DJ StrangeLove looked terrible.

I watched as he sat at the other end of the food court table, eyes red, hair wild.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, “I need a fucking Smoothie.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Sorry,” he yawned, “late night. You know how it is: first time you sleep with somebody, things can get out of hand.”

“I thought you were retired.”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Today’s lesson is simple: if you want to be noticed by attractive women, or any woman for that matter, you have to look the part. Don’t take this personally, but when was the last time you shopped for clothes?”

I leaned back, pondering.

“Um…. maybe four years ago?”

“Jesus. No wonder you never get laid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right now, you dress like an average guy. So, that’s how you get treated. You need stuff that’s flashy. Edgy. You want to get laid like a rockstar? Start dressing like one.”

He gestured to the men sitting all around us.

“Look at these people. A sea of men, and not one of them is wearing clothes that fit. Any man can be halfway attractive if he dresses well, but so few of them do. Shirts that cost more than ten bucks. Pants that fit. A belt with a flashy buckle, that’ll draw her attention to your crotch.”

“Why?”

“So you can give her shit for checking out your crotch.”

“But that’s not me,” I insisted.

“Not yet, it isn’t.”

“But I shouldn’t have to do that.”

He snorted.

“You don’t put any work into your appearance, you deserve whatever you get.”

“Look, how much is this going to cost?” I asked, desperate, “because I don’t get paid until next week, and I really want to go to the Kid Koala concert.”

”I don’t know, man. For some stuff, we’re going to have to go high-end.”

“How about Winners?” I asked, “can I shop at Winners?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“But, I don’t want to go shopping.”

“I’m not here for what you want, Ian. I’m here for what you need.”

“That’s not part of the job.”

He rubbed his temples.

“Well, if anybody else volunteers to do it, let me know.”

The first part of the day was a parade of different stores; time spent buying t-shirts, belts, cardigans, and something called a ‘wrist cuff’, which is kind of like a watch, except with the added bonus that it can’t actually tell you the time. And then, after we’d been wandering the mall for close to four hours, as my eyes were getting bleary and my head was starting to pound, we arrived in front of the most expensive store in the building, for the proverbial coup de grace.

“Final item of business:” DJ StrangeLove announced, “A pair of jeans that makes your ass look good. Women are checking out your ass more regularly than you can imagine. You need to give them a reason to keep looking. These days, a solid pair of jeans is a man’s best asset. You can’t be fucking around.”

Suddenly, his phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he murmered.

I began to sweat.

All around me, the price tags were absurdly high.

$140 for a t-shirt.

$600 for a jacket.

Considering the most money I’ve ever spent in a single location was the $80 I once had to shell out for work shoes, this was hardly familiar territory.

The salespeople watched me suspiciously, sensing my terror.

Then, mericfully, DJ StrangeLove returned.

“Sorry about that,” he said, “girlfriend.”

“Whoah, wait a second. You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she know you were out sleeping with another woman last night?”
“She should. She was right beside me.”

“Are you serious? Doing what?”

“Sleeping with another man.”

Just then, a salesgirl approached; slender, Asian, with a sleek, silver name-tag that read: “HELEN”.

“Hi,” she smiled, “how’s it going?”

Suddenly, DJ StrangeLove swooped into my periphery. The change in his attitude was astonishing. His manner was loose, animated; his shoulders square, his eyes engaged.

“Good, man,” he chuckled, “maybe one-and-a-half thumbs up, out of two.”

For emphasis, he displayed both thumbs, one straight up, the other bent at the knuckle.

She laughed.

“Although, if we can find some pants for my buddy, here, that could bump me up to one-and-three-quarters.”

She smiled at DJ StrangeLove, intrigued.

“I think I could help you with that.”

And, away we went.

Now, for the record: there are few experiences in the world more emasculating than shopping for jeans with another man, and having him give your ass a rating.

“Oooh! Ass Factor: Eight!” he’d shout.

“A six! A solid six!”

Within minutes, he and Helen were like old friends: shoving each other playfully, name-calling, and, much to my chagrin, giving American-Idol-style critiques of each new pair I tried on.

It was the most attention that had ever been paid to my ass in a single day.

“You picked those?” DJ StrangeLove would scoff at her, “what are you trying to do to him?”

“Whatever,” she’d giggle, “they’re way better than the ones you picked.”

“Sssh. I like you so much better when you don’t talk.”

By the end of the first hour, I’d tried on literally dozens of pairs of pants, and yet, each time I emerged, something wasn’t quite right.

Wrong colour.

Wrong fit.

Too dark.

Too light.

I began to get demoralized. No matter how hard I flexed, or what I tried, I simply couldn’t crack an Ass Factor of Eight. After ninety minutes, and close to thirty pairs, we were no closer to finding what we were after.

Dejected, I returned to the changeroom. This was the longest period of time I’d ever spent in a shopping mall, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it.

“Can we go, now?” I asked, weary.

Suddenly, I heard DJ StrangeLove chuckle.

“What? Did you find something?” I asked.

“Yeah. But, you’re not going to like it.”

He slid a pair of crisp, new jeans under the stall door.

“Try them on!” he shouted.

“I don’t-”

“Try. Them. On.”

A moment later, when I emerged, the vote was unanimous:

“Those are the ones, man. Yes!” DJ StrangeLove shouted, “that’s an Ass Factor of nine, wouldn’t you say, Paula?”

“I’d say 9.5,” Helen replied, hand on chin.

Relief flooded over me as I returned to the changeroom.

That is, until I caught sight of the price-tag.

And my skin went cold.

This single pair of pants cost $350.

“Yeah,” I called, “I think I found the part I’m not going to like.”

“Jesus, Ian,” he laughed, “they’re not just pants. They’re an investment in your future. And, trust me, they’ll pay off.”

I could taste bile in the back of my throat as I approached the counter. I stood, sullen, as Helen rang my purchase through, and I stared at the floor as DJ StrangeLove, using the same technique as he had at Century, collected her phone-number.
Then, we left the store. And, the instant we were out of Helen’s sight, DJ StrangeLove’s demeanour dropped.

“Jesus,” he grimaced, “I really need a fucking smoothie.”

That night, when I got home, I tossed the hated jeans into a corner. I could sense them within their plastic bag, mocking me, and, each time I came back into my bedroom, made a point of staring ruefully in their direction.

$350.

That’s half as much as I spent on my car.

“They’re an investment in your future,” DJ StrangeLove had assured me.

Sure, I thought, laying in bed that night.

An investment.

Of course, at that point, I had no idea it would pay off so literally.

And, so soon.