I thought that if I walked into a hardware store, it would be like entering a dungeon, some sort of subterranean underbelly,where strange, mystical things happened. I don’t know where this preconception came from. It could have sprouted from the unfortunate fact that I am mechanically challenged. I am clueless about how things work and don’t really care. If something broke down, I figure I could call on a man to fix it. I know: how primitive an outlook for someone tasked with spotlighting gender differences. Well, I grew up in a household where the male members—fast Eddies all—fixed everything before I could even figure out what had actually broken down.
The concept of hardware stores carries a kind of mystique for women, I imagine, something akin to how any man would view a lingerie store. We all know what’s in there, we’re just not quite sure if we want to enter, and if we actually do step in, how we might be viewed by the insiders, and how we might handle the entire experience. Lets’ face it, the hardware store is more the realm of the male species, just like the lingerie store is more the female’s. So that having to cut across boundaries is often met with hesitation--even trepidation, perhaps. Put more directly, I have yet to meet a woman who says that she is happiest and most comfortable in a hardware store.
I had just moved to another house and had been, quite harshly, thrust into the world of hardware merchandise. While everybody else has been consumed with the more daunting tasks of sourcing wood, tiles, and paint, and supervising teams of workmen, I have had to deal with the smaller things: hunting for sturdy floor mops, dust rags that actually work, disinfectants, kitchen drawer dividers, spice racks, etc. Predictably, I had not a clue on where to start looking for these. I asked a friend and he, mortified at my major blonde moment, snapped, “At any hardware, of course!” “What? Hardware?” I blurted out. Unwilling to implicate myself even more, I called up my brother, who had a rip-roaring laugh on the other line. “You? Hardware store?” He guffawed. “Okay,” I told him, “Now that I’ve entertained you for a few precious minutes, can you please pay back with information on hardware stores?”
So he gave me all the tips I needed, in between chuckles, and I went about the task. It wasn’t as I had expected. It was not a male bastion with free-floating testosterone in every aisle. There were, to my surprise, women: cashiers, but that’s all. There were no female sales staff and no female customers except for myself. It might have been too early in the day, I thought to myself; it was 10 am, women were probably mothering and housekeeping still before they embarked on their other errands. I speak here of homemakers because the gallant women in the corporate world were already on their desks, changing the world.
The place was actually quite pleasant, like any grocery store, well organized and well lit. There were no dusty bins filled with rusty screws and nails and creep-crawly spiders like I had anticipated. It took some time for me to make peace with the fact that I had actually made it in there. And now, more than a dozen pairs of male eyes were waiting for my next move. But I really didn’t know whether I wanted help just yet, unwilling to give away how totally clueless I was. But they, of course, knew, the moment I walked in, that I was in for the slaughter.
“Where can I find a good glass cleaner?” it finally came out of me. “In the glass cleaner aisle,” one of the red-vested men answered me emphatically. Duh, I thought. I don’t know if I was imagining it but he seemed to be gloating. Oh, he probably had a fight with his wife and was getting back on the entire species by acting out at me. I moved along in search of the glass cleaner walking down the wide center aisle. I looked back after several steps and found the same number of eyes trailing me down and closing in, like tunnel vision syndrome. It’s like the walk of shame, I told myself. I scurried on and after a few twists and turns, found what I was looking for.
Poised smack in the middle was a diminutive man in that regulation red vest, looking like a Christmas elf. “May, I help you, Ma’am?” he asked immediately. “I’m looking for a good glass cleaner, something to take smudges off, you know.” He then came back to me in rapid fire, “What kind of glass, Ma’am? Regular, tempered, frosted, etched, tinted, bulletproof? One fourth inch, half, three fourths, one inch, or more? Local or imported? Window glass or table top?”
I was in shock, horrified at my own ignorance on something that seemed like a matter of life and death to this gentleman. “Ah, just ordinary glass, any glass.” He was obviously disappointed at my inability to provide the information he needed to work with. He jerked his eyebrows upward and said, “Hooo-kaaay, let’s see, here are your options” He snatched several bottles from the shelf and presented them one by one. The bottle with the blue liquid was the first one he held out. “This,” he lectured, “is good, very good but it has a good percentage of ammonia so it will do the job but it will emit fumes and it is harsh on the hands.” I grunted. He then lifted up the orange one. “This has a nice orange scent, has very little ammonia, but you will need a lot to erase many smudges.” And then he sort of shook his head several times and muttered under his breath, “since you’re not giving me much here…I don’t know what you’re trying to fix, one smudge, many smudges, what kind of smudge, who made the smudge…” I remained verbally constipated. He then lifted the purple one, “This you might like because the color is pretty, and purple is my mother’s favorite color.” Not wanting to annoy him further, I just said, “Okay, the purple then, I’ll take the purple.” Then, he asked, “Is there anything else?” “Yes,” I answered, “Since I’m already here and you might have it, I’m not sure, do you carry oven mitts?” “Sure,” he answered, his eyes twinkling again. “You follow me. What kind do you like: quilted, double-sided, saddle-stitched, reinforced, lined? With asbestos pads, cotton, polyester, compound fabric, flame retardant, silicone? Wrist, mid-arm, or elbow length? Printed, plain, floral? We have a special on denim.” The barrage of information was too much for me to handle. I felt like I was defensive husband, who was a few hours late for dinner, and was being grilled by a possessive wife. “Well, if you were me, what would you pick?” I asked. Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “The denim. It’s on sale; it has flame retardant and not as hot and heavy as the one with asbestos. It’s a good color, it won’t make your hands look fat.” Amen!
I think I walked of there a tiny bit wiser. You know how women often complain that men don’t talk. Well, that’s because they’re not interested in the subject. But engage them with something up their alley--gadgets, sports, politics, the economy, etc.--they probably wouldn’t stop.
Hardware store salesmen are like competent doctors who save us from the horrors of domestic decay. Mechanical queries get their blood rushing. Of course, we can clean your glass. Certainly, we can stop your door from squeaking. And no, the washing machine doesn’t need a quadruple bypass, just a change of hose. The fellow who assisted me was like a paramedic. Ours was a typical hardware store conversation, a cry for help from the heart of suburbia from a clueless female. He, being male, wanted to fix it, simply because he could.
