Customer Service, Delhi Style

Macy’s flagship store on 34th Street in Manhattan sits squately 160 or so blocks from my apartment, the equivalent of nearly eight miles, a $35 cab ride, a 25 cent telephone call, a four hour stroll, or a $2.00 subway ride. We share the same crowded and complex island. At this personable little shop, a furniture salesman calls me by my first name, thrilled that at least one wanderer has given him commission for the day and simply perhaps, because my credit is good. My careful research has finally netted me a couch, a large red leather one fashioned mostly in Italy to replace one that looks like several cats used it as a scratching post and with a large indentation in the center. I have no cats and I’m not that large.

My new couch landed in my living room, courtesy of two delivery men who attempted to shake me down for extra money. I live six flights up and only a narrow loveseat could make it into the elevator without trepidation. The extortion didn’t make it past a $20 bill in my wallet and I decided to contact Macy’s to complain. I dug up a Customer Service number on my receipt and dialed. I figured I would be reaching someone in the United States, like one of those ubiquitous call centers used by banks, and I might chat with a pleasant man or woman in a city like Boston or Florida or Arizona. Every once in a while I’m connected to an operator in New Jersey, although a Jersey accent might be shocking to the rest of the country. While I waited, a cordless telephone piped in American pop music into my ear as I wandered in circles around my apartment. I listened to four songs, including a glass shattering number by pop siren Mariah Carey.

A male voice interrupted the music and stopped the room from spinning.
“Macy’s. My name is Julius. How may I help you?”

His voice was distinctly Indian, with a carefully enunciated monotone that dragged each vowel out with military precision. In fact, it sounded like he was reading from a chart, with his professor carefully underlining each syllable with a wooden pointer.

“Oh, yeah, hi. I’m calling about my couch, you know, a sofa, and the delivery. I – by the way, where am I calling?”
“Madam, I am located in New Delhi,” Julius answered. “How may I help you?”
“Is there anyone available in the United States?’ I gently queried, wondering what an office building in India looked like thousands of miles away, if he shopped at Macy’s, what wages he earned, and would anyone be able to understand my New York accent, let alone colloquiums like “yeah, so what’s the point?” and other phrases not dissected in their training manuals.

“I mean, Macy’s is not that far from where I live. How do I reach someone at the 34th Street store? And — how did I wind up getting India?”
“Madam,” he repeated, not unkindly. “How may I help you?”
“My sofa was delivered and the drivers tried to shake me down for money,” I clumsily explained.
“Madam, it is not good to shake so much.”
I hung up the phone.

I didn’t have much better luck with AOL when I spoke to Chad, Norman, and Vince in India about how to get rid of my cookies. Cookies are things that store information on my computer, I think, not Nabisco snack items. My dial-up service wasn’t working properly and when I called for assistance, my quest for service began with a circuitous route from New York to New Delhi, then two cities in the Midwest whose names I’ve forgotten, Philippe in Canada, and then Ernie from the Philippines who resolved the problem. I need to clean my cache. Well, it seems like I need a passport, too.

Outsourcing to other countries has its limits. So I wondered what the dialogue would be like between Yankees Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra, who caught Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series, and a customer service representative from India when this king of malaprops calls America Online for service on his computer.

Yeah. Hello? Hello? Is this thing working? Is anyone there? Thank you for calling AOL Tech Support. My name is Bob. You can call me by my first name. What is your name, please?
Yogi.
(Pause)
Hello? Is anyone home?
Yogi? Am I really speaking with a yogi?
Yeah. My name is Yogi. Can you help me with my computer? (background whisper: I’m on the telephone with a man who says he’s a yogi. Thank you so much for that information. What is your complete name, sir?
Berra. Yogi Berra.
Mr. Berra Yogi.
No, it’s the opposite way around. It’s Yo-gi Ber-ra.
Okay. Mr. Yogi. I am so excited to speak with a yogi. I will do my best to help you. Where are you calling from Mr. Yogi?
I’m calling you on my phone.
Where is your phone?
In my ear.
Ah. So you are calling from Ireland.
Ireland? Never been there. I’m calling you from New Jersey.
And where is Newj Ersey?
It’s right next to New York. Can you guys fix my computer?
Ah, New York. Perhaps you know my cousin, Dr. Patel?
I don’t know no Dr. Patel.
He drives a cab in New York City. He’s studying to be a medical doctor.
Ain’t that something. But what’s wrong with my computer?
Ah, so you are a Yogi with a computer.
I got a message from my grandson and I can’t turn this thing on.
Mr. Yogi, please tell me the name of your computer.
My computer doesn’t have a name. It’s just a computer.
I see. No name for your computer. Does it have the word Apple on it?
Yeah, I see the word Apple.
Mr. Yogi, press the button next to the Apple.
90% of this is pressing a button. The other 10% is pressing another button.
Mr. Yogi, what happens what you press the button?
The same thing that always happens. The computer turns on. You mean I have to call all the way to China for someone to tell me to turn on my computer?
Mr. Yogi, I am trying to help you. Is your computer on or is it shut down?
It’s ain’t shut down til it’s shut down.
What is your password?
Hey, who are you anyway? I never give out my signals.
Mr. Yogi, maybe you could meditate for a little while before we proceed.
I’m not on medication and what’s it your business, anyway?
Mr. Yogi, please click on the setup icon.
I’m clicking.
Do you see a box that says cache?
What did I do? Win something?
Mr. Yogi, first you must click on the box that says setup. Then another box opens up that says cache – c-a-c-h-e.
Oh, yeah. I see the cache. I’ve observed a lot by watching.
Look for the cookies.
Carmen! Do we have any cookies?
Mr. Yogi, we are not eating any cookies. We are removing them.
Carmen! Throw the cookies out. This way my computer will work.
Sir, these are not cookies to eat.
What is your name again?
My name is Bob. How can I help you with your AOL today?
Uh, Bob. First you tell me to find my cookies. Now you tell me to throw them out. What’s it gonna be?
Mr. Yogi, look at your computer.
I’m lookin’.
Do you see the word cookies?
Oh, yeah. I see the word cookies.
Click on the cookies.
Can I finish my chocolate chip one first?
Mr. Yogi, you may eat the cookie first.
Okay, I’m back.
Click on the cookie.
I can’t.
Mr. Yogi, why cannot you click on the cookie?
I just ate the cookie. I just told you that.
Click on the word cookie on the computer screen, Mr. Yogi.
I’m clicking, I’m clicking, and it clicked.
Mr. Yogi, do you see the box that says clean the cache?
The cache is clean.
Drag the cookies to the cache.
They are in the trash. Now you want me to get them out of the trash?
The computer cache. Do you see a globe?
Where am I gonna find a globe?
Look at the computer for a tiny, little blue globe and click.
Oh, yeah, I see it.
Click on that. And then go to the display tab.
Tab? What’s a tab?
It’s a little box and it says “empty cache now.” Do you see it?
I never saw it coming.
Now press the mouse and click.
Yep, okay. They are in the cache.
Mr. Yogi. Please now click.
I clicked. What’s next?
Mr. Yogi. Now you must restart your computer.
Okay. I’m restarting my computer.
I will wait while you restart your computer, Mr. Yogi from New York.
All right, Mr. Bob. My computer is back on again. It’s like déjà vu.
What is your view?
I’m sitting at my computer.
Is the computer turned on?
If I’m going to figure out how to use this, I’m not sure that we’re as smart as we think we could be.
Let me give you the reference number so you don’t have to explain things again if you have to call us back.

Lessons from Bill Heinz

W.C. Heinz, simply called Bill by friends, family, and colleagues, was perhaps the lesser known of a literary cannon of sports journalists: A. J. Liebling, Red Smith, John Lardner, and Grantland Rice. A craftsman of the written word whose use of detail plucked the reader into the middle of a story whether he was writing about boxing (“The Professional”), football (“Run to Daylight”), the war from the frontlines or a surgeon during the Korean War (he wrote the novel M*A*S*H under the pseudonym Richard Hooker), Heinz brought a descriptive, personal feel to his writing, influencing generations of writers, journalists and novelists, including David Halberstam and Jimmy Breslin. Ernest Hemingway wrote that “The Professional” is the only good novel about a fighter I've ever read”.

Bill Heinz and boxing trainer Ray Arcel remained close friends since Heinz began pounding the keys of his Remington (one loaned to Hemingway), 50 years ago. Arcel, the legendary trainer of more 2,000 fighters and over a dozen world champions, handled so many of Joe Louis’ opponents he given the nickname “The Meat Wagon.” Two years before his death in 1994, Arcel and his wife, Stephanie (Stevie), suggested that I write to their old friend. The advice from a master whose keen eye for detail and reflective modesty holds its own as a standard for writers. Bill Heinz died at the age of 93 on February 27.


July 17, 1992

Dear Arlene Schulman,

Naturally I'm pleased that you find something of substance in the product I have been turning out of this Remington portable since 1932. I don't know what help any advice from me will be, but I'll try by the numbers (which relieves me of the task of building those paragraph bridges which are so important in giving a piece of writing its flow).

1. It has been said that writing is like painting, I guess--can't be taught, but can be learned. Hemingway said he learned by reading the greats he admired and studying what they did to create the emotion, or emotions, that moved him. In other words, the science precedes the art.

In my own growth process I derived much from reading John O'Hara's short stories, for dialogue, and Hemingway for scene setting, the placement of the characters in it and, of course, the dialogue that identified and distinguished them.

2. Writing is show-and-tell, and "show", when possible, is far preferable than "tell". Anything anyone tells is suspect, while if the readers is brought to believe he has seen and heard it himself, he is a believer forever. Too many writers get between the subject and the reader, so whenever possible the writer should get out of the way.

3. Back to role models: A half century ago I used to ski, and found that when I followed the instructor down the slope my form flowed much better than when I was on my own. I think that in trying to find one's own style, one should find in one's reading the style, or styles, with which one feels most comfortable, and then follow that as I followed the ski instructor. Of course, at the beginning, one will be just an imitator until gradually one's own self emerges in one's own style. Critics like to sneer at this, but the French impressionist painters all borrowed from one another and learned from one another in finding their own way.

4. When, at the end of WWII, Milton Gross was given a sports column by The New York Post, he asked Red Smith for advice. Red said: "Be there." Being there means not only being in attendance, but with eyes and ears at the ready. Too many writers don't really look or really listen. Look and listen for the distinguishing ingredient. Many years ago Stevie Arcel, in talking about "The Professional" mentioned (in the opening chapter) the flower pots on the tenement fire escapes, the yellowed leaves of the Easter lillies and the pink foil still around the pots a long time after the shouldn't be there any longer. She said: "That tells the whole story of tenement life." Of course. That's why I put it there. Now, Stevie may be the only reader who caught that, but I caught it and every good writes first for himself or herself.

5. The space problem: I know what you're going through, and I don't know any answer except to write as tight and right as you can. Even now, when every couple of years or so and I do a peace for "The Times" sports section, they'll call and say: "We've got to take out six lines." My reaction, although I can't say it, is: "Take it out of the white space around the goddam drawing." So, you see?

6. Grammatical note: The proper verb form is to "try to" and not "try and". Anyone who ever tried and put it in the past tense got a sentence like this. Don't feel badly. Some of the highest priced heads talking heads on TV make the same error. Somewhere here I've got three or four single-spaced typed pages of grammatical errors made on the networks by their reporters, anchor people and commentators. When I was doing an occasional piece for "TV Guide" I sent them the casualty lists and asked for suggestions as to how it might be made into a piece. They said their readers wouldn't care. The point was that they didn't care.

7. Sometimes the dice come 7 and here I am. In closing, I can only say that whatever I have to say is in my work, an dif you can find "Once They Heard the Cheers" you'll find a lot of "how-to" there. To you and your work I send my

very best wishes,

Bill Heinz

No cows graze in Columbus, but did you see the unicorn?

I’ve been listening to people complain that Columbus, Ohio is too big.

Others complain about its reputation as a cow town.

I haven’t seen any cows.

But then again, I’m from New York. I’m not sure that I would recognize one.

I haven’t seen anyone wearing overalls Downtown, except me.

But Columbus is beginning to sound like New York City.

Cars head north or south on High Street with every window rolled down for cross-ventilation and the pounding beat of a stereo thundering out into the street. When someone drives by at night, the windows rattle and the walls vibrate.

In New York, these deafening car stereos are considered a mark of success by arrogant teen-agers, most of whom have never heard the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra and couldn’t care less about James Thurber.

Once newly minted musicmobile, piloted by a young man who wouldn’t have heard three firetrucks wailing behind him, was so loud that I swear I saw the unicorn in the garden move.

Well, it’s not an actual unicorn.

The unicorn is a bronze statue in a lily garden across the street from Thurber House, 77 Jefferson Avenue, that celebrates one of Thurber’s best-known tales, A Unicorn in the Garden.

In the story, a man wakes up his wife to tell her that there’s a unicorn in the garden and it’s eating roses.

“The unicorn is a mythical beast,” she says.

She calls him a “booby” and tells him she will put him in the “booby hatch.” The wife calls the police and a psychiatrist, and when they enter the house, she says, “My husband saw a unicorn this morning.” They cart her off and ask the husband if he has seen a unicorn.

“Of course not,” he says. “The unicorn is a mythical beast.”

The husband lives happily ever after.

Now if this scenario were repeated in New York, it would take on a different twist altogether.

For one thing, most people don’t have gardens, so the closest thing would be a terrace. A Unicorn on the Terracedoesn’t quite have the same ring.

Rose don’t grow on terraces, so the unicorn would be eating a potted plant that couldn’t be identified or a leftover wooden dresser that one was meaning to throw out but couldn’t get out of the apartment.

When the wife calls the husband a booby, he would probably ask her to repeat it into a video camera so that he would have evidence for their divorce proceedings.

Psychiatrists don’t make house calls.

The police, arriving 45 minutes later with their guns drawn, would search the house for unicorn, going through closets and cabinets before filling out a missing-person report.

Animal-rights activists would complain that because the unicorn couldn’t be found, there must be a police cover-up.

There are plenty of boobies in New York.

I’m certain that there are plenty of boobies in Columbus who resemble Thurber’s people.

But they’re spread out, not packed into skyscraper apartment buildings as in New York. Walls are thin there, hallways and entranceways congested, and more people know your business than you think.

And they have no patience.

I’ve crossed streets in Columbus while 25 cars wait to turn. So far, no one has honked the horn, bellowed through the window, cursed at me or given me the finger.

In Manhattan, my foot wouldn’t even be off the curb before one, if not all, of the above had occurred.

People walk in New York City. Not necessarily by choice, but because it’s the only way to navigate through streets and around people.

I stopped at the mall in Columbus (we don’t have malls in New York City) and found at least a half-dozen shoe stores specializing in walking shoes.

But I rarely see anyone walking.

I’m looked at strangely as people toot their horns and ask me if I need a ride. Being sensible, I won’t accept a ride from a stranger.

So the rest of the world drives by with windows rolled up, air conditioning blowing and music going full blast, and I’ve got concrete under my feet.

I like the exercise, and it helps burn off those Buckeye Donuts.

People here aren’t as thin as in New York.

In New York, you pay more to eat less. There are women’s clothing shops that carry only sizes 6, 8, and 10. I figure I’d have to buy two of everything and sew them together.

In Columbus, however, women have hips, and there are plenty of size 12s on the rack.

There’s less makeup, too.

In my neighborhood, a trip to the supermarket to buy dog food necessitates wearing at least mascara, foundation, concealer, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick.

I haven’t seen too much lipstick on line at Kroger.

It really comes down to one thing: New Yorkers think vertically, Ohioans horizontally.

Developers spread out from Columbus, swallowing farms and towns.

In New York, developers gobble up sun and sky.

People think differently when they’re stacked on top of each other.

You can be anonymous in New York, but you really can’t get away from anyone. In Central Park, you can’t really lie under a tree and meditate. You could doze off and find your wallet and shoes missing. Or worse.

Twenty minutes out of Columbus, you can find some woods that a bulldozer hasn’t touched – yet.

Even Downtown, you can get away from civilization, if only for a moment.

I walked through Deaf School Park and looked at the shrubbery. A New Yorker wouldn’t appreciate the topiary garden. I figured that someone must have had a lot of time on his hands.

Next to these elegantly sculpted Parisian women lay a (real) man sleeping on top of a picnic table, his arms folded over his ample middle, a can of beer lying on its side.

That’s a familiar sight at home.

A couple from Columbus described themselves as common folk.

In New York, you describe yourself as type A or type B, give your astrological sign and generally end the conversation with “I have an appointment with my therapist.”

I wouldn’t say that things are slow here in Columbus, but one evening I hit a particularly rough spot. So I spent the night reading the telephone directory.

The Columbus telephone book is a rather unusual one. I’ve never seen so many names that are also nouns and adjectives.

There are Blues, Greens, Blacks, Whites, Browns, Gray, and a Maroon.

I found a Yin and a Yang, a Tootles and a Zook, more than one Rambo, Farmers and Holsteins, a Cowman, Lamb, Hogg, and a Steer.

It’s a book fill of Queens, Princes, Jesters, Bishops, Damsels, a Shah, a Munster, a few Looneys, Cranks and Crooks.

You can search for a Daft, a Bobo that’s Boffo and go out with a Bang.

There are Lemons and Limes, a Missouri and a Nebraska, Kings and Kongs, Friend and Foe, a Hobo with a few Hicks, a Ding and a Dong with a few Frisbys tossed around for Good Luck.

You can Hoot at Fate and Ho and Ha at an Idol.

Man, Gents, Pop, Daughters, Cousins, Dames, a Bridgegroom and a Groom could be Wedd and then have a Fling with a Heimlich and Gallop with Fickle Fowls.

You can Yo and Yep, Woo a Tweet and a Twitty, and Zapp a Zag.

I didn’t find any Cows in Columbus.

But I found a few Moos.

But let’s not Dilley Dalley.

I think there’s a unicorn on my terrace.


Originally published in The Columbus Dispatch. Arlene Schulman lived in Columbus, Ohio for a summer as journalist-in-residence at the Thurber House.

The Solitary Shopper

I am one of those people to whom many stories are told. From dusty tales of Mexican laundry folders who drink too much on Saturday nights to one very nervous cop aiming his gun at me as I exited my apartment to dispose of recyclables, to my traveling companions on overstuffed M100 buses, to underappreciated and aggravated secretaries, public school teachers with unruly students, to Wall Street workers coming off an exhilarating trade, the shopping bag of disclosure is open and ready for unpacking.

It happens most often while I shop. From tomatoes to turtlenecks, the hordes corner me like some sort of exalted celebrity as I’m preoccupied with finding the right size, shape, or shoe: dapper shoe salesmen complain about women who send them scurrying to the storeroom as they spend their weekends being waited on hand and well, feet; chubby cashiers at Target, Saks, and Duane Reade point out their swollen ankles; and the chic who shop at the Gap and Henri Bendel invite me into the operating room as they describe gallbladder and appendix removals. I’ve listened to tales of cheating boyfriends, sloppy husbands, and dirty landlords from the minions who purchase and pander at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s; epics reveal painful shoes, poor diet, bad bosses, bad days – my bunions and I could be standing on line to pay in the world’s most remote shop or tugging on a too small skirt in a dressing room separated from the sales floor by a curtain. I keep thinking that if I set up a series of couches near cash registers I can get the chats and complaints over all at once. Move over, Dr. Phil. I’m hanging out my shingle for retail therapy.

So here I am, the queen of sound bite confessions. Many members of my tribe wear less clothing and more makeup, so my appeal, I think, rests on the fact that I’ve become as comfortable and comforting as a restful recliner or a security tzachke. These may be pretty bad analogies but the point is, I may not stand out much, but I am around. Like Woody Allen’s Zelig. I am everywhere but nowhere. The fascination of speaking with me is no more evident than alongside of sales racks from Manhattan to Minneapolis, and in front of cash registers from 7-Eleven to Saks Fifth Avenue. And nowhere is my expertise more in evidence and my patience tested than when I shop at Lord & Taylor, a calmer, more soothing shopping experience without the hordes and gaggles of gigglers, fluorescent lights, and the hamster mazes of aisles of its more flamboyant sister, Macy’s.

The lineage of women among the sales racks can be traced back, I’m convinced, to the early days of hunters and gathers. On the back walls of some muddy cave, maybe in northern Spain and in France, or perhaps in uptown Manhattan’s Inwood Hill Park, charcoal paintings of cavewomen wielding clubs beating their way to sales racks are just waiting to be unearthed. During their hunting and gathering days, the female half of the species stayed behind. tending to huts, caves, and children, ripping roots and plants from the soil, while the male half of the species men hunted big game with bows, arrows, and spears. The women waved goodbye while their mates went after dinner, and this communal commiserating, companionship, and co-parenting kept the community alive. And thus began the origins of the group shop. I know there’s a shopping bag from the Ice Age hidden deep in the core of our planet just waiting to be carbon dated.

In the evolution of women, torched bras and nylon stockings have been replaced by Spanx, spandex, and credit cards. Women still gather but they also hunt; two or three women in a department store with big game in sight, from Manolos to sequins to sassy skirts and scarves, descend on department and specialty stores everywhere in the world. This portion of Darwin’s evolutionary theory is still with us. A few women, like myself, mutate from this genetic claim and strike out on our own to go shopping. Others require my validation.

How do I look?
Fabulous!
How does this make me look?
Fabulous!
I’m a size 14 and this dress is a size 6. Do I look good or what?
Fabulous!

My intersection with the shopping sisterhood creates a Venn diagram of dialogue to the point where I’ve considered wearing a wig and glasses and hiring a bodyguard. Let me serve up a taste of my shopping life.

Shopping can be divided into several categories: in the name of bargains, camaraderie, the boredom pack, the curiosity group, “I wonder what size I am now” collection, the triage trio, the demanding duo, or let’s get it over with, I can’t stand the crowds for another minute – and let’s face it, shopping with friends can be a frightening phenomenon. When I shop with friends, I buy clothing I would never, in my wildest dreams, consider bringing home, like the plaid linen dirndl skirt or grape poncho with tassels. A straight line can be drawn from the manufacturer, to the shop, to my wallet and to my closet and then slam dunked into the thrift store donation bin.

So.

Here I am, the solitary shopper, armed with coupons and credit cards, a bottle of tap water, toothbrush, and toothpaste as I make my descent into Lord & Taylor on a foraging mission to supplement my collection of blue jeans and t-shirts with a few snappy skirts and tops. Standing outside the store I spot a woman dressed in a red kimono (she isn’t Japanese) and a man with a snaggle tooth wearing a squirrel tailed hat and a swirl of cheap necklaces. Hmmm is right. Doors swing open at ten sharp at the Fifth Avenue flagship store. Second later, I walk smartly through the revolving doors, fortified with two eggs, bacon, and Swiss cheese on a roll (no seeds) and Diet Coke (ice and lemon, please). Like a prizefighter prepared for swift punches, dubious ones, and a knockout blow, I have trained for the markdown, the misplaced belt, the search for the right size, and the dedication to come out a champion with more than a few dollars saved. Down for the count means nothing fits and I’m waved out of the store with no shopping bags. For the record, this has only happened once and only because I sailed through the shoe department to check on winter boots which hadn’t yet arrived.

Three minutes into my adventure, I am spotted, much like a Brad or Angelina blending into the crowd.

It began on the escalator, next to the sign indicating that we have ascended to the third floor.

“Is this the fifth floor?” Two woman with over processed blond hair and Bermuda shorts inquire.

I give this some thought.

“Could be,” an answer designed to throw them off my trail and to discourage any lingering conversation. I rappelled to the fifth floor and spotted a familiar sign, 40% off, which means that swiping the barcode on my coupons would net me an additional 20% off. I’m cookin’.

Racks overflow with marked down Ralph Lauren, Tommy Bahama, Eileen Fisher, Lord & Taylor’s house brand, Kate Hill, Liz Claiborne and the labels of others who cloak and cover our bodies from a size 0 to a size 24 plus, from extra small to three times as large. Sweaters, skirts, jackets, pants, t-shirts, tops, tank tops – the sisterhood flocks around the racks, touching, pulling, checking price tags, looking for a snag and examining colors and shapes. A number of women like me envision themselves a lot smaller, holding up what should fit and then being disappointed. You can blame it on the manufacturer for poor sizing but a three way mirrors holds no illusions.

My shopping companions poked through the racks and a few poked me with their purses. Now, mind you, the floor was loaded with idle saleswomen. I was hoping to leave via early decision but not today.

“What do you think of this color?,” asked one woman who looks like a model, holding up a yellowish-brown sweater with orange stripes.

“I’ve never seen this shade before,” I admitted, squinting at the odd shade.

“How much is this with markdown? Is this too much for me to pay,” a woman carrying a briefcase checks in, holding up a Ralph Lauren skirt with the priced mowed down from $200 to $119.

“I think it’s worth it,” I replied. Well, not really, but a little encouragement can go a long way.

“What do you think my husband would say?” asked another woman, already wielding enough shopping bags to incite a hernia, and armed with a vertical valance attached to a denim skirt.

“I think he’d love it,” I offered with conviction; although I’d never met the man, I was convinced he would be overwhelmed.

“I just had a tummy tuck. Do you think I can fit into this?,” inquired an older woman with a flat stomach but enormous hips, thrusting a pair of hip huggers at me.
I had to think about this one.

“Why not give it a try?,” I suggested diplomatically.

“Do you think this sweater will match my skirt that’s hanging in my closet at home?,” demanded one woman with a large perm and even larger purse.

“Absolutely.” And I didn’t hesitate.

“What handbag goes with this?,”, questions a friendly woman with long black hair dressed in black holding up a black skirt and sweater.

“Something black,” I advised Lilly Munster. “Black goes with everything.”
The floor seemed to close in on me.

“Where’s the ladies room?,” demanded a woman in a pink tracksuit (they seem to be everywhere).

“By the elevator but not on the 6th floor,” I answered mechanically, digging into my purse for my water.

“Can you zip me up?,” asks one gray haired woman with her back hanging out of a white blouse.

I put down my water.

“You may want to inhale,” I noted. “And go back into the dressing room.”

After inching my way toward the center aisle, I was almost free.

“I’m going to a wedding. Do you think the bride’s mother will like this? She’s really quite particular,” wonders one woman holding up a black and white dotted dress.

“She’ll love it,” I yelled, waving my water.

“Why are you wearing that?”

Two women stopped me, looking at my denim blouse with disdain. They may have noticed that it’s wrinkled and has white stain from toothpaste but I can’t be certain.

“When the gun is pointed, I’ll put on anything,” I snarled.

And we haven’t even made it into the dressing room. I slip into an empty one and lock myself in. I grunt and groan getting in and out of too tight blouse that gets stuck under my armpits and cuts off my circulation. Paramedics may have to cut this off my body. It’s a bit like wrestling with a bear until it finally pops off and I pop out, able to catch my breath again. I look around. There I am, at all angles. My hair appears to be windswept in the airless cubicle and, is my behind really that large? A suspicious mole comes off in my hands; it’s just an M&M from an earlier snack. My ear is pressed to the flimsy wall as I tune in to the sisterhood.

These shorts are gorgeous, comes from the room to my right.
Mom, why are you buying that? cries a embarrassed teenage voice that could have been my own from years ago.
Because I want to.
I don’t want to be seen with you wearing that.
Fine. Don’t look then.

But, in the end, these are just shorts and a misguided outfit. There’s a rap on the white shutter-ike door. Doorbells and a peephole, anyone?

“Do you think this costs too much?,” inquires an older woman with glasses holding a poodle and a v-neck t-shirt with a $49 price stag.

“Yes,” I said. “ff you have to ask.”

“Does this make me look fat?,” demands a woman who says she’s a nurse. She turns around twice in a pleated skirt that makes it look like there’s air under her skirt.
But those are her hips.

“What about my hips?” She smoothes down the pleats but they don’t move.

“What about them?” I raised my eyebrows.

After closing the door and putting on my own clothes, I snuck out, a Ralph Lauren sweater tossed over my head.

The petites are one floor up and I quickly ducked behind three slinky mannequins. A couple of women haven’t discovered me - yet. Both petite, with white hair, overdressed for a day out shopping, and smelling of mothballs, stale perfumes, and general decay, they push their way through jumbled racks of marked down clothing.

“It isn’t beautiful?” cooed the taller of the two, holding up a dirt colored sweater. “It was made just for you.”

They drift apart. They are so slim that their clothes hang at right angles on awkward arms and at their age, their bodies have sharp angles, like isosceles triangles, and bony shoulders. The hair of the taller one wore hair that was so messy it looked like she picked out errant blouses from the tangles. This was clearly their event of the day, maybe even of the week, and they dressed as ladies who lunch and ladies who shop. Neatly tailored with matching handbags, they were two gals out for a day on the town.

After following them for about 20 minutes, I hit the lottery. A black skirt made of silk and wool carried a price tag of $86 down to $49.97. I quickly did the math – 40% off would be close to $25 minus an additional 20% off would be about $20. Or so I thought. The friendly saleswomen looked at me over her glasses and scanned in the tag. The skirt was reduced to $9.56 not counting the 40% off and 20% discount coupon. My grand purchase accumulated to $3.99. The saleswomen said that her son just graduated from college and that someone must have coded the tag improperly in the computer. This never happens to me.

A woman carrying four bags stopped me.

“How do I look in this?,” she demanded

I looked her over and asked her to turn around. And turn around the other way. And the other way. She started to topple, her black and white polka dot dressed swirling in a hypnotic pattern.

“I’ve never seen you look better,” I gushed. “I would buy two.”

Time to move on.

Lord & Taylor has now added music to its genteel shopping experience, so I hummed and danced to Abba’s Dancing Queen.

A shopper came my way on the third floor.

“What’s that thing?,” she asked, pointing to the scanner near the sale priced Dana Buchman outfits.

“It checks radioactivity.”

I hustled on another dressing to try on a very expensive skirt by Ellen Tracy. The dressing room was larger than my living room. I tossed my jeans onto the upholstered chair, dropped my handbag on the floor, draped my blouse on the table, and examined my cellulite from all angles.

I bought the skirt with my coupons.

I have yet to wear it.

Moving back to the fifth floor to search for a top to match the skirt, an African American woman who looked to be about 75 covered by a four sizes too large church suit looked puzzled. She wore a church hat and rested her cane on a chair with her handbag. She nuzzled up to me in the Ralph Lauren section, eyeing a blue skirt. She pulled one off the rack.

“This is too big,” she said.

She lifted up her jacket to show how her skirt was pinned together with about 60 safety pins.

“I’m down from 187 to 146,” she announced. “Do you think this is too big? “

I looked at the tag. It was a 12.

“It might be,” I offered. “Take the 10 in with you.”

A Lily Pulitzer dress in green and yellow, hung awkwardly from its tag on a hanger.

“I wonder where that’s gonna go”, wondered one woman.

“I’m wondering, too,” I chimed in,

It was gone the next week. I discovered a shirt dress originally $200 and marked down to less than $50 – now I felt like a success. I haven’t been able to wear it because it’s been too hot.

My day is almost over. The few men I’ve seen shop early and leave furtively even when they are in the men’s department. I decided to check out the handbags. I wasn’t in the world of purses, clutches, and carryalls more than five minutes when three saleswomen asked me if I needed help. I began to get annoyed.

My friend, Ruth, told me that I should go shopping in dark glasses or with an entourage to throw off the scent from the sisterhood. On my next visit, I wore my hair in a ponytail and a t-shirt with hood. It didn’t help.

One woman confronted me.

“How do I find the sizes?,” she asked.

“Look for S-M-L-XL,” I growled. “Those are clues.”

An older woman leaned against the racks. I gently tilted her so that she stood upright with her cane.

I prepared myself for the rest, as they waved clothes at me from one end of the store to the other.

How does this look on me?
This is the most fabulous thing I’ve even seen you in. Run to the register before someone else picks it up.
This is just you! What was your name again.
Do you think I should get this?
Absolutely.
Does emerald green go with red?
Absolutely! Go stand next to the elves.
What do you think my husband will say?
I think he’ll just love it.
Does this make me look young?
By at least 30 years.
I’ve always wanted something like this.
Lotsa luck.
Can I borrow your coupons?
Do I know you?

Ms. Jones, one of the saleswomen on the 5th floor, spotted me in my disguise. My ruse was up.

“What do you think of this jacket?” I held up a blue Tommy Bahama cotton jacket.

“Fabulous.” she whispered. “You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

Six Word Novels in the Tradition of Ernest Hemingway

Odyseuss. Homecoming. 20 years. Bit Late.

“Don’t touch that apple,” Adam warned.

In-laws. Crass. Complaining. Arctic melting. Send!

Take this job and. . .quarter, anyone?

Medication does strange things to people.

The bell tolls? I don’t hear. . .

Sunrise. Chicken lays an egg. Breakfast.

Hark? Who goes there? Not I.

Doorbell rings. No answer. Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Odysseus. Vietnam Vet. Not home yet.

Homer. Odysseus. Seus. Yertle. Help Wanted.

Homage to Phyllis Whitney

At Bellport High School out on Long Island, my brother graduated as his class valedictorian, my sister as her clas salutatorian. And then there was me. I held the solid middle ground of my graduating class.

But I was the only one who met Phyllis Whitney, an author whose books I'd read since the second grade. Her grandkids attended high school, one a year ahead of me, the other a year behind. Phyllis Whitney spoke at one of our library classes at Bellport High when I was a junior. I remember her warmth and the sparkle in her eyes when she spoke about writing.

She sponsored a writing contest and I, bored out of my mind from mindless high school chatter, decided to enter. Phyllis Whitney started the story and we were asked to complete it. I'll have to dig it out of my archives and include it at a later point. I still have the issue of the publication that the story appeared in.

I remember doodling in my notebook and daydreaming in Social Studies class until I heard my name on the loudspeaker. I wasn't sure why my name was mentioned until a classmate advised me. That was the first and only time my name was projected around the school. I had won the contest, an award and reward for high school years that passed without distinction.

Many years later, I found out from a group of children's book writers that Phyllis Whitney was living in Virginia. I would come across the contest publication from time to time when I was cleaning and thanks were long overdue. I wrote to thank her for this hefty start to my writing career. And Phyllis Whitney replied with a note when she was just 100 years old.

"What a lovely letter! You bring back years that passed so long ago. I'm happy to know that I inspired you to become a writer.

I will send a copy of your letter to Sara Courant who sponsored those affairs. I know she will be pleased.

Today, I no longer write fiction, but I have been working on my autobiography.

All best,

Phyllis A. Whitney"

Phyllis Whitney passed away on February 8, 2008 at the age of 104.

Retail Therapy

I am one of those people to whom many stories are told. From dusty tales of Mexican laundry folders who drink too much on Saturday nights to one very nervous cop aiming his gun at me as I exited my apartment to dispose of recyclables, to my traveling companions on overstuffed M100 buses, to underappreciated and aggravated secretaries, public school teachers with unruly students, to Wall Street workers coming off an exhilarating trade, the shopping bag of disclosure is open and ready for unpacking.

It happens most often while I shop. From tomatoes to turtlenecks, the hordes corner me like some sort of exalted celebrity as I’m preoccupied with finding the right size, shape, or shoe: dapper shoe salesmen complain about women who send them scurrying to the storeroom as they spend their weekends being waited on hand and well, feet; chubby cashiers at Target, Saks, and Duane Reade point out their swollen ankles; and the chic who shop at the Gap and Henri Bendel invite me into the operating room as they describe gallbladder and appendix removals. I’ve listened to tales of cheating boyfriends, sloppy husbands, and dirty landlords from the minions who purchase and pander at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s; epics reveal painful shoes, poor diet, bad bosses, bad days – my bunions and I could be standing on line to pay in the world’s most remote shop or tugging on a too small skirt in a dressing room separated from the sales floor by a curtain. I keep thinking that if I set up a series of couches near cash registers I can get the chats and complaints over all at once.

Move over, Dr. Phil. I’m hanging out my shingle for retail therapy.

The lineage of women among the sales racks can be traced back, I’m convinced, to the early days of hunters and gathers. On the back walls of some muddy cave, maybe in northern Spain and in France, or perhaps in uptown Manhattan’s Inwood Hill Park, charcoal paintings of cavewomen wielding clubs beating their way to sales racks are just waiting to be unearthed. During their hunting and gathering days, the female half of the species stayed behind. tending to huts, caves, and children, ripping roots and plants from the soil, while the male half of the species men hunted big game with bows, arrows, and spears. The women waved goodbye while their mates went after dinner, and this communal commiserating, companionship, and co-parenting kept the community alive. And thus began the origins of the group shop. I know there’s a shopping bag from the Ice Age hidden deep in the core of our planet just waiting to be carbon dated.

To be continued...

Reading in New York City - Sunday, April 22nd

Arlene Schulman

Sunday, April 22nd, 2007

Kehila Kedosha Janina Synagogue on Manhattan's Lower East Side
(close to The Tenement Museum, the famous Katz's deli and Chinatown)
Broome at the corner of Allen Street

Time: 1 pm to 3 pm

Admission is free.

Arlene will be reading from a selection of her works along with writer Eleni Gage (North of Ithaka) and poet Nikos Alexiou, reading from his latest work, The Garden of Lost Vespers.

Refreshments will be served.
For more information, please call KKJ at 212-431-1619

Kehila Kedosha Janina is the only remaining Greek (Romaniote) synagogue in the Western Hemisphere.

Log onto wwww.kkjsm.org for more information.

Hope to see you there!

Arlene's Affiliations

Arlene is a proud member of

PEN,
Women in Communications,
Hadassah,
and
Association of Fundraising Professionals

Update to Someone You Didn't Know

Diane Newton's life was tragically cut short when a 19-year-old joyrider crashed into her parked car in Harlem on July 3, 2005. I worked with Diane, a public school teacher, for a short time when I taught writing as part of an arts program in New York City. Her classes were magical and inspiring. I will never forget her care and concern for her students and for her patience. My story, Someone You Didn't Know, tells of my teaching experiences and focuses on Diane's class.

Her killer was sentenced to three years in prison. Diane Newton's life was worth much more than that.