The Robbery at Neiman's

A Christmas Trilogy, Part I

I stood outside of Neiman’s at Atlanta’s Lenox Square Mall, looking at The Blue Corset Co., a dark, den-looking boutique. White marble manikins clothed in seductive hot pink and black lace dominated the plate glass windows. Outside a gathering of men stood and stared, gawking, wishing…..With vacuous eyes the lifeless manikin sirens gazed with disinterest at the impotent dreamers.

I moved on. Neiman’s was offering “bonus points” for purchases, and I figured I’d have better luck in the Gucci shoe department than The Corset Co. Unfortunately, Santa was on back-order for the shoes of my choice. Not to disappoint my wife for something from Neiman Markup, I moved on towards the Jewelry department.

Then things got interesting. Passing the St. John collection, I noticed a shadow following me. Being insecure shoppers, men linger, casually touching the merchandise, pretending. The clerks know this ruse and usually ignore them. But not tonight. The shadow spoke, “Sir, may I have a word with you? I’m the floor manager. We have a store policy that affects older men like you.” I asked, “What policy? I have money, what other policy is there?” He was stern, and said, “Esthetics, sir... Please follow me.”

I was ushered to the cosmetic counter. Gocha, the blonde Polish Esthetician, was instructed to perform magic with a facial makeover, to conform my antiquity to the store’s policy. “Is this normal?,” I asked her. “Of course,” she answered, “and I can make you acceptable for all departments. Then they’ll gladly take your money, if you have any left when I finish.” I noticed no facial difference, although my wallet no longer bulged. Now acceptable, I was free to shop. I walked on towards the jewelry department.

Enroute to the jewels, one passes through Men’s Wear. I filtered through the cheap shirt rack, then the expensive one. “Sir, please refrain from touching the shirts with unwashed hands,” the voice shouted. A small Jewish man, perhaps schooled in the Torah, rushed over to me and jerked the shirt from my unwashed hands. “We have a policy, ‘Look, Don’t Touch.’” Who was I to argue with policy? I moved on.

It’s helpful to know store protocol. As one moves around, it’s easy to notice the “boundary” lines separating each department. Plush, colorful carpet and floral rugs demarcate the departments, and clerks are apparently confined to their particular boundaries. But as soon as one crosses from the marble walkways onto their turf, they’re fair game for a vicious sales experience. Moving from the carpet, it ends. It helps to know these things for self-protection.

I moved on, once stopping and spraying myself with Prada L’Eau de Toilette at $165 per oz. “Stop that waste,” a shrill voice screamed. I fled into the Fab-Finds department, where my hands found an Heirloom Bible, the “family treasure” it said, with a crass brass cross and Czech crystals, a mere $250. No wonder Gideon at $5.95 has the motel franchises.

In the handbag department Gucci and Prada competed for attention in the shadow of Chanel. No one was winning. If the Chanel “street-tote” bag at $1,995 was an example of the costs, I knew why there were no customers. Neither was I. But the Judith Leber “evening-out art” handbags of Austrian crystals and colorful designs of Camels and Elephants were exquisite. Cost, $5,995. What shmuck would buy that for his wife? I moved on.

The basement held many treasures, one particularly interesting…a crystal Buddha, sitting, smiling. At $600, he was laughing at the dumb Schmoe looking at him. Wait, that’s me! I retreated.

It went on and on, this madness of merchandise and contagion of costs. It made one wonder just what percentage of the take Santa had made with these merchants. Had the world gone mad? Was there no recession?

With only three shadows now following me, I finally made it to the jewelry department, which was guarded by a squad of Uzi-toting goons. I refused to cross onto their turf, thinking maybe I’d stroll on down to the cheap knockoff shop in the mall.

As I passed The Blue Corset Company, a crowd of men in serious need of facial makeovers drooled at the changing of the manikins. I could only imagine what these men wished for in their letters to Santa. I knew what mine said!

Bud Hearn
December 10, 2009