Does This Come In Black?

Having worked for the State Senate, a museum, and several prestigious charities, earning six-figure salaries, I’m embarrassed to admit that when the economy crashed in the late 90s, and I was laid off, I became… A shoe salesman.

Rather than take unemployment, I decided to seek out a simple, easy position among the great unwashed until I could land another job in public relations.

I nonchalantly applied for a clerk position in the stockroom of Heller’s, a local shoe store. When I was interviewed by Hyram Heller, the smarmy, mercurial owner, he informed me that the stockroom job was taken.

“Have you ever considered a job in sales? It’s just like public relations,” he said, sucking me in. “You’ve got the gift of gab. It’d be a cinch for you.”

“…Well, I don’t know…”

“I’m gonna have a position open in a month or so. Think about it.”

He called me the following day to offer me a job.

As I walked through the hallowed doors of Heller’s Shoe Store (frequently referred to as “the hell of Heller’s), a disgruntled employee passed by me, yelling a colorful departing message:

“&%$#! this place!”

A twisted version of Amy Winehouse’s song “Rehab,” which I retitled “Retail,” ran through my mind:

“Hey, you wanna go into retail? You should say ‘no, no, no!’”

Lactose Lady

I used to laugh at Al Bundy’s life as a beleaguered shoe slinger on TV’s “Married With Children” …until I became him.

My most memorable customer was an unassuming-looking woman with a baby. She requested a pair of flats, and I dutifully went back to the stockroom, wondering how she intended to put them on while holding her child.

When I returned, she had her blouse open and was nursing her baby.

“You can put the shoes down,” she said.

I tried to look away, holding out the flats as if they were covered in manure.

The baby took a break from lunch. Looking up at me slyly, he smiled and smacked his lips, saying, “Yum, Yum!” It was one of those “I can’t unsee this” moments. Worse, mom didn’t seem to mind that I was looking at her bare bosom, giving me a frighteningly similar smile.

Blackout Business

When a massive Nor’easter blacked out most of the East Coast, we were still expected to show up for work -- even though we had no electricity… Nothing says blackout like a new pair of shoes! We could use natural light to see around the stockroom until the sun went down, but then the stockroom became a pitch-black booby trap, with shelves with knife-like corners, boxes heavy as anvils that jumped off the shelves, and rickety, unreliable ladders.

One ladder decided to fold back up while I was climbing it. I ended up crashing face-first into three tiers of orthopedic loafers. Another time, I missed a step during my descent and ended up lying on the concrete floor, only to have the ladder fall on top of me.

I came up with a novel solution to help us navigate through the darkness, taping a flashlight to my head.

Since the town was in a state of emergency, we averaged only four or five customers a day. They all made the same comment when entering the store: “I can’t believe you’re open!”

One day, after sunset, when I was having trouble seeing my hand in front of my face, a woman standing on the other side of the showroom held up a shoe and asked, “Is this black?”

“From here, Miss, everything looks black!”

There was a river nearby that flooded the store whenever it rained heavily. If a storm was coming, we’d place sandbags throughout the storeroom to protect the stock, but there was little we could do to protect the showroom. The store had once been a car dealership, and the ramp leading to the showroom had never been removed, so water cascaded down it like a waterfall. It would take a week or more for the rugs to dry out. In the meantime, the rugs smelled like dead muskrats, and our shoes would make a discouraging squishing sound whenever we crossed the floor.

You Make How Much?

With a base salary of $230.00 per week, there was significant staff turnover. On the first and only day we worked together, Meg, a career saleswoman who was used to raking in thousands per week, asked me what my take-home pay was. When I told her my paltry sum, her eyes rolled back, and she went into shock. When her turn for lunch came, Meg took her newspapers, pocketbook, and umbrella with her, saying she’d be back. Since the rain had passed and the sun was shining brightly, we all grew suspicious. We never saw Meg again.

I never professed to be Norma Rae, but there were a few unscrupulous business practices that were shoved down our throats that we were expected to swallow. Because most of the employees were transients, English-impaired, or unemployable elsewhere, they never noticed they were being paid like it was 1898, not 1998.

The rules regarding sales and returns were designed to keep the staff from making a living. If you sold $400 worth of shoes and they were returned, they were subtracted from that day’s tally. I was once encouraged to let a customer buy $1,500 worth of shoes, knowing she would take them to her daughter in college and bring most of them back. I walked in the door a week later and found myself at minus $1,300 before I’d even clocked in. I sold $1,200 worth of shoes that day, meaning I ended up minus $100, which wasn’t worth putting my shoes on and coming to work.

You Gotta Laugh

Morale on the job was low, so we made it a point to laugh whenever we could.

Since the job only required us to be retrievers, the sales staff was given the additional task of answering incoming calls. Heller told us there would be dire consequences if the phone rang more than twice and we didn’t jump on it like it was a live hand grenade. If the call was for the bookkeeper or one of the other exalted brain trusts in the office, we would pick up the microphone next to the telephone and bellow “PHONE, LINE ONE!” into it like we were a captain asking for more steam. Theoretically, someone in the office was supposed to jump on the line. More often than not, the caller was left in limbo because everyone expected someone else to pick up.

Sal, a new employee, was anxious to make an impression. When the phone rang, he jumped into action. Picking up the microphone, he yelled, “Hello? Hello!” as the telephone continued to ring.

I called the manager “The Jellyfish” because he had no backbone. He wouldn’t hesitate to throw the salespeople under the bus if it kept Heller from railing at him. His face was often crimson from worry, embarrassment, or, as we later found out, the booze he was sneaking to help him get through the day.

We all marveled at Vinnie, who was eighty-two, had been in the shoe business for fifty years, and was still putting in 34 ½ hours per week (Thirty-five hours made you a full-time employee, which meant Heller had to provide medical insurance, so we all worked half an hour short of that landmark number.) Vinnie climbed ladders, took on the most difficult customers, and doled out sage shoe advice.

One of the store’s more draconian rules was that salespeople were not allowed to sit, even if no one was in the store or at any other time during their grueling eight-plus-hour shift. For relief, we leaned against counters or walls or dropped to a knee on one of the stools. The wall next to the cash register was such a popular resting spot that the varnish had been rubbed off of it. Passing by it one afternoon, I paused when I heard an unusual sound. Vinnie was leaning against the wall. His eyes were open, but he was snoring.

Bullish Buster was our stockroom clerk. He was polite, sarcastic, and caring, but also had a distinct Bronx bad-boy/made-man air about him. We knew that if he ever lost it, shooting him six or seven times would have no effect. Buster was on a ladder one afternoon, trying to change a light, when enough voltage to run a village passed through him, standing his hair on end. For a moment, I thought I saw Buster’s skeleton.

Buster had a problem with Christmas. He’d lost his mother then, hinting it wasn’t due to natural causes. He obliterated the pain by getting obliterated.

Intoxicated or stoned employees were the norm, so we thought nothing of it when Buster passed by us smelling like a distillery. I watched him bump into a hand truck and say “Excuse me” before wobbling up the hallway.

We witnessed what looked like a badly choreographed version of “Swan Lake” as Buster bounced from wall to wall. The floor manager saw Buster go into the men’s room around two o’clock – at least we thought he was in there because the fan was on. It stayed on, and it was still running when we were getting ready to close at six o’clock.

Thinking Buster had passed out, I banged on the door. There was no answer, except for the cool breeze blowing underneath it.

Telling Buster I was coming in, I turned the doorknob.

He wasn’t inside.

We searched the store for half an hour. Figuring wherever he was, he was unconscious, we went home.

It turned out he had pulled a Meg and left after lunch.

Fresh meat came in the person of Damon, who came in for his interview drunk, the smell of Smirnoff on him stronger than his aftershave. I pulled him aside, offering him a roll of mints.

He got the job.

There weren’t many sales associates who survived the grueling boredom, poverty, and prison camp mentality perpetuated by management for more than a handful of months. El Tigre (I called him that because he had a hot temper that was quick to ignite) was young, around eighteen. I wanted him to succeed because he could be polite and respectful, and he needed the money.

He left in a flurry of hurled heels and the traditional “&%$#! this place!” when he thought he was being cheated.

Andora was a ruthless Russian with a propensity for getting pregnant who had a tired-looking husband who resembled Shrek.

Lucia was a pretty Peruvian who frequently fractured her English. A typical conversation with Lucia sounded like this:

“I need a sleep on.”

“A nap?”

“No, a sleep on. Something with no laces attached.”

“A loan?”

“What? No, everybody is here.”

Clarissa stole customers and had the disposition of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her authentic Jamaican lunches were so poisonously pungent that we often opened the doors in the dead of winter to keep from losing our own lunch.

Simon was bilingual. Unfortunately, he was also bipolar, a bad fit for a frustrating job that called for patience. Then there was Dan, a tall, woe-is-me type, whose ex-wife was siphoning every dime he made. He was a caretaker for an elderly couple selling their house, so having a roof over his head was an ongoing concern. He barely had enough money to eat, as evidenced by his poking a hole in his belt every week so his pants wouldn’t fall down.

Alexis was a seventeen-year-old girl on the verge of womanhood who knew she was beautiful. She used her charms to coax teenage boys into expensive purchases, like a siren luring a ship onto a rock. She revealed her true personality when she showed up for work wearing a cast on her wrist, proudly saying she got it by trashing another girl for disrespecting her.

Farting Around

Vinnie had an incredible constitution. I had to watch what I ate, but Vinnie could quaff an Italian submarine with hot peppers, onions, and hot sauce and suffer no ill effects. Then his doctor changed his medication, turning Vinnie into a gasbag. He passed by me at one end of the showroom one day and tooted all the way across it, an impressive distance of at least one hundred feet.

Vinnie wasn’t the only gassy culprit. A customer at the checkout counter let one rip in front of us and continued to act as if nothing was amiss, even after the cashier started to gag.

Celebrity Shoes

Because the store was located in opulent Westchester County, New York, celebrities and other notables who lived in the area often popped in. Late one spring day, a tall, shapely woman with dark hair and sunglasses glided in.

Smiling politely, she asked in a delightful British accent, “Do you carry Christian Louboutin?”

I thought about saying he was too heavy for me to lift, but I mumbled, “Sorry, no, we don’t.”

“Pity!” she said. Winking at me, she pinched my cheek, departing.

Three giddy salesgirls suddenly surrounded me.

“Did you know who that was?” one asked. “Catherine Zeta-Jones! And she flirted with you!”

That pinch made me feel better than a thousand-dollar sale.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ back arched like a tabby cat ready to strike after nothing fit her, and Dan, imitating Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, joked, “No shoes for you!” Laurence Luckinbill (Lucy Arnaz’s husband) was humble, humorous, and easy-going. He openly joked he had horrendous, hard-to-fit feet. He wasn’t exaggerating. His feet looked like they needed horseshoes. Vanessa Williams’ nose was so far up in the air I thought about renting it out as a ski jump.

Bill and Hillary Clinton were frequent visitors. I had a lengthy discussion with Bill (yes, I could call him that) about baseball that convinced me he was far more intelligent than his aw-shucks country boy persona would lead you to believe.

Hillary wanted a pair of pumps that were too large for her so badly that she was willing to let me stuff them with insoles and pads. A week later, a picture of Hillary, minus a shoe, climbing the steps of the Capitol building appeared in the Daily News. At the bottom of the steps was one of the pumps I’d sold her.

The Vortex

I got another unexpected anatomy lesson one afternoon when a woman wearing a short skirt came in to try on some cowboy boots. The proper procedure is to put a plastic bag in the boot so the customer’s foot can easily slip in and out. I forgot, so I ended up trying to yank it off by pulling on the heel. When that didn’t work, I asked her to put her leg up on my shoulder for more leverage. I quickly realized she was going commando. Suddenly, I had no shortage of salesmen to “assist” me.

A woman came in one day who was so big that when she turned sideways, she eclipsed the sun. She proudly announced, “I’m a size five.” I wanted to reply, “You haven’t been a size five since you were five,” but restrained myself.

In trying to help her, I entered the realm I later dubbed “the Vortex.”

Some customers like to browse. They’ll spend hours looking around and not buy anything. In the meantime, the salesperson is running back and forth with dozens of pairs of shoes like a trained chimp. When you’re stuck in shoe purgatory running in place, you’re in “the vortex.”

(I later came up with a name for customers who bought shoes only to return them a few days later. Tina Turner was a popular singer at the time. Any customer who two-timed me was tagged a “Tina Returner.”)

I ended up shuttling back and forth to the stockroom twenty-four times for my corpulent customer. (Sad to say, record for marathon shoe shuffling was forty-four trips.) I thought I’d have to use a crowbar and a jar of Vaseline to get the shoes on her feet. She became indignant when I suggested that she should consider size nine. When I told her it was a “European size” and therefore an American size five, she took the shoes.

Yes, we lied to our customers. Freddy, who knew no bounds, was once asked if a pair of shoes was waterproof. “Oh, yes! Of course! You can swim in them!” he answered, smiling.

The shoes were made of wicker.

Freddy got his comeuppance when a pretty young woman came in, detached her leg, and asked him to fit her for pumps.

I prided myself on never letting a problematic customer get the better of me. One old man invariably did.

The floor manager, an industrious Hispanic woman, was the first to greet the grizzled, grey-haired old coot.

“Nope. Get away,” he grumbled.

Figuring the problem was gender related, I moved in.

Seeing a Black man coming at him, he growled, “No way!”

So, race and gender were his issues.

The other two salespeople were Hispanic.

“That’s what’s the matter with this country!” the old coot raved. “Foreigners and welfare cheats!”

“I have a job, mister,” I said. “How about you?”

“I bet your shoes come from China and Mexico! Isn’t anything made in America anymore?”

“The sign above the door is,” I replied, pointing to the exit sign.

I should thank that old man because he inspired me to start singing in bands again. I started out doing weddings and made four times as much money in a day as I did in an entire week slinging shoes.

A few years later, when I was serving as Public Relations Director for a State Senator, I represented him at Chappaqua’s Memorial Day Parade. I found myself walking alongside the Clintons. Bill recognized me right away. Shaking my hand vigorously, he said, “Sure beats selling shoes, doesn’t it?”