Jacket, please

February 2012, Shanghai China:

 

The hour is getting late.  It’s quite cold outside, as the Velvet Lounge empties patrons onto the streets of Shanghai’s French Concession.  I double-check the 2 plastic tokens in my pocket which contain the magic numbers of our coats at the coatcheck near the entrance.  Long Long tells me we’re ready to leave.  I head out to the coatcheck to pick up my long black p-coat  and her Chinese-tailored cashmere coat. 

 

The girl behind the counter sits, playing a game on her no-name android phone.  She looks up, slightly annoyed.  I hand her the plastic tokens for coat number ’62’ and ’63’.  There are a total of 4 coats hanging lonely on the racks behind her.  She hands my long black p-coat then goes to retrieve Long Long’s coat.  She comes back and hands me a men’s ski jacket. 

 

In Chinese, I politely tell the girl that the jacket isn’t mine.  I tell her that the jacket I’m looking for is a woman’s jacket.  She replies with strength and conviction, that , no – this jacket is number ’63’.  And ’63’ is mine.  I crack a smile at her insistence.  She doesn’t flinch.  I explain to her again that the jacket is a man’s jacket – and I’m looking for a petite woman’s jacket. 

 

The coat check girl digs her feet in a bit.  She has a job to do: in the beginning of the night, take the coat, give a number.  At the end of the night, take the number, hand back the matching coat.  The coat matches the number. Therefore, by transitive property, the coat is mine.  I wonder if she isn’t understanding my Chinese – my pronunciation is poor and sounds like the equivalent of my dancing at a wedding – a bit awkward. 

 

I use my hands to gesture that my Long Long is only 5 feet 3″.  She’s a little person.  This jacket, number 63, is for a big person.  I explain to her again, the mistake.  But, I’m also peaking behind her back.  Long Long’s jacket isn’t on the rack.  Is the girl trying to cover up her mistake?  I look back at her again and explain that I have the wrong jacket.  The girl is now turning red with anger at me.  She isn’t covering up anything.  She clearly believes that number 63 is number 63.  She cannot waiver or fathom a possibility that the men’s ski jacket in my hand isn’t my Long Long’s.  She crosses her arms, sits down on her chair, her profile facing away from me, and pulls her phone out of her pocket.  She has finished her task.   And Long Long has lost her coat.