoughtful enough to buy for her.

I know she did not realize her error even when she processed my debit card. She’d said “Thank you for shopping at Macy’s” when she handed me the bag filled with my purchases just as brightly as when she first greeted me.

Was she even aware of her prejudice? Did she realize she had given me preferential treatment because of my apparent masculinity? Had I taken advantage? I had not sniffed her wrist when she tried to model the fragrance for me.

There are lines I do not cross. Ignorance is not consent. It is my own brand of chivalry, a custom blend, from the grist of my own mill: part respect bordering on reverence, part knowing all too well what it is to be confused by feelings of attraction. I live in the borderland where masculine is not necessarily male. It is the only home with space enough for me to spread out, put my boots up on the table, and relax. But to most, my home is unfamiliar territory. It is easy to assume, natural to fill in the blanks, to fit me to the maps that are known. So, I take special care not to make my truth into her lie.

Taking care for me means asking myself many questions. I plot my course with care, revising hand drawn maps to mark hazards. Unlike her, I was given no map to my own territory, yet I am not entirely at home in hers. So, as ever, I am alert and vigilant, a reluctant explorer, ever conscious of the dangers inherent in traveling the uncharted path.

Was it wrong for me to take advantage of a prejudice she had been steeped in her whole life, one that seldom worked to her advantage? Should I have corrected her error and dealt with her embarrassment? Should I have made my gender more obvious and actually invited and accepted poorer service than I deserved? Why should I? Why should any woman put up with that? Why should any man expect preferential, even deferential, service?

I hand my bag over to the matronly gift wrapper. Her name tag reads “Marion”, but I would never dream of calling her anything but “ma’am”. She calls me “young man” in a gentle tone that tells me all I’ll ever need to know about how much she adores her grandson. She oohs and clucks over the romantic gift and wouldn’t she love for her Jack to buy her this for Christmas. Poor Jack, I think. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. She wouldn’t dream of asking for anything so frivolous. When I compliment her anniversary ring, she smiles and her violet eyes twinkle and flash with the love of generations. She tells me about her five grandchildren as her capable, experienced hands make magic out of paper, ribbons, and bows. How beautiful she has made my gift with her loving care. How beautiful she is. How beautiful women are, all of us.