Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove

This weekend on the crowded subway, there was a man standing in the middle of our car peddling women's gloves. They were black and velvety and they had a ring of leopard fur around the cuff. Very retired-woman-chic. A few old women shoved past me to plunk down a few bucks so they could look like a million.

As the train continued down the line, the crowd grew more sparse. I stood and watched two old men sitting next to each other. They were old. Distinguishedly wrinkled, missing more than a few teeth, thin, white hair, bundled up in their sporty jackets and orthopedic shoes. I watched them as the salesman continued his spiel. I am not sure what he was saying exactly, but his pitch must have been quite convincing because I could literally see the thoughts of buying gloves flittering over the old mens' faces.

The first man's hand dives into his pocket, reappearing with a small wad of cash which is thrust toward the salesman. As he pulls the gloves out of their plastic sleeve, the man next to him inspects the gloves over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. He too buys a pair.

By this time, the first man has fit the ladylike glove over his knobby fingers and inspects the goods with a look of proud approval. He continues to rotate his hands, pull up his sleeve, and rub the soft leopard fur. All the while, the second man cannot fit his hand into the glove. He crams and jams and stretches. Finally, he fits his hand in, and oh! The smile that spread across his toothless mouth! Priceless. He sat there and admired his new womanly gloves like a mother staring at her newborn baby.

I laughed to myself as I thought about what their wives would say when they arrived home proudly sporting tightly stretched women's gloves.