Mannequin perversion is something I won’t tolerate. Alejandro, who works in the shop with me, will taunt my boys, Yaz and Lisander, before I dress them. Dancing like a brindled fool, he’ll treat them like voodoo stiffs. I hate it, and I resent Alejandro for pretending this isn’t an essential part of our jobs to sell casual clothing along with canned beans and sodas.
I’m not proposing that what I do is like dressing a window in Paris, but it’s important to get the look just right. I am selling the promise of Friday night. I am selling frenzied music and pitched voices. And, ironically, Yaz and Lisander, with their their middle-distance glares and rigor mortis postures, are promising the magic of the flesh.
Photo: M Meijerin