I was washing my old Volvo when I spilled some battery acid on my jeans.
After hosing them off I threw them in the washing machine. That got rid of the acid but there was a hole about the size of iPhone in the seat.
I stopped at a LA’s men’s store.
The clerks all wore black. They were tall and skinny and rather elegant. They looked like they had stepped off the cover of Vanity Fair — the Millennial Leaders edition.
I asked a sales gal if they carried patches.
“Like band-aids that stop you from smoking?” she said. “Gawd no. Like this is a high-end boutique like destination where future leaders of America and the world like buy in-shit.”
“I want to repair a hole in my jeans.” I showed her my old jeans.
She tossed me a look that made me think she was getting ready for a bulimia break “We don’t sew shit up. We like sell it. Get it?”
She hurled my jeans into a waste basket, took me by my ear and lead me over to a wall of jeans. They ranged in price from $99 to $4,999.99.
The most expensive styles were re-made from old pants that miners from the California Gold Rush had died in,
“Those jeans look like rags,” I said.
“We pride ourselves in offering like, actually, the most up-to-date styles.”
I retrieved my jeans with the acid hole, ducked into a changing room and slipped them on. With my ass hanging out of my jeans, I left the store.
I was a part of the fashion elite. It would be only a matter of hours before Vanity Fair called.
