Copyright 1985, 1986 by Gregory S. Swann. All Rights Reserved.
Direct inquiries to CIS I.D. 75115,1341.
___________________________________________________________________________

The Persona Store


        'Be the person you admire most', said the sign in the window.
'As low as $399!'.
        I like browsing the boutiques on Madison Avenue. It cures me
of any good opinions I might have of my fellow men. Case in point: The
Persona Store.
        It's a small shop in the fifties. I waddled into it recently
expecting to find the usual share-the-wealth East Side clothing store:
high prices, low quality, and snooty sales people.
        Instead, I met Mindi, the thoroughly modern woman. Almost good
looking, though she did her best to hide it. A dress like the one my
grandmother uses for dusting, jogging shoes, gaudy jewelry, and a
farmer's handkerchief tied conspicuously around one knee.
        She virtually leapt upon me. "Boy!," she said. "You got here
just in time!"
        "Just in time for what?"
        "No, I mean that we can really do a =lot= for you..." She
sized me up from head to toe, frowning. "Who did you anyway...? I hope
you got your money back."
        "Who 'did' me?"
        "The look. The look. =Who=--or should I say what--is
responsible for that?"
        I said: "If you mean who dresses me, I do."
        "Well, that explains it..."
        "Explains what?"
        She held up her hand. "Don't take offense. I just mean it
=looks= like something someone would do for himself. =Espe=cially a
=male= someone."
        I was wearing charcoal grey slacks, a white shirt and a black
leather baseball jacket. Comfortable black loafers and my very best
smile. No fashion plate, I'm the first to admit, but clean and decent
and respectable. And I am =not= accustomed to being looked at like one
of the 'homeless'.
        "It just =won't= do," she said. "But, of course, you =know=
that."
        "I do?"
        "For sure. Why else would you come here?"
        "In order to become the person I most admire?," I asked.
        "Ex=act=ly! So what would you like... Yup? You'd make a good
Yup. Got the right build for it..." She took a tape rule from the
pocket of her dress and began to measure my shoulders.
        "'Yup'?"
        "Yuppie," she said. "You know. Young, urban, professional. The
perfect persona for the un=fath=omably unfashionable. Almost no
effort, but it looks like you went to =all= that trouble, if you know
what I mean." She grinned.
        "I'm not sure I do... You sell personas here? Personalities?"

        "That's right. Finest in the city."
        "Finest personalities?"
        "=Ab=solute best." She began to tick off points on her
fingers. "Not just fashion. Hair. Walk. Speech. Likes and dislikes.
Eyewear. Food--"
        I cut her off: "You =sell= likes and dislikes?"
        "No, no! We =teach= you what to like and dislike. We have
classes in behavior modification, how to become the person you admire
most."
        "Who is not yourself..."
        "=Ob=viously. Take Yups for instance. Most people think Yup is
just a look. Wear a baggy suit, running shoes, carry a sloppy
briefcase and you're a Yup, right?" I shrugged. "Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Yup isn't just a look, it's an =at=titude. Non-plussed, the walking
dead. Head always turned to forty-five degrees."
        "But then you can't see where you're headed."
        "Ex=act=ly! When you're Yup, you don't =need= to see where
you're going. Other things: the Goofy jaw droop--"
        "Goofy?"
        "You =know=! The Disney character. No matter how baggy your
suit it, you can't be a Yuppie until you learn to look like Goofy."
        "Enough," I said. "It's not for me."
        "Well, what about the Mandonna look?"
        "'The Mandonna look'...?"
        "The =lat=est thing. It's the Madonna look for males. We have
all the basic items, plus accessories. And we offer two classes,
Ragpicker I and II, to help you maintain the look. In just two weeks,
you'll be indistinguishable from any slob."
        "Why would anyone =pay= to look like a slob?"
        "It's a =ver=y hot persona..."
        "...I don't think so."
        "Well, how about Banker's Grey. That's =al=ways in style.
Comes with free horned-rim glasses."
        "But I don't need glasses."
        "Every banker needs glasses. It's part of the persona."
        "But I don't even work for a bank... Besides, I don't like the
way bankers look."
        "Well," she said, "you've =got= to be =some=body."
        "I =am= somebody."
        She gave me a dubious look, then erased it. "Look. You think I
want to sell you something..." I nodded. "Well... I do, but it's not
what you think."
        "Isn't it?"
        "No. I like my job. I'd do it even with=out= the commission.
You see, I like helping people =find= themselves."
        "What if I already know where my self is?"
        "That's not what I mean. I mean, helping people become more
recog=niz=able, more in tune with others. It's fine for you to say
=you= know who you are, but who =else= does?" Her eyes lit up. "Do you
see what I'm saying? Your persona should comm=un=icate. It should say:
Hey, there! You know me! After all, I'm you! =To=tally. Right down to
the last bicuspid and stomach rumble. You can trust me, because we
both think and do and talk about the same things. We're do-it-yourself
twins!"
        I frowned.
        "Hey!," she said. "How about Yachtsman? You'd look =dash=ing
as a Yachtsman."


                                 # # #