Life, 1922-03-16 · page 22 of 34
Life — March 16, 1922 — page 22: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous short story by Henry William Hanemann satirizing poor retail service. A customer enters a store seeking simple items—wool socks, white shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs—but encounters an indifferent clerk who: - Is preoccupied with filing his nails ("safe for democracy"—a WWI-era phrase suggesting even trivial tasks serve the nation) - Repeatedly claims items aren't available in the customer's size - Offers only overpriced or soiled merchandise - Shows no genuine interest in helping The title "Sox Vobiscum" is a Latin pun on "Pax Vobiscum" (peace be with you), replacing peace with socks. The accompanying illustration depicts a street scene with an early automobile and pedestrians, accompanying the story's closing dialogue about not being "seen dead in a four-cylinder car"—likely mocking automotive snobbery of the era. The satire targets retail laziness and indifference to customers during what appears to be the 1920s.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
I took me five minutes to distract the sales clerk from his hobby. This. so far as I could discern, was making his fingernails safe for democracy. “Ah,” he remarked casually, putting away his tools, “you wish something?” “Now that you ask me,” I replied, “I'd like a pair of woolen socks.” “Oh yes—socks. Just a minute.” He took out a book and began writing. “Your autobiography, I presume,” said I by way of showing my interest. “Justaminnit,” he iterated absently, and continued writing. Before long— before another five minutes were up, that is—he again acknowledged my presence. “Now, what was it you wanted?” he asked. “Socks,” I replied; “see—those things in the case in front of you.” “Oh yes,” he said, “what kind?” “Woolen,” I replied. He reached behind him and brought * LIFE Sox Vobiscum Henry William Hanemann forth a tray. marked, “eight dollars a pair.” he yawned. “Oh no, not those,” I explained. “I want a pair of plain black woolen socks—heavy, but plain.” “Oh yes,” he said. I wished he would stop saying it. “Heavy, plain, black. I don’t think I have your size. Sorry. Did you want anything else?” “IT do,” said I. “I want some shirts. White ones, with——” “Certainly. Plain white shirts. I don’t imagine I have your size. They're twelve dollars apiece. “You wouldn’t care to look at them, would you?” he added. “I would, too,” I replied indignantly. The only possible specimen was soiled. “Look,” said I, “it’s dirty.” “The shirt will wash, you know,” he replied, pityingly, and tossed it aside. “Anything else?” “Eight dollars,” he re- And “Gloves,” I said, nettled. “Seven seventy-five; really haven't your size.” “Collars?” “All out of your size, I'm sur “Handkerchiefs?” “Handkerchiefs? Now that’s too Not one in the store your si “Enough!” I exclaimed. “Thank yo so very much.” . “Not at all,” he answered, languid On the way out, the little floor man: ger, or what not, bounced up to 1 “Yessir, yessir,” he announc bly. “Whattizit you want? What ce I show you—shirts, gloves, collar] handkerchiefs, socks—?” I glared at him with equal parts « contempt and scorn. “Wh-what’s the matter?” he aske “You're not my size,” I replied cold ly and passed through the gilded po} tals into the cleaner outside air. fur-lined: “G’wan, I tell yer! I wouldn’t be seen dead in a four-cylinder car comicbooks.com