“ARTIE! Aaaaaaarrrrtttieeeeee!!!!” The screeching was coming from the ladies’ dressing room. After twenty years at Bloomingdale’s I’ve seen nearly every kind of woman. But the ones who shout out for their men like this—usually some poor schlep standing around holding her purse—those women are the worst. It didn’t help that it was Sunday morning and I’d had one too many whiskey sours last night. She sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
They’re a distinct breed, the men who choose to wait around for their girls to decide what to buy. It can take quite a while, as you can imagine. It was much more common when I started. Taking the little woman to Bloomingdale’s to buy her fall wardrobe. These gals would actually go around the store collecting their spoils, then hand them to the men to pay. I always half expected Gloria Steinem to come marching in yelling, “Get a job, ladies, pay for your own threads!” That’s how I felt, at least. I never wanted or needed a man to take care of me like that.
It’s mostly the women who irritate me. I mean, first of all, what the hell are you screaming for? I’m right here. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you please ask my husband to come look at this dress on me?” That’s it—no need to scream like you’re calling in two eggs over easy with a side of sausage at a truck-stop diner. And seriously, what is it that this husband is going to say anyway? “That color looks putrid on you.” Nope. “You are squeezed into that dress like a Polish sausage.” No way. “You look beautiful.” Ding ding ding. That’s your answer, and you might as well be asking Ray Charles. There are exceptions, of course. There’s the cheapskate—he focuses on the price tag, making his judgment on that alone. I see this all the time. He rarely admits that his opinion is based on money, but once he sees the price it’s “I’ve seen you look better” or “I don’t like that at all.” Then there are the metrosexual/sexually ambiguous fellas; they say something brilliant and tactful, like “That neckline hits you in a funny place” or “It would be nice to see more of your beautiful legs.” Smart men. Not as smart as the men who stay home, of course, but they have a clue.
Today, though, the schlep holding the purse was none of the above. His name was Arthur Winters, not AARRTTTIEEE, and he had been shopping with me since the old days, back when I started in accessories. He came in to buy a gift for his wife, not the trollop screaming at him from the dressing room. I remember it well. He was aces, Arthur Winters, the handsome, kindhearted type that still-single girls like me were holding out for. He introduced himself and said, “I’m shopping for a gift for my wife’s birthday. She always says she likes my gifts, and she always wears them, but I think she’s just being kind. I want her to open every gift she ever gets from me with real joy, but I’m afraid I have little taste and less money.” Together we found the perfect gift. It was a black and brown houndstooth Oleg Cassini silk scarf. I said it was “timeless and beautiful.” He said, “Just like my Marilyn!” I gave him my card, and over the years, as his bank account grew and his browsing time dwindled, he began calling me on the phone to discuss his gift selection. Eventually his wife found my worn card in his wallet and came in. It didn’t seem like she was checking me out in a crazy-jealous-wife way, more out of curiosity.
I was quite the looker back in the day. People compared me to Ava Gardner. Now that the in look is bordering on anorexic, the young me wouldn’t have turned many heads, but back then women like me with full figures were in vogue. It was nice coming of age feeling good about my body and myself. It seems that the tide is changing lately for the better, with all these body-image campaigns and rounder young actresses proudly flaunting their stuff. I must say I’m happy about that. Breaks a saleswoman’s heart to hear, “Do I look fat in this?” all day long.
I remember that Arthur’s wife bought a few things that day, and when she paid with her credit card I just came right out and asked her, “Are you Arthur Winters’s wife?”
She laughed. “I am.” Embarrassed, she admitted that curiosity about me had gotten the better of her. I told her that I met a lot of husbands but few who spoke of their wives the way hers did.
We talked about her favorite past gifts, from the previous Valentine’s Day’s gray cashmere sweater, which she would love in another color for spring, to the patent leather clutch that she carried everywhere. She mentioned that Arthur’s assistant had a birthday coming up.
“His other wife,” she called her with a smile. “I always tell him to get her something nice. He does, doesn’t he?”
I remember wondering if it was a trick, if she was testing me. Arthur did always make sure I picked out something nice for his assistant: two a year, one for her birthday and one for Christmas. I had met Felicia many times. He would often send her in to pick up Marilyn’s gift. Pick up, not pick out. She was an attractive woman in a simple kind of way. But what really struck me about her was how kind she was. That and how much she obviously cared about her boss. The first time I said Arthur’s name to her I noticed her eyes light up. I wondered if maybe there was something going on between them, but she spoke of his wife with such respect and admiration, and quite frankly, she didn’t seem the type—and believe you me, I had seen the type over the years. In the end I decided, sadly and happily, depending on which way you looked at it, that Felicia was in a one-sided relationship with Arthur. And Arthur most definitely had no idea. He cared for Felicia very much, but as far as romantic love went, he had tunnel vision. His Marilyn was all there was. Until one day she wasn’t.
Like the seasoned saleswoman that I am—third longest tenure in the store—I had Marilyn’s birthday marked on my calendar, and last year it came and went with no call from Arthur, no visit from Felicia. At first I felt betrayed; maybe they had moved on to some younger salesgirl at the swankier Barneys or Bergdorf’s. But I didn’t think so. They all seemed so loyal. Finally I called Felicia at the office, pretending to be alerting her to an upcoming friends-and-family sale, and she told me the horrible news. Marilyn had been diagnosed with end-stage melanoma and had died only six weeks later. Arthur, she said, was devastated. I sent him a letter of condolence, and a few weeks later a box was hand-delivered to me at the store with the kindest note I have ever received from a customer. I read it so many times I know it by heart.
Dear Ruthie,
For the past twenty years of my life with Marilyn you were a part of every birthday, every Valentine’s Day, and every anniversary. You helped me put so many smiles on her beautiful face. What I wouldn’t give for just one more. Please accept this gift as a thank-you for all those smiles.
Respectfully,
Arthur Winters
I opened the box and there, folded neatly in tissue paper, was the brown and black houndstooth Oleg Cassini scarf.
“Arrrrrtttttiiee!”
Oh god. She was screaming for him again. I couldn’t contain myself. “What is it?” I asked rather curtly. I caught myself. “Is there something I can get for you?” A muzzle, a horse tranquilizer?
“Yes. I need this in a smaller size. Do you see how it gapes here?” she said, pointing to nothing. She had on the Max Hammer dress we were having trouble keeping in stock, in a size medium.
“You do have to be able to breathe in it, honey,” I said.
She looked at me as if I was nuts. “Just get me the smaller size, okay? And ask Artie to come in.” She was a nightmare.
I went to get “Artie.” I thought I detected a bit of embarrassment in his face when I summoned him on her behalf. I could only watch them interact for a second before I had to turn away. How someone as wonderful as Arthur Winters could end up with a gold-digging twinkie like this was beyond me.
Tomás helped me look for a size small, and while we looked I told him the whole sad story. He was particularly upset by it. Sweet Arthur losing his beautiful wife and ending up a stereotype. “What about Felicia?” he asked. “He should be with Felicia—she loves him!” I agreed, but what could I do?
Tomás, lost in his romantic idealism, suddenly snapped out of it. “Dios mio! We both know we don’t have a size small in this dress—Natalie has the only one left. We have the one medium she has on and two larges.” I knew he was right but dreaded going back to tell her.
He must have seen it in my face. “I’ll tell her. Why don’t you go out for a smoke?”
I hugged him. He was such a sweet boy.
As I put on my coat I could still hear her bitching from the dressing room. I peered around the partition and watched the scene play out.
“I need the small. Can you get one from another store? I need this dress. It’s perfect. Artie, don’t you think it’s perfect?” He nodded, but she wasn’t even looking at him.
“Can you please search for the dress and have it shipped to her if you find it?” he asked.
Tomás pitied him and knew Natalie would be bringing the small back soon. “I will find one,” he said, “even if I have to call the manufacturer. She will have it by tomorrow, latest. Will that work?”
Arthur looked relieved. “Great. Please send it to her at this address. And it’s my secretary’s birthday too. How about one of those cashmere shawls on that mannequin? It can get a little chilly in the office.”
Tomás later told me that Arthur filled out two cards. One said:
A cashmere shawl to keep you warm! Happy Day!
He carefully put it in the little envelope and wrote Felicia neatly, in script.
And on the other…
The prettiest dress in town for the prettiest girl in town. Meet me at the Four Seasons, Tuesday at eight, to celebrate the big day!
Tomás couldn’t help but ask. “What are you celebrating?”
“Oh, our four-month anniversary. My girlfriend says in the first year of a relationship you celebrate each month. I’m kind of new at this,” he whispered. “I’m a widower.”
I returned from my cigarette break right as the hussy hit the register with an armful of clothing.
“I’ll just take these…I am devastated about that dress!” Devastated? About a dress? Really? There are people wearing recycled I Rocked Becca’s Bat-mitzvah T-shirts in Africa!
Arthur smiled knowingly at Tomás, who smiled back as he rang up the staggering cost of “just these.” As they left, the hussy thanked Arthur with a ridiculously wet kiss and a whiny “Thank you, my handsome Artie.”
Within minutes of their departure Natalie arrived with the dress. Tomás’s eyes lit up.