|
The English Pub Hook By Christopher Wall
It seems the English Pub Hook has invaded stores everywhere. Have you seen them? They're deceptively simple things: a mirror, a frame, and a row of hooks, where, legend has it, the English would hang their whatevers before ordering that pint of ale.
I first noticed the English Pub Hook at my local Pottery Barn. God, I love that store. Shopping there sends a signal to professional women in my neighborhood that I am a man of taste. The fact that I've never bought anything at the Pottery Barn doesn't matter. After all, thousands of women have seen me admire the English Pub Hook on Saturday afternoons, but no one has ever stood in my apartment and removed a piece of clothing. I suppose that makes the Hook the very definition of a luxury item—a thing I'm desperate to buy, display in my home, and never ever use. In some ways, my shopping habits are a version of the American dream. I don't come from a Pottery Barn family. I clawed my way there. My sister, for example, is still a few levels beneath me in the chain chain, and she's not in a hurry to move up. She's what I call an Egalitarian Shopper. She likes a store that looks like America, where she can push her cart down an aisle full of screaming babies because Mom disappeared head first into the bargain bin. Good ol' Sis. She likes to be one of the crowd. And likes her apartment to look like one of a crowd. Which is why I took her to Wal-Mart recently to purchase some mass-produced, socially inclusive items for her apartment. Now, you're not going to believe this, but as I browsed in Wal-Mart that day near a poster of Monet's Water Lilies I turned to find—you guessed it— a row of English Pub Hooks. The same ones offered at the Pottery Barn. My head swam. I called for a cappuccino, which I always do in times of crisis. My entire world |
view, which ranked consumer goods, stores, streets, girlfriends, colleges, neighbors, and their pets using an objective formula developed by US News & World Report—the very idea that one thing could be worth more than another—was collapsing right in front of me.
How did these stupid hooks get here, anyway? It took Monet 100 years to move from the salon to the discount store. If nothing else, it was clear that useless items were no longer the privilege of the well-to-do. Luxury was invading bargain basements at a faster and faster rate. It had probably taken minutes for a Wal-Mart executive to spy that English Pub Hook in his neighborhood Pottery Barn and jump on the latest trend in coat hanging.
It was then that I had the most painful realization. I'd been duped. I'd planned to furnish my apartment with limited edition things. I was going to pay full price. Now, the sad reality was that I could invite people over for a soiree or some other kind of French activity, and they'd hang up their coats and still not know for sure if I was a Pottery Barn kind of guy. God, I'm dizzy just thinking about it.
Clearly, a corporate marketing department had decided that everyone would benefit from the English Pub Hook. Now. Immediately. And with our vaunted manufacturing and distribution system—truly our nation's gift to posterity—hooks were arriving at stores across this land just-in-time, just-for-you, just-because.
I stood in Wal-Mart that afternoon and wondered where our one-taste-fits-all culture had gotten us. Let's face it. No one actually needs an English Pub Hook—unless you sell beer in England. So I did the only thing a rational consumer could do. I bought one. And though I impressed a lot of women in the checkout line that day, it hasn't exactly changed my life. It's hanging on the wall, still waiting to be used.
— First Published in Bulk Head, Spring 2002
Other Essays and Stories In:
The Saint Ann's Review,
Summer/Fall 2004 |