I met my dear friend Pablo when we were both working at a very trendy shoe store. This store was so trendy we actually got to meet a whole shwack of very famous people. Ironically because we worked at this shoe store we were considered local celebrities ourselves. We never had to wait in club line-ups. We often got free drinks and if we went out as a group after work we could hear people whispering round us, “There are the people who work at THAT store. Look at their shoes.” And we always had fucking fabulous shoes. We used to think it was so funny as we made shit money and had to handle people’s feet all day. The GLAMOUR!
I am a terrible sales person. If you are really not sure about the shoes you are trying on I am not going to force you. In fact I will encourage you to go out and have a coffee to think about it. My bosses heard me do that a couple times and I really caught it. I didn’t care. If you are not enraptured with the shoes you probably shouldn’t buy them. That is just my opinion. Shoes are often bought on a completely emotional level. It shouldn’t be forced.
I loathed my job a lot of the time. I especially hated it when some poor 12-year-old girl would shell out three years worth of babysitting money on a pair of shoes I knew would fall apart in a couple months.
One of the highlights of my day would be when the local strippers would come in to get boots. We carried a line of shoes called ‘SLUT’, which were very popular with strippers. They were good customers and very low maintenance. Sometimes they would do bits of their routines for us. The strippers used to pay for their SLUT boots in dollar bills. I could look in the cash drawer and know whether we had a stripper in that day.
Another highlight of my day was when we would get the cross dressers in trying on stuff. We are not talking drag queens or transvestites, as they would come in as ladies. We are talking about those kind of weird old men who come in wearing polyester pants and acrylic cardigans who kick off their scuffed oxfords and want to prance around in SLUT boots for as long as they can. They NEVER bought them. They would cram their size 11 feet in a woman’s size 9 and mince around the store. We were under strict orders to flat out tell them we didn’t have their size in ANYTHING and get them out of the store ASAP as Madonna or some 12-year-old with babysitting money might drop in and get frightened. I, on the other hand, would not only accommodate their requests but I would encourage them by bringing out other shoes for them to try on. Man, if that is all it takes for them to get their jollies for the day I am all for helping a poor guy out. I used to get into major trouble for that too. I didn’t care. I liked to think of myself as their Fairy Godmother.