Yesterday was surreal, and the comparisons to the similarly titled book began well before Andrea called me this afternoon, asking me to come by and watch the movie (which, by the way, fixed some of the things that bugged me about the book, but lost some ground in the adaptation, as well, and especially in the ending that made me want to claw my eyes out until Meryl Streep made it almost all better at the very last second, because she’s awesome).
You’re right: that whole paragraph was all one sentence.
Anyway.
Yesterday, I was dispatched to a lingerie store that is in the same price range as La Perla, but without the cloying sultriness. I was alarmed to discover, on arrival, that there would only be the two of us in the tiny store, because, when you think about it, having worked in my college bookstore for a year and owning an all-black work outfit does not remotely qualify me to be half of the sales force for a store I had never set foot in before.
Consider: I had no information about the product, didn’t know where anything was, had no idea what their order process was or how to ring up a sale–I arrived entirely useless. And my very remote coworker showed no inclination to help much.
“What can I know to be more helpful?” I asked at the first opportunity.
“Well…fold these,” she said. “Three times, into the bag, and make sure this side of the tag shows. Then…well, I’ll just put them away.” Which meant that any time someone tried on something she didn’t buy, I would have about 30 seconds of work. Which was something, but I still couldn’t answer questions–I knew nothing about size or color availability, and nothing about what might be better for long torsos or have less lace. Hell, I didn’t even know which of the ten drawers behind us the things I was folding would go into.
So it was a tense few hours to start, but things began to look up. The highlight came when a woman cursed at me after I told her the price of a bikini top. She stormed out before I could check the tag on the bottom half, but I felt Coworker’s appraisal when I didn’t flinch, and her opinion went up further when I ran four blocks to catch the FedEx guy.
By the time the manager called, I was starting to think this place wasn’t so horrible after all, which was just as well, since she was calling to ask me to stay longer. “I’m coming in to close; I need you two to go up to the Madison store. And can you tell Coworker to put some Fall catalog pieces into a shopping bag for me?”
Understand that there was never any indication of what we might be doing up there that would take us past both stores’ closing time. And it’s not like I didn’t ask. So imagine my surprise when the store was packed with reasonably fabulous people sipping champagne (rosé or brut), and Coworker had to show her catalogs to the security guard to get us in.
Although I have never been more painfully conscious of my ridiculously dated black pants, I was obscenely flattered when a man practically demanded that I take some champagne, and a girl swooped in to ask for my coat. Suspecting that neither service would have been entirely appropriate, I stammered a bit and blindly followed Coworker, who got further ahead each time. But…it was nice to be asked.
It was only a matter of time, of course, before the PR woman for the French stores with the absurd red dye job crowned me the new coatcheck girl. It didn’t work like that, precisely: she walked up and asked me if I was doing coatcheck. Not realizing that she was running the show (and apparently I was not alone in that), I perkily rattled off, “I’m actually not, but I’m sure I can find the person who is for you!”
“No, no,” she said. “I’m saying: she’s leaving. You’re doing it now. Show her how!” and sailed off.
Old Coatcheck Girl gave me a guilty look as we headed into the back. “Sorry about that,” she said. “You just…take coats. She just means for people as they come in.”
And so then I mistakenly assumed that the woman whom La Redhead (and sometimes Old Coatcheck Girl!) had been talking to for ten minutes before I was drafted must have already been asked. So, I let her stand there for five more minutes without asking her myself. “Like her,” hissed La Redhead, after abruptly excusing herself from the woman. “You have to go up to people; you can’t just stand there!”
From then on, every time she saw a new person come in, La Redhead glared at me and jerked her head toward them (no matter that I was already visibly on my way each time).
It was nice to chat with some of the Madison employees, though, and the model who occasionally strutted through the throng in various swimsuits turned out to have a sense of humor about the whole scene. I became especially fond the woman who kept fussing that so few of the actual clients (who had received invitations and had RSVP’ed and had gift bags all ready and waiting for them) were showing up. “There are plenty of people here, sure,” she fretted, “but no–just look at that pile of gift bags. No one’s really coming.”
I don’t know why. It was a lovely party.
I do know that, when I finally was sent home (I told the woman who released me that I had been taking coats, but didn’t bother to speak with La Redhead. Let her stew), a woman stopped me on my way out.
“Are they giving anything away?” she whispered. “I got an invitation, but I don’t know if I really want to go.”
“Oh! You’re a client?”
She nodded.
“Gift bags. Ask the guy at the door; you won’t even have to step in.” And I tried for the bus, but eventually fell into a cab, where I raced home to my kitchen where, at 9pm, I finally managed to push my calorie count above 200 for the day.
Just like in the book.