Every time I see the name Geoff it reminds me of my mother. In the 80's, when I began to care about fashion, my mom and I would go outlet shopping in Pennsylvania for school clothes in the summer before school started. In the outlet mall, there was a store that my mom liked to shop in for my dad. It was called Geoffrey Beene. When we would get close to the shopping complex, she would always announce, "Oh, let's stop in Geoffrey Beene for your father." Except that she would pronounce it, "GOFFrey Beene." Like golf without the "l".
I knew each time we made the outlet trip that this would come up. In fact, on this particular trip I was already brooding over it and deliberating about how to address it the night before and during the two-hour ride to the outlets.
"You're quiet," my mom remarked.
"Yeah, just taking in the scenery, Mom," I replied.
Meanwhile, I was really mentally debating with my mother in a future argument over the semantics of the soft vs. hard "g".
After miles of repetitive fields of farmland, my mom pulls her grey Buick Century into the parking lot of the outlet mall. It's one of those large, open outlet centers with the huge parking lot in the middle surrounded by strips of stores on three sides of it. The store names are mounted broadly above the storefronts. I scan them from the passenger seat: The Limited … Wilson's Leather … OshKosh B'gosh … GAP … Stride Rite … The Candelabra … The Mill Outlet … they slide by my eyes like a filmstrip. As we park, I feel my eyes being pulled like magnets to metal to the far right corner of the storefronts. I want to avoid it, but I can't help looking. The store marquee is peaceful, yet looming; it seems almost to gently will me there, calling, "Geoffrey Beene."
As if to get the pain over with, or maybe because she saw me eyeing up the store, my mom blurts out excitedly, "Oh, I have a coupon! Your father needs a couple of new work shirts. Let's go into GOFFrey Beene first." I feel the whole composition of my very being melt as I hear the words. I know how this will play out, but I desperately want to succeed. "Mom …," I say with surprising evenness in my voice, "we've been over this. It's not GOFFrey … it's Geoffrey." She stares at me like she has never seen me before. Not as if she's trying to compute the truth in what I just said, but more like she has never seen my face before and she's wondering why I'm talking to her. My mother takes the blank stare to a new level. "It's just a different way to spell Jeffrey," I continue, now with a little pleading in my tone. "I grew up with lots of Geoffs who spelled it G-E-O. It's like Geoffrey the Giraffe from Toys R Us," I add, hoping the relevance will strike a familiar chord. Stlll the blank stare. She has no intention of believing what I'm saying. I'm not even sure she remembers my name at this point.
We get out of the car and walk towards the unfortunately named store. My body feels tired -- as if I'd been already been shopping for hours. Beads of sweat are appearing along my hairline and the back of my neck. I will never win this, I think. I will never convince her. I will never succeed.
We get two shirts without talking. My mother pleasantly chooses them off the discount rack, stands in line appraising her sale finds, and then finally arrives at the register all blissfully unaware that I am having a complete physical and mental breakdown. As she removes the contents of her purse in an orderly fashion to pay … brush … mirror … checkbook … lipstick … comb … scissors for precisely cutting coupons … (because everything in my mother's purse has to be in its correct place and the wallet is always on the bottom), she remembers that she has a coupon, and announces it to the cashier like his hair is on fire. "OH, I ALMOST FORGOT I HAVE A COUPON!" Everyone glances at her as she unzips another compartment of her purse and starts taking those contents out. She finds her little packet of coupons held together with a metal paper clip she's been using since before I was born. She takes off the clip and, one by one, goes through them. Finally, as if she's won bingo, she proclaims, "HERE, HERE IT IS! 10% off any purchase over $20 at GOFFrey Beene." It resonates in my head like a bad song. GOFFrey Beene, GOFFrey Beene, GOFFrey, GOFFrey, GOFFrey…"
I suddenly need air. I mutter to my mother that I would be outside. Somehow I wind my way through the racks and racks of pale blue shirts…one after another, over and over. Everything looks the same and I suddenly panic that I will never find the door and I will forever be lost in the GOFFrey Beene store with my mother in a sea of light-blue shirts. GOFFrey Beene, I think. Oh God, I am now saying to myself GOFFrey Beene. She has won.
Incidentally, this is a woman whose brother's name is George.
