“I should like to see boys’ union suits,” my wife said.
“Certainly. How old?”
“Twelve years.”
“We have nothing here over eight years. You will find your size on the sixth floor, Washington Street side.”
I think it was the sixth floor; I know we walked (crestfallen) through endless aisles and were shot up floor after floor. Landed finally, the right counter was reached after numerous conflicting directions.
The Herr Director was puffing and panting, the Frau Directorin radiant and happy, for she enjoys exercise, and my wife, her faith in the efficiency of her favorite store not yet shaken, though wavering, asking for “union suits for a twelve-year-old boy.”
As the clerk reached for the desired article she asked: “Short sleeves or long sleeves?”
“Short sleeves.”
“Randolph Street side, second floor, for short sleeved union suits.”
The Herr Director and I did not accompany the ladies on their further voyage of discovery; we went to the rest room to avoid nervous prostration.