Personal Best: Shopping Surprise
The bounty of Marden's took the shape of a leather jacket.
"Shopping" isn't really what you do at Marden's. In the Marden's context, calling it "shopping" is like calling sex "physical contact": it fails to account for the thrill, mystery, and potential earth-shattering euphoria of the experience. Marden's is a quest, a treasure hunt, a voyage to the center of your material being. Dowsers, before they search for water, often repeat their mantra of "relax and allow." So it is with entering a Marden's: Clear your mind, relax, and prepare to receive the Marden's bounty [for the rest of this story, see the January 2008 issue of Down East], be it twenty-four-packs of Snickers bars, air hockey tables at 70 percent off retail, or a killer pair of designer shoes rescued from a hurricane-ravaged boutique somewhere along the South Florida coast. It's all good. Marden's provides.
Six years ago, during those strange twilight months in the aftermath of 9/11, I found - then lost, then found - my all-time favorite piece of clothing at Marden's. The chain had purchased a trove of clothing and accessories from the Century 21 department store in Lower Manhattan, which had been damaged in the attacks of 9/11. Marden's stores statewide were filled with the stuff, but the Portland and Lewiston outlets received the bulk of the tonier designer wear: Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and countless others, a deeply discounted fashion bonanza with a tragic provenance. Locals descended on Marden's in hordes.
Shortly before Christmas that year, my wife, Amy, and I were rifling through the racks at the Portland store when I found it: a short, mid-weight, Kenneth Cole jacket made of supple black leather and lined with orange fleece. It featured subtle motorcycle-garb touches, like zippers at the wrists and buckle cinches at the waist. The orange fleece peeked out along every seam, providing a subtle piping against the black leather. I slipped it on, and it felt like butter. It moved with me, and had the pleasing effect of broadening my shoulders while narrowing my hips. It didn't so much make me look like a badass as it made me look like a very cool guy who just might have badass potential. I modeled it for my wife, who said, "Oh my god," her eyes wide. I loved it.
And then I took it off and put it back on the rack.
I don't know why I didn't run off with it when I first fell in love with it. But there were so many clothes and so little time, and I was having trouble relaxing and allowing in a once-in-a-lifetime wardrobe event. We were hearing stories of people buying five thousand dollars', ten thousand dollars', twenty thousand dollars' worth of Century 21 clothing from Marden's, clothing to last the rest of their lives, and I had the panicky feeling that the best stuff was getting snapped up just out of sight. A bird in the hand? Forget it. There were two in the bush on the very next rack, I was certain of it. "You're sure?" my wife asked me, crestfallen. "Yeah," I mumbled, numb with choices and pressure and the faint nausea that accompanies sale prices of 80 percent off retail.
But I thought about the black leather jacket the next day. So did my wife, who told a friend at work about it. "It's gorgeous," Amy told her. "You've gotta check it out." The friend, armed with a true shopper's killer instinct, made haste to Marden's that day and bought the jacket to give her teenage son for a Christmas present. Amy informed me of the development, and I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'd had the jacket on my own shoulders, I'd felt the way it changed me, and I had forsaken it. I could hardly comprehend the magnitude of my folly.
Then the fashion gods smiled: the friend's teenage son wanted nothing to do with the black leather jacket. Shortly after Christmas, the garment was returned to Marden's. The friend mentioned all this in passing one day at work to Amy, who had the good sense to call me immediately at my office. "The jacket's back at Marden's," she said, breathlessly, and that was all I needed. Within minutes I was in my car, racing down backstreets toward the Marden's store on the outskirts of Portland. Trying hard not to break into a gallop, I strode through the front doors and toward the racks, and there it was, the object of my affection, hanging on the end of a rack populated by ranks of drab men's raincoats.
I slipped it on, and it was love all over again: the creamy supple feel of the leather, the soft fleece against my neck, the knowledge that at that very moment someone could be mistaking me for a fashion-forward badass. As another sign that this love was meant to be, the price had been reduced by another 10 percent. This time, I clutched the jacket tight and sealed the deal with my VISA.
Clothing has the power to change us, and the black leather jacket changed me. Six years on, it still does. When I wear it, I feel like I'm a slightly taller, slightly more strapping, slightly more confident and dangerous version of my regular self. The jacket adds a subtle hint of swagger to my walk. As a babe magnet, the jacket surpasses even the powerful magnetism of a puppy. Women routinely comment on it when I wear it around town; once, as I waited in line to buy a coffee, an attractive, well-dressed woman matter-of-factly reached over and clutched part of the jacket's sleeve between her gloved thumb and forefinger. "It's so soft," she marveled. "This is the coolest jacket I've ever seen."
Relax and allow - it's all good. Marden's provides.
When he isn't embarking on a voyage to the center of his material self, Scott Sutherland is a co-director of the writing program at the Salt Institute for Documentary Studies in Portland.
Six years ago, during those strange twilight months in the aftermath of 9/11, I found - then lost, then found - my all-time favorite piece of clothing at Marden's. The chain had purchased a trove of clothing and accessories from the Century 21 department store in Lower Manhattan, which had been damaged in the attacks of 9/11. Marden's stores statewide were filled with the stuff, but the Portland and Lewiston outlets received the bulk of the tonier designer wear: Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and countless others, a deeply discounted fashion bonanza with a tragic provenance. Locals descended on Marden's in hordes.
Shortly before Christmas that year, my wife, Amy, and I were rifling through the racks at the Portland store when I found it: a short, mid-weight, Kenneth Cole jacket made of supple black leather and lined with orange fleece. It featured subtle motorcycle-garb touches, like zippers at the wrists and buckle cinches at the waist. The orange fleece peeked out along every seam, providing a subtle piping against the black leather. I slipped it on, and it felt like butter. It moved with me, and had the pleasing effect of broadening my shoulders while narrowing my hips. It didn't so much make me look like a badass as it made me look like a very cool guy who just might have badass potential. I modeled it for my wife, who said, "Oh my god," her eyes wide. I loved it.
And then I took it off and put it back on the rack.
I don't know why I didn't run off with it when I first fell in love with it. But there were so many clothes and so little time, and I was having trouble relaxing and allowing in a once-in-a-lifetime wardrobe event. We were hearing stories of people buying five thousand dollars', ten thousand dollars', twenty thousand dollars' worth of Century 21 clothing from Marden's, clothing to last the rest of their lives, and I had the panicky feeling that the best stuff was getting snapped up just out of sight. A bird in the hand? Forget it. There were two in the bush on the very next rack, I was certain of it. "You're sure?" my wife asked me, crestfallen. "Yeah," I mumbled, numb with choices and pressure and the faint nausea that accompanies sale prices of 80 percent off retail.
But I thought about the black leather jacket the next day. So did my wife, who told a friend at work about it. "It's gorgeous," Amy told her. "You've gotta check it out." The friend, armed with a true shopper's killer instinct, made haste to Marden's that day and bought the jacket to give her teenage son for a Christmas present. Amy informed me of the development, and I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'd had the jacket on my own shoulders, I'd felt the way it changed me, and I had forsaken it. I could hardly comprehend the magnitude of my folly.
Then the fashion gods smiled: the friend's teenage son wanted nothing to do with the black leather jacket. Shortly after Christmas, the garment was returned to Marden's. The friend mentioned all this in passing one day at work to Amy, who had the good sense to call me immediately at my office. "The jacket's back at Marden's," she said, breathlessly, and that was all I needed. Within minutes I was in my car, racing down backstreets toward the Marden's store on the outskirts of Portland. Trying hard not to break into a gallop, I strode through the front doors and toward the racks, and there it was, the object of my affection, hanging on the end of a rack populated by ranks of drab men's raincoats.
I slipped it on, and it was love all over again: the creamy supple feel of the leather, the soft fleece against my neck, the knowledge that at that very moment someone could be mistaking me for a fashion-forward badass. As another sign that this love was meant to be, the price had been reduced by another 10 percent. This time, I clutched the jacket tight and sealed the deal with my VISA.
Clothing has the power to change us, and the black leather jacket changed me. Six years on, it still does. When I wear it, I feel like I'm a slightly taller, slightly more strapping, slightly more confident and dangerous version of my regular self. The jacket adds a subtle hint of swagger to my walk. As a babe magnet, the jacket surpasses even the powerful magnetism of a puppy. Women routinely comment on it when I wear it around town; once, as I waited in line to buy a coffee, an attractive, well-dressed woman matter-of-factly reached over and clutched part of the jacket's sleeve between her gloved thumb and forefinger. "It's so soft," she marveled. "This is the coolest jacket I've ever seen."
Relax and allow - it's all good. Marden's provides.
When he isn't embarking on a voyage to the center of his material self, Scott Sutherland is a co-director of the writing program at the Salt Institute for Documentary Studies in Portland.
- By: Scott Sutherland
