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To say I was disappointed with the offerings is a major understatement. No antiques -- only junky electronics and cheapo fleece blankets with pictures of wolves and football teams were to be had, and they did nothing for me. Although there were some truly far-out, glow-in-the-dark, neon palm trees and blessed Madonna lanterns for sale, most of the stuff there was forgettable. I left empty-handed. Humpf.
What I did get out of the trip though is really hard to explain. How to do justice to the phenomenon that is "Dave's Ministry" ... let's see. We were walking down a main aisle, browsing rows of imitation brand-name sneakers when we heard the strum of a gee-tar, followed by a lonesome voice. "They have paid entertainment at this place?" was my first reaction, followed by "What the hell kinda busker is that?" Hell no, heaven, ummm ... maybe. You see, "Dave" drove down to the market every weekend to spread the gospel of Jesus' love to all those poor families who were willing to park themselves on the nearby benches and listen up. He had a hand-written sign with his name, a bucket to collect money (for what I don't exactly know), some pamphlets to hand out and a microphone to sing into.
As surreal as it was, I was mesmerized and couldn't tear myself away. I looked over at my husband and friend just to compare their reactions with mine and validate that what we were witness to was truly unbelievable. Yep, same stunned look. My husband then raised his eyebrows in "Oh ya, baby" glee and my friend turned away in "only in America" embarrassment.
Now to be fair, his voice wasn't awful and his gee-tar playing was passable. But Dave was 100-percent sincere and that's what gets people in the end anyhow. I imagine Dave engages in one or two Christian discussions every weekend, and I also imagine that's good enough for him. That would have to be good enough for me to leave it alone and chalk it up to what also makes Charlotte unique.
Pleated Pants
This a banking town. It's what drives the local economy. But can something so large be considered a subculture? I'm thinking so. It's not so much the banking part that's weird and worth noting; it's the folks who make up this community that I find intriguing. Especially the "uniforms" they wear.
I never noticed it before, but bankers definitely have a strict, unspoken dress code. To make ends meet, my husband joined this subculture and got a job at the bank. He needed to update his wardrobe, so we went clothes shopping. There we were, innocently cruising the aisles of the local department store when my husband pointed out the obvious. "There's nothing but pleated pants here."
"Is that weird?" I replied.
"Haven't you noticed that so many men around here wear pleated pants?" I hadn't.
The pleated-pants syndrome had escaped me, until now. Row upon row of khakis and slacks in the department store with their neatly pressed pleats hung there waiting for average guys to take them home. If jeans could have pleats, I'm sure they'd sell them there, too.
Maybe it was just that store. I decided at that very moment to do an informal survey of every guy I saw for that day and every day going forward. (I knew I'd probably forget after a day or two, but it seemed like a great social experiment nevertheless.) It would prove to be a bit tricky, staring at men's lower halves, without coming off like an over-sexed cougar or a castrating man-hater. I had to be casual, sneaking sly glances at all times.
No sooner had I stepped out the door did I almost run into two guys wearing -- you guessed it -- pleated pants. Khakis, to be exact. Wow! It could have been beginner's luck, I told myself. As I crossed the street toward the car, I pretended to look for traffic, but instead did a quick pedestrian scope. Pleats, pleats, pleats ... Wait! Shorts! It was unbelievable.
What is it about this town that loves the pleat? It's the unofficial, official banking uniform. I was hoping it was just another male fashion faux pas until I spotted a woman walking downtown in a pair of pleated pants later in the week. Khakis, once again. I hit the brakes and risked a rear-ender when she passed in view. Could it be spreading?
Liquor-cycle
Now that my husband had joined the ranks at the bank and would be heading off to work bright and shiny every morning, we were in need of a second vehicle. We had been a one-car family for so long, we had to deliberate on what to buy. Back in Toronto we belonged to a car-share program, which helped us out in a pinch when we needed a second vehicle. One-car families are an anomaly in this car-culture town, but a one-car/scooter family is downright unheard of. Now, I'm not saying that scooters aren't ridden around here (because they are). But they tend to have drivers who are younger, college-student types who are limited on funds.