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My first official full-time job in America before I became a serious career girl – and a legal alien with an Ivy League degree to boot – was at a French Connection clothing store, a European chain that sells really tapered men’s pants. Those pants I found were a hard sell when it came to American men. It was always the same question. “Do you have anything a little less snug?” It appears in the States, Dockers are the be-all and end-all and who can blame them? No one wants to see an overweight man walk around with Speedos for pants.

When I interviewed for the job, I was told that I would earn $12 an hour and would have an 8-hour shift with a 1-hour lunch break. I was told that there was a specific discount for employees at the store, which seemed a good enough perk because the clothing was up market – not haute couture – but for me, a $200 pants suit was nothing short of Alexander McQueen.

I started the next day and learned quickly that retail only looks easy, but is hard. There were only four tasks and one, working at the register, was off-limits unless you had worked at the store for at least a year, or were sleeping with the manager. Basically, you had to prove you could add up your numbers without being short, and that you didn’t have sticky fingers. The task I loathed the most was standing at the door while wearing a clown face to welcome people who mostly walked in without even acknowledging my hard-worked smile. I was a ghost and strangers whizzed past me, through me, like I didn’t exist. Another tedious task was roaming around the store, endlessly folding the clothes that shoppers unfolded. It was scream-worthy. Nothing irks more than watching a bored woman who you know is not in to buy anything, come in swishing her Starbucks Iced Latte, and then slowly unfold t-shirt after t-shirt. Folding the tabletop clothing comes hand-in-hand with ‘sizing’ the hanged-up clothes. Nothing beats going around all the sections arranging clothes in order from Size 0 to Size 12 and then doing that over and over from 9 a.m to 1 p.m. From time to time I’d lift my head up and there was my manager watching me all the way from the counter. As always, she’d wave at me, and wind up her hands around her mouth into a big C and then hush out in a loud whisper, “SMILE”. In that moment I wanted to cry. I would tell myself that if I didn’t look at my watch, enough hours would have passed by and it would almost be lunchtime. I’d wait for what I thought was a long while, and then finally peek down at my watch feeling proud of myself at ‘not looking for such a long time’, but only 15 minutes would be gone by and I’d be so depressed. Not to be theatrical but if I had a shotgun, I’d literally have shoved it in my mouth. And then another hour would pass by and I’d be so bored that my spirit would lift out of my body.  It was some kind of inadvertent Astral Travel, a state only arrived from intense meditation except mine was from excruciating boredom. The people who pay thousands of dollars to gain that experience at an Ashram in India would be maddened by this story. I would find myself hovering over my body wondering how I came to be this sorry person standing like a shell in this outrageous environment, and I’d be mostly cursing the tormenting frozen smile that hurt my cheeks and made me look like I was related to the Joker. To this day, I hate to smile. My feet were perpetually sore. I tried flat shoes, mid-heeled shoes, boots, it was all the same. During stock-taking, all the staff had to stay in all night, counting a ton of clothing. At end season, we had to pull another all night-er, re-designing the store. Nothing beats pulling a turtleneck over a mannequin’s head, or fitting it with knee-high’s. Brutal.

Retail stores have several tricks of the trade. The lights are always fluorescent in the display area to lighten the mood, but very soft in the dressing room to play down physical flaws. Stores use ‘skinny mirrors’ to give the illusion of thinness when customers try on clothes. Have you ever noticed that sometimes the clothes look fabulous on you in the fitting room, but when you get home, that black cocktail dress you purchased for your work dinner suddenly hangs off you like a muumuu? Another interesting trick is in goods placement. Some retail guru one day discovered that men tend to walk to the left and prefer to walk downstairs, while women walk to the right and have no squirms walking upstairs. That is why men’s and women’s departments are accordingly placed, in the more sophisticated stores that take this into account. Not surprisingly, accessories like shoes, belts and handbags are always placed in the back of the store, to force customers to walk by all the buyable items. Plus, don’t ever let them tell you that ‘it’s the last one’. Even if a store has 200 copies of an item, they might put just 10 out at a time to make it look special. This is also done on sales racks – sometimes just one of each size is displayed so people will think it might sell out and they’d better get it right away. And finally, have you ever walked into a store and the music was so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think? Then walked into another store and the music genre sounded so classical you thought you were at the Opera? The volume of music is adjusted depending on the day and time. Head Office decides on the genre usually as a match to what they feel their brand represents. For example, a hip store like The Gap, catering to a youthful crowd will play music louder on the weekends to seem like a happening place to hang out. Head Office dictates what music albums are to be played for the season. And then maybe two are put on a loop. If you work at the store, it’s slow murder. To this day, I’ll erratically start to screech, “If I could turn back time.” It happens anytime, anywhere, a totally involuntary movement triggered by a deeply embedded memory of Cher’s voice in my brain from the numbing loop. Psychiatrist I’m not, but I’m guessing it probably happens when the demons from my past are taunting me.

My favorite job was working the fitting rooms. I enjoyed keeping busy clearing up the rooms, hanging up the unwanted clothes, and giving women my opinion. I learned during my time in the retail business that being blunt, my trademark character, would quickly get me fired. I also learned never to compare my body with any woman’s as a benchmark. Once a woman asked me, “What size do you think I’d be in this shirt?” Rather than wisely say, “Let’s try you on a 2,” I replied, “Well I’m a Size 0 so you’d probably be a 2.”  That day, I got my first warning.

The clothing retail industry in the US is a superficial industry. High-end clothing stores and accessory shops are the most notorious. If you’re ugly, if you wear braces, have acne, are overweight or look disheveled you’re not getting the job. I watched girls come in and hand the manager their CVs, and she would smile and say that she’d call them if anything opened up, but as soon as they turned their backs, she’d hurl their CVs in the bin. A pretty girl would walk in, and the next day she’d have the job. It was predictable. Gays always got the job because 9 times out 10, they seemed industry-compatible; easy on the eye, well groomed, and enthusiastic about clothes, they saw retail as a starting point in a fashion career. Retail managers can be cruel. My manager at French Connection, a tall, handsome woman with a short cut to the side Bieber-like coif, said to me on my performance review that she had only 2 issues with me. “One – I’m wondering if perhaps your deodorant is not strong enough. I’d like to recommend Secret. Two – I think your skin is beautiful but you’re going to need to get a proper facial regiment. You’re quite flaky. I’d recommend Clinique.” And after that harsh whipping, I was left scrambling over my lunch break looking for both ‘Secret’ and ‘Clinique’. The latter I may add, cost more than my bi-weekly pay.

As it turned out, I ended up working in retail for a few years on and off as a tide to get me over the tough fiscal times. Even when I had a full-time career with a Masters degree, I still worked retail, because my work as a newspaper journalist living in one the most expensive cities in the US paid me the equivalent of the Vietnam Dong. As it turns out, malls in the US are open from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m., so there are a ton of collectable hours on the pay front. It’s also an easy way to get discounted quality clothing, handbags and shoes. In the end, I’d worked at a designer handbag shop, a shoe store, and two up market clothing stores.  Funny thing is, it’s only until you’ve had a dead end ‘job’ that you realize how much you want a ‘career’.

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