The town that death (or at least dyeing) forgot

This summer I was back in my old home town staying at my brother's place and helping him spruce up the patio. I decided that the white wicker chairs would look sharper if the cushion covers were a dark shade of red instead of the dusty rose that they had always been. No problem – the covers are cotton, a simple run through the washing machine with some Tintex and we're done.

The next time we were at Jean Coutu, I looked around for that little mini-display of fabric dye which every drug store I know has hidden somewhere. It's that “somewhere” which is the biggest challenge in obtaining dye. It doesn't really fit into any standard category of product. It's like shoelaces or lint rollers. Asking for help is always my last resort, even in stores where sales assistants are in abundance. My general strategy in any large store is to look absolutely everywhere until my head is aching and my temper is frayed and then finally track down someone doing price checks and ask where the HELL do you keep the artichokes?? (My other bete noire, categorization-wise). It's implicit in my tone of voice and the fiery look in my eyes that I would like to curse the whole retail industry as I meekly follow the guy in the smock to aisle 4. So at Jean Coutu I finally did deign to ask one of the salesclerks where the fabric dye was kept, only to be told that they don't carry it. (Stay with me, this story has a big payoff at the end.)

All week, the same thing happened. Home Hardware (in my neighbourhood the ultimate source of rainbow hued fabric dye), Canadian Tire, the grocery store, Dollarama, Giant Tiger. At GT I was told that they used to carry it but don't any more. At this point I am beginning to suspect that there is a town by-law that forbids the alteration of fabric colours and speculate as to the rationale of such a law. I know when I lived there in the eighties and was attempting to create a pseudo-punk look, we used to dye things all the time. Ask my cousin about the time she cooked a goose for a big family dinner and realized that she was using the same roast pan in which she had dyed a skirt after the gravy inexplicably came out a shade of sick greasy blue. Maybe that kind of thing created a backlash against colour modification, and the town fathers decided that, damn it, if God had wanted you to wear purple long johns, he'd have made them that way.

Finally my brother and I are at Shopper's and we run into an acquaintance working there who is a virtual oral historian of the availability of fabric dye in this small town. Who used to carry it, when they stopped, and most importantly, which store is the final hold-out in this town-wide prohibition on fabric dye. It's Buckaroo's, just down the street, but unfortunately they closed at 5:00 and we'll have to wait until tomorrow to go. (Hang in, I'm almost done..)

Next afternoon, we go to Buckaroo's. I do my usual aisle-wandering, which in a dollar store is never a bad thing anyways. Finally I go up to the cash and ask the man working there where they keep their fabric dye. He gestures with his head behind where I'm standing, and sure enough, directly across from the cash is that once-familiar looking rack of Tintex fabric dye. As I pick up two boxes of crimson dye and he rings them through, I express my surprise at the odd choice of location, so close to the cashier. He laughs and tells us that they have to keep the dye where they can keep an eye on it because (punchline!) it gets shop-lifted if they don't! Shop-lifted! My mind is a-whirl with conflicting thoughts at this startling piece information. Well, of course it gets shop-lifted! The town has created a virtual black market for the stuff, like blue jeans in Soviet Russia. Then I think, maybe it's the other way around. Maybe all the other retailers were losing money and on the brink of bankruptcy by carrying this valuable commodity and having it walk out the door stuffed down the boot tops of local criminals. Which is chicken, which egg?

All I know is that for the rest of my visit, I was looking askance at anyone wearing an oddly coloured piece of clothing. And that included my bohemian nephew. So where exactly did you buy those red pants, Ryan?