handling industrially

The sign on the white work van in the parking lot said "Industrial Handling" in black letters. Duly noted. I entered the Shopping Temple (i.e., mall) at the Lord & Taylor entrance and strolled through the aisles, passing through invisible clouds of fragrances pour homme, pour femme, pour vous, pour moi, pour anyone. Without being asked for a passport or visa, I passed from the spice-, herb-, mineral-, and floral-infused fragrance domains into a new country, The Land of Emollients. Behold a liquid arsenal of softening secrete agents; salves, balms, potions, lotions, creams. A festival of mollificaring, appeasing, pacifying, soothing. Just the word, emollient, softening its surrounding syllables. A haven of healing for those of us marred by Industrial Handling. Those of us man[gender-neutral]handled, scarred, scratched, or atrophied into scaly, itchy Walking Wounded. We the thick-skinned survivors of industrial-scale emotional, perhaps even physical, handling, more accurately, mishandling. We the escapees out from under the thumb of verbal racks and industrial-strength conveyors of caustic charm. And who among us has not qualified at one time or another as a candidate for  the Legion de Malhonneur? Sure, maybe we naively or hopefully enlisted for our manufactured misery. Some of us stumbled into the 55-gallon drum of acidic animosity or arid indifference, slowly leaking. So be it. We paid the cost of Industrial Handling, didn't we? A cost too dear. But for now we welcome with open arms (and hands, legs, faces, necks, you-name-it) every variety, brand, and concoction of moisturizing healing; every texture, thickness, consistency, and volume of unguent; all and every extreme unction, to anoint our sickness. And theirs, too; the Industrial Handlers. I stopped. I asked two ladies in waiting at the counter in The Land of Emollients for a sample. Your most excellent and edifying elixir, please. They knew right away. No hesitation or forethought. This is it. The taller of the two Emollient Ambassadors (she with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes) placed a small tube, 0.5 oz. / 15 g, in my left hand. I curled my fingers around the tube, made a slight bow, and turned around. I exited the store. The white work van was gone. Frisson accomplished.