Brain dump: Shoutout Tommy Bahama
Introducing: Brain Dump. A new series where I drop wisdom while dropping heat. Blogs written in their entirety on the john.
Look, I know it’s been a while between posts. No excuses. I was sick two weeks ago and part of last week and was buried at work but no excuses. Not an excuse guy, everyone knows that. Biked 42 miles the other day to raise money for cancer so have been pretty tired also.
Look, that’s the Liver experience for you. I’m like a deadbeat dad — you’re not always going to hear from me, I don’t know any of your names, and about 30% of the times I do show up I’m going to be drunk. But every now and again I’ll reward you with a little present that makes up for months of neglect.
In actuality I’ve gotten work under control and feel fit as a fiddle that’s missing several strings. And against all my tendencies for verbosity, I’m TRYING to be ok with writing short, quick hit posts for the sake of giving you, my loyal and much appreciated readers, something to laugh at.
So with that, here’s a quick anecdote about one of America’s greatest treasures: Tommy Bahama.
About three months back I’m out shopping for a pair of dress pants for a wedding (which was in two days). I have suits for the actual wedding but needed something for the pre-wedding cocktail reception. And apparently, my one pair of khakis with a frayed and worn out crotch, a consequence of frequent swamp ass, doesn’t qualify as “formal attire.”
In addition to being an avid hater of in-person shopping, I also had to go out on the first truly hot and humid day of the year. So I venture on a 20-minute walk to the Seaport, the only place I know has nice things, and arrive absolutely dripping sweat.
Now for context, I am a massive sweat guy. Not just because I’m in dogshit shape; I’ve always been exceedingly sweaty, even in my physical prime. So you can imagine how I fare in humidity. Shirt is soaked, the aforementioned swamp ass is definitely a factor — it’s a tough scene.
I walk into Bonobos and can tell right away that the guy behind the counter wants absolutely nothing to do with me. I ask him if they sell any pants in my waist size, which we’ll lie and call 36 inches.
Guy sneers and says they don’t actually sell clothes in this store and that they don’t carry sizes that big. Ok, one, you’re bad at being a store. And two, I don’t need the second piece of information once I know the first. You’re just rubbing it in.
So I say fuck it and go next door to Nordstrom or Lulu or some shit. Same story. Don’t carry anything in my size. As I begin planning the opening argument for my impending discrimination suit, I realize the Seaport won’t have anything for the big fellas. Too bougie, too elitist. So I have to venture to another part of the city.
But what store has high quality clothes AND caters to the more rotund members of society? Then it hits me: Tommy Bahama.
Long a refuge of fat guys and alcoholic retirees, Tommy Bahama offers stylish clothing in every size imaginable. However, getting there meant walking all the way back to the T, taking the train downtown, and walking like half a mile through a giant ass mall that is somehow on both sides of the street.
By this point the humidity was really taking its toll and I am soaked. I’m talking I can slick my hair back sweaty. I was wearing a backpack and had to keep it on the entire time because I had a sweat outline of it on my shoulders and back. Again, tough scene.
But then, finally, I see it. Tommy Bahama in all its glory. The mall was relatively empty because it’s a mall so the sales clerks were on the lookout for any potential clientele.
And boy did they start salivating when they got a load of my big ass.
I roll in and am instantly greeted warmly by a lovely salesman who asks what I’m looking for. He does not look down on me for my casual dress or the fact that a small puddle was accumulating beneath our feet. Instead, he guides me to the dress pants and offers me a cold water while I look.
Once I select a couple pairs to try on he heads to the back to find my size. They have it in stock. Of course they do. Fucking kings. The gentleman refreshes my water while I try on the pants. They fit great, job done.
And if that weren’t just damn fine service, he then hits me with a little upsell — a shirt that he says is moisture wicking and masks sweat really well. But he doesn’t bring it up in a condescending way. He says, “When it gets hot in the summer and you start sweating as we all do, this is a great shirt. I’m a big sweater myself and love these.”
Relatable, humble, empathetic. That is the Tommy Bahama experience.
I thanked the gentleman, spent like a sixth of my paycheck, and exited the store feeling seen, heard, and most importantly, respected.
So here’s to that salesman and here’s to you Tommy Bahama. I hope you’re shit hammered riding a wave somewhere you crazy old drunk. Way to keep the big guys looking sharp and feeling comfortable.
