| There I was, one of the women bent laughing in front of the glinting window of the men's shop. We were trying to find our niche, and who could blame us. Niches were harder and harder to come by. Every other niche was taken. The only one left was the one in front of the men's apparel shop where we laughed. And it wasn't so bad. We could stand there gulping sun. We dressed like our mothers, with pocketbook and pearls, and cooked up dreams about what lay ahead.
Some afternoons, we grew tired. Our faces would grow achy, as on holidays when we over thank people for gifts to live another day. Our smiles came with muscular effort. Our cheeks hurt. We began to find our task lacking. Then we grew morose or even macabre. We'd find ourselves thinking, for example, how there existed a tremendous factory in the east which churned out decapitated trunks for the purpose of these shops. The idea that this was an actual business, with inventory, managers, machinery and lunch rooms made us question our own parasitic position in the pyramid. Furthermore, the idea that a headless torso wearing a jacket could lure someone into making an expensive purchase was itself kind of brutal. It presumed that customers passing on the street had little sensitivity to headless torsos --clearly, we're scrambling blind over the rubble of the recent past. And that was nothing to laugh about.--from Outside of No In