If I Only Had A Heart

Not me crying at Urban Outfitters

Until that moment, our sojourn at the Americana at Glendale had consisted of delicatessen chocolate shops and department store fragrance sections. I had a sugar headache and smelled like an escaped prisoner of a Tom Ford testing facility. I strode proudly past Brandy Melville, watching the knees of strangers wobble as I passed, asphyxiating them with my wall of smell—notes of citronella, coumarin, and aged leather. 

I had committed to the most traditional and ardent form of retail therapy, though my only purchase to that point was the Spicy Rigatoni Pasta from Cheesecake Factory. Nevertheless, when my friends declared our next stop, I was shocked… I hadn't stepped foot in an Urban Outfitters in years.

"No Surprises" by Radiohead played through the store speakers as I stared out the second floor windows down at the fountains. I thought of 1998 Thom Yorke's reaction to the scene—his gut-twisting ballad soundtracking the tableau of pastel-colored clearance racks and contactless payment alerts. 

I've been bummed out the last few weeks. I'll be okay. It's life. But I felt the weight of it all at that moment. Watching the consumers below laugh and flirt and gaze at their phones. I could have cried. Cried at the fucking Americana. But I didn't. 

Then I thought about how it was even more sad to be sad inside an Urban Outfitters. Like I'd reached the Wizard of Oz in my journey of sorrow—the trolly tracks our yellow brick road, and now behind the grand curtain, was not some elder with answers, but a surplus of acid-wash denim, ironic tees, and mesh—so much mesh. 

I could have dissolved into the Boulangerie Menáge Á Trois body lotion, but I didn't. However, I did consider the predicament—trapped in a Fraise Meringuée body cream tester on the shelf of this hipster haven for the rest of my sad days. 

It was then I heard his voice…

Next to the rack of faux-vintage Camaro shirts was an older man singing, harmonizing a perfect third to Thom Yorke's lazy croon. 

He danced rather seductively, considering the forever-winter somberness of Radiohead. His wife laughed in the half-embarrassed/half-amused way one does when looking at someone they love. 

I contemplated finding the chromatic fifth and joining him but I didn't. I had already swallowed the potential shame of being spotted exiting this store, but reports of me singing three-part harmonies next to an assortment of salmon-colored skinny slacks on the second floor of an Urban Outfitters would carry implications the best publicist money could buy may not be able to assuage. Plus, I needed to save money for (if anyone is interested) Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille. 

So, I just watched and appreciated his unabashed pageantry. His girlfriend looked at me and shook her head as if to apologize, but I smiled back and pumped my fist to show my allegiance to the moment. And that man will never know it, but he saved me from the depths of Oz. 

I suppose the PSA here is that your joy is worth showing—unabashedly.

I asked if we could step inside Barnes and Noble when we left. I needed the smell. And at once, the ineffable familiarity carried in the scent of those books pollinated the seed of hope I'd taken from that man's singing. I could have fallen to my knees and wept right there before the Young Adult arrivals display. But I didn't. 

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Photo by Timony Siobhan Ramos.