Erin has asked me to pick up a dress that she bought and left to be altered at Fowad, a discount clothing store on 96th and Broadway. I make my way through volumes of knock-offs and seconds, down a narrow stairway to a cluttered corner where a man hovers over a sewing machine.
After two minutes of reaching and re-reaching into my pockets, I conclude that I have forgotten the ticket. The man asks me if I can describe the dress, but I have no idea. “I wasn’t with my wife when she was here,” I say, and start to leave.
“Ah, your wife, is she large?” he says pointing to his hips.
“No,” I respond, puzzled.
“Your mother-in-law, does she sew but is in Florida?”
“Yes,” I respond, more puzzled.
He rummages through dozens of pieces of clothing and snatches out a dress. “This is it.” It looks like something Erin would wear, and indeed her name is on the tag.
When I tell Erin what happened, she thinks for a moment, then grins: “When he was pinning the dress, I explained to him that my mother usually does this for me.”