You Mistook Me for a Mannequin in The Shops at Columbus Circle
By: Melissa Toldy
Tags: Retail, Dark Humor, Shopping, Creative Non Fiction, Sexual Harassment

You Mistook Me for a Mannequin in The Shops at Columbus Circle

illustration by author

You walk into my store, big grin on your face, eyes bright. You tell me why you’re here. It’s not because you want a sweater for your sister. It’s not because you need new pants. You had to let me know — you thought I wasn’t real.

Then you tell me not to feel embarrassed. Because I’m blushing. Okay, I will act normal, for you. You seem like a nice person. Then again, you’re very pleased with yourself. You discovered the truth about me: I am alive, despite looking like a statue.

I spend my 8-hour shift staring into the middle distance, where shoppers escalate between floors. The mall has its own ecosystem. Baristas buy clothes downstairs, and they sell coffee upstairs, to the people who sell clothes downstairs.

My favorite place is the bathroom. My second favorite place is the exit.

There’s a Whole Foods in the basement, and that’s where I take my lunch breaks. I buy salad and pasta, from the buffet, by the pound. I bring my own fork, from home, and one time, a woman asked me where she could find a “real fork” too. She didn’t want plastic; she wanted metal. I blushed.

You don’t know anything about me, and I don’t tell you. I laugh a little, for your sake. Haha, how funny, you mistook me for a mannequin. I’m tempted to tell you another truth: You are not the first person to make this mistake.

There was another man shopping for his niece. He said I was her size. He asked me to try on a blouse, for him. I declined. Then he held up the blouse and calmly reached for my arm. My limp wrist grazed the front of his pants. He acted like this was normal. I turned red.

You don’t seem as creepy as that guy. He was a short man, and he was a religious man. I could tell by the style of his hair, and the ugliness of his shoes. He mistook me for a mannequin, too. He’s also confused about what’s real.

Women aren’t fooled by my stoic appearance. When I’m not in my store, they ask me to fetch things, for them, in other stores. I must look like a shapeless or shapeable person, compared to the other shoppers. I wonder if they think I’m a real person, or if they think I’m a clothes horse.

No one knows how much money I make, or I should say, how little. Enough to eat at Whole Foods, nothing more.

You think it’s funny, your mistake. You saw a human-like figure, standing still, by neatly-stacked piles of clothes. You thought I was made of fiberglass or plastic. You caught me staring into the middle distance. Only your eyes hung on long enough to see me move. And this pleased you.

I don’t know what to say or how to act, for you. I’m real, I suppose, but I’m as useful as a mannequin, in my store. My manager asks me why I don’t flirt with the customers. My manager accuses me of hating men. My manager is lactose intolerant, and she drinks frappuccinos every day.

When I exit the shops, I’m steps from Central Park. If I was a real mannequin, I’d want to end up there, high in the ramble, a view of the lake. You would find me again, and you would be pleased. Because at first, you thought I was a human, alone, abandoned. But then you discovered the truth: I am man-made, nothing more.