I first heard about The Sock Man from my too-cool, native New York acquaintances: My friend Alexandra Tatarsky (the type of person who still carries a T9 phone and wears bloomers in public—an East Village relic in her own right) waxed nostalgic about The Sock Man via e-mail. “I walked by The Sock Man every single morning and evening, to and from high school, getting reliable head nods from the Sock Man himself. He was the true saving grace of my trek,” she wrote. “Oh, the socks I’ve bought from The Sock Man! Neon fishnets I used to cut the crotch out of and wear as shirts around the turn of the millennium . . . UFO socks layered on top of rainbow toe socks . . . thick gray wool stockings when my style turned less raver and more deranged schoolgirl . . . ah, Sock Man! How grateful I am for thee!”

chloe sevingy Photo: Splash News

Then, of course, there’s Chloë Sevigny, eternally New York’s bastion of downtown cool. Sevigny often frequented The Sock Man, and even famously got into a public tiff with Rosen when the Daily News quoted her as saying, “I love that place, but the guy’s the grumpiest man on earth. He’s like the Soup Nazi, but he sells socks.” But these days there are nothing but fond memories for Sevigny. “I would go through the white bobby socks then, so I’d have to go in once a month and refill,” Sevigny told me over the phone. “I think it was ambitious, trying weird tights, stockings, like a polka dot or, like, ‘Oh, I can pull off a white tight even though I’m in my 30s.’ Just things like that, you always seem to have a romantic idea of trying it on. Now where are we going to go? We are going to have to fly to Japan to get our socks!”

There are rumors that Rosen will be doing bulk deliveries of orders more than $50 to Queens, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. There’s also his website, which looks like it may have been last updated in the early ’90s but has a functioning online store. Still, there’s nothing quite like buying something in the flesh, scouring every inch of the dank, cramped, and barely navigable shop, and to be here at the end feels like I’m bearing witness to a part of history. And so I get in the spirit and pick out a few things: a beanie with two shadows of strippers posing back-to-back, gloves with a glow-in-the-dark middle finger, and a pair of socks printed with the same rude symbol. I pay my last dollar in dimes and put on the gloves as I leave. Maybe I’m just another poser, one whose sense of outrage at gentrification isn’t quite earned by years spent here or significant personal history, but who is still saddened by the falling away of yet another thing that made New York feel cool. Or maybe I’m just another girl showing her support with her feet first.