“Aren't these black?” he asked, pointing to his caramel-colored loafers.
Stan bought a lot of shoes after that, in a wide variety of colors, as a thank-you.
My favorite customer, though, was Lloyd Kerner, a writer who thought he could only sell screenplay pitches if he had on a brand-new pair of shoes. Lloyd wasn't one of the guys who hit on me, and thank goodness for that or what happened wouldn't have resulted in one of the best days of my life (which I'll get to in a minute).
See, Lloyd was a sorry-looking guy in nice clothing, though the clothes never looked as good on him. He was a really thin guy, and the expensive clothes he bought just hung on him and never looked dapper, even when I had the tailor completely alter them. It was like . . . remember Pigpen from the
Peanuts
comics and the way that even if he took a shower he was still dirty afterward? That was kind of like Lloyd, except Lloyd didn't look dirty, he just looked bad. Also, he was the kind of guy who always seemed like he had a cold. He even talked like it too:
“Do you habe dese Conberse All Stars ind my sidze? Amb I cool enough to wear dem?” he'd ask as he blew his nose.
Another fantastic thing about Lloyd: he was always fretting about something, whether it was his latest script or an idea for a new one. He was quite the anxiety-prone guy. It had begun to become quite obvious, when Lloyd started coming in twice a week for new shoes, that all his worrying shouldn't have amounted to anything. When an invitation came to the premiere of his new movie, along with a note, “Thanks for the lucky Converse slip-ons,” I knew that I was dealing with someone crazy, yet very successful, and I began urging him to buy shoes even when he didn't have a screenplay to pitch.
“Maybe this one will make you write that really great scene?” I said to him one day.
That's how I sold him the $375 Sciapo pull-on boots in both brown and black.
In other words, Lloyd was every saleswoman's dream. He had all the money in the world to buy anything I told him to buy, and he always came back for more. I also genuinely liked Lloyd. I enjoyed soothing his wounds when the girl wouldn't go out with him or when the one who would go with him first class to Hawaii dumped him after the trip.
One day Lloyd came in, in a panic. He had been dating Kate (the actress who had never landed a part) for six months and it was getting serious.
“I'm going do meed Kade's family in Kentuggy. I can't shop wid anyone else bud you,” he said. “I thing dis could be the girl. Can you helb me?”
And so I started helping Lloyd buy other things besides shoes. I gotta be honest with you, I'd never shopped for a guy in my life. I didn't know what men wanted. I had also never been to Kentucky so I didn't know what people wore there. After a year of hearing about the girls who wanted nothing to do with him, I wanted to help Lloyd in any way I could.
“Not to worry,” I said, putting my arm around him. “I'll take care of you.”
Eight sweaters, seven pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans, three button-down shirts, two sports jackets, and a suit later, I had sold $25,000 in merchandise. The buzz of my sale went all the way from first-floor women's shoes and jewelry to fifth-floor men's suits. It wasn't like salespeople hadn't made bigger sales. After all, this was the Beverly Hills Barneys. It was that I'd come from shoes and was able to sell throughout the store. When I got my commission, I treated both Peaches and myself to a day at the salon followed by shiatsu massages (yes, they do that for dogs in Los Angelesâgo figure).
Lloyd was thrilled with his purchases, and he really looked good. Or as good as Lloyd could, anyway. The powers that be at Barneys loved me. For the first time in my life, I was good at what I did.
Like I said in the beginning, it feels good to do good work.
This set the stage for one of the best days of my life (and the eighth one in this essay).
A few weeks later, Lloyd came back from Kentucky engaged, his fiancée, Kate, in tow with him.
“Id was the black cashdmere sweder that did it,” he said, wiping his nose.
“It wasn't just that,” Kate smiled, kissing his cheek. “But it certainly helped.”
At first it was just little things that Lloyd would call over for.
“Do you dnow of a nice sports jacket I could wear? I'm oud of socks.”
Pretty soon I was making trips to Lloyd's house to drop off or have him try on clothes. That's when Kate got into it.
“Hi, Alex,” she called. “Lloyd just got nominated for another Golden Globe. Do you know of anything in the store that I could wear?”
So I started shopping for Kate.
I chose not only Kate's wedding dress but four engagement-party dresses with the right jewelry and everything for their honeymoon in the Maldives, from bikinis to underwear (La Perla of course). After two years of this, Kate was pregnant with their first child and I was clothing a second generation.
That was when I knew that I was on to something.
“You know,” I said to color-blind Stan Mitchell one day as he was trying on a pair of pink crocodile half boots. “I'm sure this is your style, and it's a good one, but now that we know about the color-blind thing, do you realize that you're matching a pair of pink crocodile half boots with a cashmere sweater in orange sherbet?”
“Pink?” he yelled out. “What's pink? What's orange?”
“Okay,” I said calmly. “I just didn't know if this was some kind of signature look for you or something, and that's okay if it is, style is all about bringing out your personality. It's just that knowing you as well as I have for the last year, I don't think pink and orange sherbet are your colors. Maybe we could work something out like hiring me to be a personal shopper for you.”
“Why doesn't anyone else tell me these things?” he asked, getting all in a tizzy.
“You are a very successful man,” I told him. “People get intimidated by that so they don't want to say anything. Look, let's go over to the men's clothing section and put a few things together and we'll see how things go. If you like what I pick out, maybe we continue working on your wardrobe.”
That's how I got Stan Mitchell as a client.
“You know,” I told Lou Sernoff one day as I grabbed his orthotic from the back, “as long as I'm keeping your orthotic for you, maybe I should get your clothing sizes to see if anything goes with the shoes you pick out.”
“If you could do for me what you did with Stan Mitchell, I'll pay you 20 percent above what I buy.”
With three clients to shop for in between manning the CO-OP Shoes section, I was constantly racing back and forth between the departments when new shipments came in. With the word out that Lloyd and Stan and Lou had someone at Barneys as their personal shopper, other customers came in. Within the year I had picked up four more clients with 20 percent commission above what I sold and the powers that be at Barneys were on to my second occupation.
“But I only get clothes from Barneys,” I told the powers.
“And that's great, but that's not what we hired you to do. Just as long as you're not taking off the top.”
That's when I got scared.
The next day I approached Lloyd about the situation.
“I'm thinking about going out on my own, but there's one problem that I need to take care of,” I told him. “If I continue to be your personal shopper, I'm going to have to up my fee to 30 percent of the cost so that I can afford health insurance.”
“Thirdy percent,” he pondered as I smoothed his new Harris Tweed sports jacket. “Led me think about it.”
I followed that with the other guys.
“You're worth it,” Stan Mitchell exclaimed as I had him fitted for a new black suit. “I'm in for 30 percent.”
“I'm in for 30 percent,” Lloyd told me.
“If Stan and Lloyd are okay with it, so am I,” Lou Sernoff told me.
After four years at Barneys, I gave my notice. Walking out of the beautiful department store that had given me the means for my future, I promised that most of my shopping would be done there. And it was.
To begin to describe to you the feeling I had on the eighth best day, let me put it this way: I didn't call my parents and Penelope and other friends to share the good news so I could rake in some congratulatory adulation. I didn't need that. All I needed was the feeling within myself that I had done a good job. I had done it all by myself without the help of anyone.
Don't get me wrong here. I know that being a personal shopper is not exactly curing cancer. It might sound like a vain business to get into, but, to me, I was helping people feel good about themselves. It was something you just saw in the person when they'd look at themself in the mirror. Somehow, putting on the right suit or the right pair of shoes made these men stand a little straighter, more confidently. It was an indisputable look on their faces, this look of poise and distinction they exuded every time I leaned down to straighten a cuff or smooth a jacket line.
I can't say that I hold myself completely responsible for Lloyd finding a woman who loves him for who he is. I can't say it was me alone who caused Stan Mitchell to write an Oscar-winning screenplay. I will honestly say, though, that when you have the ability to make the presentation look a little more presentable, it can break down some of the walls in your life, bringing the things you want that much closer.
I had been back to Philadelphia a total of three times in the four years I had been living in Los Angeles. Twice my father had been away on business, and once, when he was home, we kept our distance from each other. It had become easy to slip by each other when I was home. Since my father worked sixteen-hour days, by the time he came home I was already situated in the family room watching television or in my room under my old pink canopy bed. He just stayed away.
This time was different though. Coming home to visit in the past, I was still the girl who hadn't quite made it on her own yet. Now I was a grown-up: I was running a business, my life was my own, and it had nothing to do with my father, financially or otherwise.
The first few days after I got home, we snuck around each other as we had the times before. Old habits don't die.
Then one night, three nights into my stay, I went into the kitchen at around midnight to pour myself some cereal. I actually thought my dad had come home already and was in his study or bedroom. Hearing the key being inserted into the back door in the garage, I suddenly felt like I was trespassing in some way.
“Oh hi,” he said, entering, looking as displaced as I felt.
“Hi,” I said, putting my cereal spoon down.
My dad started to walk out of the kitchen, but then he turned around and walked toward the refrigerator so I got up and put my bowl in the sink.
“That's all right,” he said, grabbing a soda out of the fridge, “you go ahead and eat.”
So I took the bowl out of the sink and went back to the table. I really didn't want any more cereal, but I knew if there was anytime we'd talk, this was it.
“Late night?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Yeah. We've got some developers from Hong Kong in for the week.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
My dad took a seat at the table and we sat in silence for another few minutes. My cereal had become mushy.
“So, you getting along well out there?” he asked.
“Yeah, everything is great.”
“Mom said you started a business for yourself. You're shopping for people?”
“Yeah, I'm a personal shopper. A lot of people can't shop for themselves out there.”
This made him chuckle.
“Yeah, those crazy people in la-la land,” he said.
“I guess,” I chuckled back.
“So, living out there is treating you right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I like it. It's, it's home now.”
“Good. Good for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
We sat in silence for another few minutes.
“Well,” he said, putting down his soda and leaving it on the table, “that's good. I'm glad everything is working out for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Okay, good night then.”
“Night, Dad,” I said as I watched him leave the room.
Had I known that this was the last conversation we'd ever have together, I would have told him that I loved him.
I just didn't know.
What do you think? Do you think he knows I'll always love him?
I hope so.
Jeez, I really wish I could get down to earth to tell him already.
9
What would you do if you knew you only had one more day on earth? Would you really do anything differently?
Let's just say, for argument's sake, you get up that morning and go to your e-mail and there's a note from yourguardianangel@ saying:
Dear Alex,
This is to inform you that this is your last day on earth. Make it a good one.
Signed,
Your Guardian Angel
Okay, so what would you do?
If I were to do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I'd think about it like a birthday. You know how when it's your birthday and you wake up a little happier that day and everyone is really nice to you and people sing “Happy Birthday” a couple of times and someone gives you the obligatory cupcake or piece of cake with a candle in it at dessert, but you go on with a normal day? You know how sometimes through the day, though, when it starts to feel like any other day you catch yourself and say, “Wait, today is my birthday!” And then that little spark of glee is back inside you and you go on with a smile on your face? That's probably the only thing I would have done differently. I would have taken a step back and taken a breath as I looked around and said to myself, “Today is the last day of my lifeâmake it a good one.”