Every Sunday is the same at the store I work at, because every Sunday it is inhabited by demons. I’ll call them the “Sunday Scaries” demons. If you’re not familiar with the term, the “Sunday Scaries” is a phrase commonly used by full-grown adults, believe it or not, to describe their anxiety about the upcoming workweek. People often refer to “fighting the Sunday Scaries” by engaging in any activity—brunching, shopping, binge-watching—that will distract them from the inevitable reality of Monday. I’m not calling these people demons. I’m just saying the demons know where to post up on Sunday afternoon, and one of those places is my store. It is a very large store with lots of clothes and shoes and gear and things. But on Sundays it is rarely enough.
Sundays at the store are different than Saturdays. On Saturdays, customers show up at 10:45 a.m.—fifteen minutes before we open—and wait on the sidewalk. I would never do this, but I respect their commitment. They have a goal and are taking the appropriate steps to accomplish it. Even those who don’t show up early on Saturdays appear to arrive at the store on purpose. This seems essential to the overall vibe of Saturdays at the store, which is a happy one.
Sundays are much different. The first two hours of the day are quiet because all our customers are at brunch. Unlike the Saturday people, the Sunday people make no plans to be here; this is just where the mimosas lead them. Around 1:30 p.m., they start to trickle in. Unfortunately, by the time the Sunday shoppers arrive at the store, the mimosas have already begun to wear off. This is significant because without the effects of alcohol, the Sunday shoppers are not happy to be here like the Saturday ones. Most of them wish they were still at brunch. Brunch was better. Eggs Benedict and cocktails and blue skies overhead. The weekend still felt full of possibilities at brunch. Now they’re here in this hot, dark, windowless hell, clawing through Columbia hiking pants while the brunch buzz fades away. Monday and all of its anxieties begin to creep in, along with the demons.
A customer complains about the heat. My manager says the air conditioning in the building is broken and is currently being repaired. This is untrue. The air conditioning is off because it costs the store money to have it on. Customers need not know this. In fact, if you think about it, we’re actually helping them sweat out the mimosas. Think of it as a sauna. A shop-and-steam. An immersive consumer experience. Most customers are not enjoying it, though. They curse under their breath. This damn store isn’t what it used to be, they say. They continue to claw through the pants, the shorts, the bras. Saturday shoppers peruse. Sunday shoppers claw. Grab. Dig. Tear. They shop the way Tony Allen played defense. Relentlessly. The mimosas are leaving their bodies, and the demons are filling the void.
This is a problem, but a fixable one. I think we should either serve free mimosas for the entire day or put all of our inventory in a giant pile and let people fight for it. Why not? What do we have to prove by straddling the fence between those two options? I have been meaning to ask my boss about this. If he had to pick between the two, I’m almost certain he’d go with mimosas on the house. An extended brunch, if you will. Push the Sunday Scaries back a few hours. Tide the people over so they can wait and unravel in their own homes. Not here. Not in the store.
But as of now, we are without mimosas and air conditioning. That’s a bad combination of things to not have at 2:30 p.m. on a summer Sunday in New York. A woman asks me for a pair of black New Balance 990s. Size 8.5 4E. We’re out of 4Es in black, I tell her. She rolls her eyes. She came all the way from the Upper West Side. I apologize for the inconvenience. She asks if we have Dr. Scholl’s sandals. I tell her no. “You are useless,” she says. I cannot blame the woman. She is old and in need of 990s and so beyond giving a fuck and I respect that. She doesn’t strike me as one of the brunch people, but I envision her excelling in a free-for-all merchandise dog-pile, even in her old age. I can see it in her eyes. She’d slap a bruncher right in the face with her worn-out 577s if that’s what she needed to do to snag a fresh pair.
I say we give her that chance. Let the people fight for the last 1-inch brief Speedo and the last Nike duffel and the last XL Julius Randle jersey. These people don’t need more mimosas. Serve the mimosas to the demons and let them watch the chaos unfold from the front row. It might be the only way to exorcise the ones that have already taken a host. The Sunday shoppers have been entertained all weekend; make them do the entertaining for once. Just for an hour. From 2 p.m. to 3 p.m. every Sunday. Every last item in one big pile. No rules. The truth is, I really am useless, so I’d prefer to watch from the sidelines while two families from Chelsea duke it out over the last pair of Alo yoga pants.
And let’s be honest, you’d prefer it, too. You’ve had enough brunch. Come to the church of retail and watch us exorcise our demons. Exorcise a few of your own while you perform for the rest of them live. We don’t have brunch, and we don’t have AC. We’re working on the second one. Not really. Who cares? Stop complaining and sweat it out. You can face the demons here or you can wait for them to show up at your house Sunday night, reminding you that you’re a fraud and Monday is coming. Face them here. At the store. The immersive consumer experience. Claw. Grab. Dig. Tear. Bite if you have to. Don’t let that old woman beat you to those 990s. The demons are watching. They’re drunk on mimosas. Sunday afternoon is their Friday night. So don’t be afraid to put on a show.