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The Help: Stories about my time in the mixed-up, low-down, poodle-eat-Pomeranian world of interior design. See also:
Round about 2008—I remember because the economy was tanking, and the showroom at the SFDC where I worked had just laid off a bunch of folks—there was a big rainstorm one night in the fall. Apparently, some flashing on the showroom’s roof failed, and a flood of water drained down the wall right behind the electrical closet; miraculously, there was no short circuit, or the whole place might have burned to the ground in the middle of the storm.
Nearly half the showroom was ankle deep in water when we arrived in the morning, and it looked like it might be a total loss—over twenty thousand square feet of luxury furniture. Luckily the fabric department where I worked had escaped the flood or we probably would have had to shut down for good.
Many of the upholstered pieces were ruined, and for legal reasons, we could no longer sell pieces off the floor as “new” even though most of the casegoods—wood and metal cabinets, tables, etc.—dried out and suffered no apparent damage. Also, the owners of the building were giving us a hard time over insurance claims. Ultimately, it was decided to break the lease and move to a different building in the design district.
There was still a fair amount of stuff in perfectly good condition, and so during the three months while arrangements were made to secure a new, smaller space (ours was one of the larger showrooms, and we knew already we would be cutting down by well more than half,) we had a moving sale to get rid of most of the surviving stock “As Is.” A lot of it was being sold at 40 to 60% off retail to the public, rather than just “To the Trade” as usual, and we were all hands on deck to make deals with anyone who wandered in.
(Incidentally, many of the employees, myself included, made out like bandits on some premium stuff—17th c. Bohemian engravings; $1,200 ironwood eggs for $40 apiece; an $8,000 leather Chesterfield for $350 which survived two dogs, two cats, and two stoners for 10 years and still looked pretty OK even if it always was the most uncomfortable seat in the house.
I stole samples from the showroom—real gold thread!—to make those shiny greenish pillows on the sofa. Considering that our coffee and side table were found “FREE” on the sidewalk, we did pretty good on our thrift store budget.)
Advertisements were taken out in the Chronicle—“MOVING SALE - Open to the public for a limited time!”—and we had a steady stream of looky-loos rubbing elbows with the designers, who were none too pleased that we were selling retail—the perception of exclusivity is one of those sparkling mantles they depend on for their business—but for the most part we got a pass because they were also getting some pretty sweet bargains.
Doctor Dreamy
That’s what we called him.
Doctor Dreamy—think JFK, Jr., but gorgeous. Think Jackie-O mixing her DNA with Adonis instead of some toothsome Irishman. Think the David walking in off the street and talking to you, and you having to gird every loin you’ve got just to string coherent English words together.
I don’t remember how we knew he was a doctor, or even what specialty, though one of the ladies (not me) quipped that she hoped it was gynecology. Yes, we could be a bawdy bunch. Yes, he was the sort of guy over whom people of many persuasions might come undone.
Anyway, walk in from the street he did, it might have been on a weekend because we worked on several Saturdays as our moving day approached, and somehow I’m the one who ended up helping him with a number of cabinets, side tables, and a dining set that he and his wife were interested in.
Did I forget to mention the wife? It’s not hard to believe this woman spent her days practically invisible by his side, and her nights gloating over the magnificence she had probably traded her soul to get into her marital bed. She was French, I remember, tiny, nothing special, bespectacled, official helmet bob of assistant librarians everywhere.
Throughout the interaction, I was perfectly courteous and attentive to her, but he was the one doing all the talking. They liked the chairs, but not the seat fabric—could we sell them a replacement fabric and recommend an upholsterer? (Yes.) Did this cocktail table go with these side tables? (Yes!) How would this painting look over this sofa? (YES! I mean … nice, very nice indeed, yes.)
At some point we got to talking turkey, and how much wiggle room there was in the prices. He pointed to one of the tables they were interested in, and as I crouched down to inspect the price tag, he leaned in with me, his face hovering just beside mine, not inches away—I actually felt his breath on my ear. I smelled cinnamon sugar toast. In retrospect, I might have been having a mini-stroke.
“We really like this piece,” he breathed, in what I’m convinced was his bedroom voice, “but it’s just a little out of our price range. Can you do anything for us?”
Do? Anything?
I turned my head to reply, and he was right there, hovering just above me, one of God’s own ravaging angels—so close I should have been able to see some flaw—some blemish, signs of aging, pores, something! (Pores never lie.)
There were none. He was perfection incarnate. I actually had to fight the urge to lean up and kiss him right there in front of his French mouse of a wife, who at that moment lurched forward as though she knew I might lose the fight to restrain myself. I glanced at her, I saw her scowling, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been so close to being murdered in my life.
To this day I can’t imagine why she seemed so mad at me—HE was the one using his full arsenal of charms to chip away at the price. Surely she knew what he was, what he was capable of—she was his captive every bit as me and all the other ladies in the showroom.
Some business or other was conducted, I think they put it on 24-hour hold to go home and measure walls and such—thank you very much, see you later. Nothing untoward, really, on the outside I was the picture of professionalism as usual.
But right after they walked out the door, as I relaxed the stranglehold on my reserves of decorum, I unintentionally let out this loud and piercing HOOT! half way between a scream and a train whistle, and then found myself laughing uproariously at the sting of Cupid’s bazooka.
And that should have been the end of it, except just then the two of them—Dr. & Dr. Mrs. Dreamy—rounded the corner out in the hallway and passed into view through the giant picture window across from reception where I was standing, his face a study in bafflement, hers a mask of seething rage. They looked directly at me. They’d heard. They’d heard my ridiculous blast of steam and laughter, and while he, bless him, looked genuinely puzzled, she knew. Oh, she knew alright—I could see it in her eyes—and there was never a woman in all of history more justified in her jealousy.
Mortified, I waved bravely goodbye; he waved back, smiling, oblivious. I swear I saw her hesitate, almost stop and turn around to come back in and kick my ass.
He returned alone the next day to pay and arrange delivery. It was a much briefer, cursory visit and I think I was still slightly dazed from my brush with death the day before, so much so that right after he walked out the door, I forgot myself and did it again! Hoooooooot! Like quittin’ time at the cannery! WTF was wrong with me?
And again the perplexed look back through the showroom window, only this time, I got this feeling he thought I was making fun of him for some reason, like I had duped him on the price or who knows what.
Anyway, they came back once more together to select some fabric. She was glued to his side, and they avoided me like the plague. Steering a wide berth on their way out, the Dr. Mrs. called out across the showroom as they were leaving, “We worked with your manager! SHE was very nice…!”
How could I not let out a hysterical laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all? I had no power over her—that little French fury was the luckiest woman in the world.
They heard me, obviously. He laughed back and waved. Adorable.
Pretty sure I saw her wig flip.
THREAD: “What we talk about when we talk about ‘Song of Myself’”
SoM, v. 17 | “This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe.” | AUDIO
Great story!
Hahaha “hoot!” What a thing to say!!! Twice!
I love this so much.