“And they love you.”
He leaned in. “Some do. And some call me The Fag of Fragrance.”
“Oh, Andrew.”
He brushed it off. “The Mean Girls of Beauty can be the clique from hell. Learn to play their game. Your brand lives in a launch case, then it moves to the backdrop, then the drawer, then, voila, the product’s out the door.”
“Profit or my ass is on the line.”
“Exactly. Your goal is to schmooze, but not just the customers. When they’re soaking in their tubs with the purchase, your salespeople are still working their asses off at the counters. I don’t care if it’s Dillard’s or Saks or Macy’s, never, ever forget whoever rings up the sale for you gets the three percent commission. That makes them competitive as hell with each other. The bottom line? You’re the engine but they’re the engineers who keep the fragrance train oiled and running.”
I opened my hand. “Pinky swear you’ll keep me on track?” He linked my little finger with his.
Thanks to Andrew Case I learned the politics of the profession at this ground level and took it to heart. As a freelancer rotating among stores and territory, I had to keep my clerks supportive and that meant neutrality. From then on, when infighting occurred, I’d say, “Switzerland,” with hands in the air. Practice made perfect.
By the end of the eighties, fresh, controversial advertising hinted at conflicting sexual orientation. The portal widened for bisexuals, drag queens, and gay men who grew up idolising their mothers’ fashion and make-up regimen. The face of customer service broadened. Andrew and his cohorts openly added a theatrical perspective of passion and drama. They taught women how to work it. Most important, they could be themselves.
As long as I could remember, I’d ached for a lifestyle beyond my reality and I recognised that same tug in customers pining for the top of the line. Brucknerfield’s Beehive never left me. Brand prices run the gamut as do customers, from no-purchasing grazers only spritzing or handling every brand, to compulsive shoppers whipping out charge cards. I engaged them all: upper and upper-middle class to the all-important lower middle-class customer who bought the most. I even offered samples or designer shopping bags to the window shoppers.
The beauty industry ends each season still flush with products so I gathered what I could from trash earmarked for the Dumpster. For those with no money, I handed out samples. For those making a purchase, I created a custom GWP program.
During those two years it seemed every hot designer suddenly licensed their own fragrance. Competition crowded the counters. My clientele file bulged. I purchased an electric typewriter, one more way I practiced Vickie’s etiquette advice. I typed bounce-back messages on brand-embossed postcards from their corporate offices. Although those New York headquarters didn’t sanction it, my customers received a weekly newsletter. I was in the Midwest; apparently no one was watching.
Ethan remained a bottom-line guy regarding my career details. One miserably rainy week of big news and forty-eight hours of leaving messages in sun-drenched Arizona, I gave up and dialled my one-man cheering squad. Andrew picked up on the second ring. I gave him an earful. “…Plus Gaultier could be the next big thing. He’s totally out there from what I heard.”
“St. Louis, a better rumour mill than Chicago? Name your sources.”
I laughed. “Carol told Tina, who told me. I learned my lesson; I now know them apart. These are the older forever counter women, the base of Sharon’s gossip corps.”
“With too much time on their hands,” he replied.
“Not if they really wanted to kick some butt, which they don’t. That’s my point. I’ve got the hang of protocol and politics. I’m ready for the next step. You know I am. Say you’ll support me. This is the perfect brand to make my move.”
“A jump like takes time, work and sweat. You’re an unknown, sweetie.”
“Not for long.”
“How did I know you’d say that?”
Per usual I jumped, and feet first. I networked and pestered my St. Louis and Chicago stores until I got a lead. A New York City field sales director licensing Jean Paul Gaultier, Boucheron and Issey Miyake, the hottest new fragrances, had just made a presentation to store management.
Gaultier! Landing a piece of that account would put me front and centre and showcase my talent. New York City executives would know my name. I finagled the corporate office phone number and left a message. No reply. I called again, then daily. At long last Field Sales returned my call.
“You know I’m persistent,” I said.
“That, I do,” the director replied.
I gave him my pitch. “And if you hire me, I agree to drop my other brands and manage the same territory I currently cover.” I added statistics for my current work. Two days later he offered me the position with a two dollar-per-hour raise.
Holy, crap. Suddenly I faced the audition I’d worked for on an even bigger stage than I’d imagined. I called the three fragrance brands I freelanced for and let them know I had an opportunity too good to pass up.
In September New York City’s Gaultier marketing team chose the Chicago Marshall Field’s for its Midwest launch. They sent me reams of training materials to study, as well as retailer merchandising guidelines and advertising schedules. Someone included a pack of Gaultier’s current season fashion slides originally used for anchor store employee training. I applied every ass-saving, cram-and-concentrate high school skill I had as I filled my head with requirements and possibilities.
Rather than waste the slides, I found a local electronics store willing to put together a video loop combining the Gaultier catwalk presentations with stills of the Paris season highlights. I had all of it synced with Madonna’s best songs and made enough VHS duplicates to ensure my biggest stores would have them playing on top of their fragrance counters. I flew to Chicago and put together a dream team of two sales people plus several freelancers. After I met with them and the department manager, I took Andrew to dinner.
“Get ready,” I told him. “This group will sell in a retailer cosmetic department like no one’s seen before. I’ve looked at the mock-ups. Think Madonna. Gaultier’s bottles are tiny bustiers! Can you stand it? Bustiers complete with his signature cone bras just like his designs for her.”
“Oh, outrageous!”
“And we’re gonna make it even more so.”
“Ship it in, Sweetie. We’ll set Chi-Town on its ear!”
“Prepare for an all-nighter. I’ve got more ideas than I can count.”
As was my style, before I left, I wandered the Field’s storerooms. I chatted about the scheduled Gaultier shipments with everyone, floor manager to forklift operators. I even thanked the janitors ahead of time. I returned with twenty-four hours to spare and everything in place. Field’s closed at nine p.m. On set-up night I arrived at eight-thirty in jeans and a jersey, ready to work. This event was as much about me as the world-famous designer.
Even my detractors never accused me of prima donna behaviour. Within thirty minutes of closing, I was slicing the stacked cartons open, placing contents on counters, and stuffing packaging back inside as warehouse employees wheeled in more. We sorted GWP giveaways, posters, tissue, banners and organza, all in a sea of red, metallic mauve, and silver.
And did we ogle the factice bottles. “Genius,” I exclaimed as I unloaded the large perfume replicas.
“Madonna, eat your heart out,” Andrew sang as he inspected the bustier style container.
By midnight the store techie had my loop running on the television propped on the main counter. Even bleary-eyed and up to our shins in empty boxes, my crew recognised a guaranteed draw to my fragrance counter, as clever as I had envisioned. We celebrated over beers at a nearby pub, and agreed ‘Three Per Centres’ retail associates could easily make sales even when team members or I were elsewhere.
The next morning customers entered Marshall Field’s through the fragrance department’s swaying banners emblazoned with the Gaultier national logo. Red organza draped the banners and enlarged fatices in windows. Pyramids of perfume-related items filled the glass counters. A poster I’d had laminated lay on the floor like a welcome mat. Madonna wafted from the loop on the TV, and the new scent permeated the entire department thanks to my ‘accidental’ spill. The display filled every available space in the entire cosmetic department.
Toward the end of our allotted week, I raced off the second-floor annex escalator smack into a heavyset woman in fuchsia.
