By Debra J. White
I grew up in New York City during the Cold War era. The city was packed with multi-level department stores that stocked clothing, furniture, toys, linens, hats, appliances and more. There was free gift wrapping and complimentary boxes. Some NYC department stores like Bloomingdale’s were high end for the upscale shopper. Bloomie’s, as we New Yorker’s called the store, was located on the posh Upper East Side. Stores like E.J. Klein’s, further down on what was then the grungy East 14th Street, was for the more cost-conscious shopper. That would be me. Other NY area department stores were Macy’s, Alexander’s, Gimbel’s, Arnold Constable, Sak’s Fifth Avenue, Abraham and Straus, B. Altman, Orbach’s, Lord and Taylor, Bonwit Teller, and May’s. There could be others yet only a few of the big names still exist such as Macy’s, Sak’s Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale’s. The rest collapsed into bankruptcy, merged with larger stores, or closed due to changing tastes and on-line competition. COVID-19 hammered other struggling chains like the storied Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue where all the corporate types shopped for cotton button down shirts and wool suits. Lots of storefronts are empty. That’s so hard to grasp. Before I moved out of the city in 1989, midtown Manhattan was a flurry of activity especially in daytime, with thousands of office workers flooding the streets in search of food, clothes, or shoes. Add the tourists and the crowds could be maddening.
All stores, except gas stations, were closed on Sunday and generally open only on Thursday nights until 9 p.m. Open on Thanksgiving? Not a chance. A typical Saturday was spent hustling from one store to the next, lugging bulky paper shopping bags filled with purchases. There was no on-line shopping. If we didn’t shop in person, we thumbed through thick, colorful catalogues from places like Sears and Roebuck or Spiegel that arrived in the mail. We either mail ordered or ordered at the store. Price comparisons were done by reading inserts in the Sunday newspaper. There was an arrangement known as “lay away” where customers paid a certain amount at a store towards an item each week, without interest. Imagine that? No interest. Plain old shopping was the most popular. All the strolling, talking, and trying on clothing worked up our appetites. We broke for lunch or coffee along the way in noisy, crowded diners known as greasy spoons for the lack of healthy offerings. Nothing could deter a hearty New York shopper, not rain, blistering heat, icy cold weather or gusty winds. Shopping was also a form of female bonding. Men rarely shared our zest for shopping. We ladies poured out our problems, joys, hopes, and dreams on the walk, in the dressing room, or the diner.
My close friend Maryann, her sister, and her mom enjoyed female bonding in the furniture department at Macy’s during a cold snap in New York way back when. Presumably, the salesman was eager for them to leave because it was evident they weren’t buying the couch. Rather, they enjoyed sitting in the midst of a gabfest. A salesman asked my friend’s mother if she needed help. She said coffee and a bun would be lovely. I don’t think that’s what he meant.
In my day, high school students like me were an abundant source of cheap but reliable labor. In New York City it was legal to work at age sixteen with parental consent and easily obtained working papers. Who handed out working papers? I don’t remember. In high school, it was a rite of passage among boys and girls my age to work after school. Classmates without jobs were looked upon as lazy or shiftless. Nearly everyone I knew, male and female, worked after school, starting as high school juniors. I was no different, landing my first job in the now defunct department store, Alexander’s. In 1970, at the tender age of sixteen, I earned $1.85 per hour, proud to be among the workforce. I chopped off price tags attached with straight pins to garments like sweaters, pants, blouses, men’s shirts, and coats. The cashier entered the cost on a mechanical register then handed the item to me. After the customer paid cash (no checks or credit/debit cards back then) I folded the garments, minus the tags, into paper bags. Plastic bags were not yet available. Supervisors instructed us to always smile at customers and to say thank you. Mostly I adhered to store policy unless a customer was unduly fussy or cranky. Some days, it was hard to crack smiles at customers with bad attitudes, but I always did.
To get to work, I rode the Steinway Street bus, a two-block walk from the scrappy section of Queens called Astoria. The bus dropped riders off at East 59th Street and Second Avenue, the last stop and just a few blocks away from Alexander’s Department store. I felt so grown up traveling into Manhattan on my own. As the bus crowded with rush hour passengers inched across the 59th Street Bridge, a major connection between the boroughs of Queens and Manhattan, I gazed out the window at the dazzling Manhattan skyline. What would it be like to live there, I thought? It seemed so sophisticated, so much more refined, than my dumpy neighborhood where housewives often ventured outside in hairnets, stockings rolled down around their ankles, and house slippers. On lunch hours, I strolled around the neighborhood passing by a Rolls Royce dealership, pricey apartment buildings with suited door men, and chic women’s boutiques. All this, of course, was way beyond my $1.85 earnings and my working-class upbringing. But it was still OK to dream. And dream I did about living in more classy surroundings. (PS I never have.)
During that summer, I worked full-time and met new, intriguing people at the store. I remember a hippie named Jane who had hitchhiked to the famous Woodstock rock concert in upstate New York the summer before. Always in sandals, loose fitting blouses, and long flowery skirts, Jane’s relaxed attitude was easy to be around. She told me all about the wild and crazy three-day concert that made history around the world in 1969. I loved her smile and laid-back ways. One day, she stopped coming to work. Jane called up and said she was moving to California to live in a commune. I always hoped life was good to her.
School resumed that fall, and I reduced my hours to one afternoon after school and all day on Saturday. The store wasn’t open on Sunday. While girls worked in department stores, boys worked for grocery chains like Key Food, Grand Union, Bohacks, Red Apple, Gristedes, or Waldbaums. If you wanted groceries, you made a trip, with your shopping wagon, to the nearest grocery store, even in the rain, cold, or snow. There was no delivery service or automatic checkout counters. The produce manager weighed fruits and vegetables then marked the price on a paper bag. We survived without QR codes and apps.
In 1971, my senior year, I switched jobs at a friend’s suggestion leaving Alexander’s to head for Macy’s in Herald Square. As a waitress, I now earned $2.10 an hour, plus tips. At the time, the Macy’s flagship store had a basement restaurant called the Dutch Treat. The food was hardly a treat. The cheese on cheeseburgers was fake and the meat grisly, but for us workers it was free. Boys toiled away near the kitchen washing dishes. We were paid weekly in cash. Imagine that. Old and decrepit locker rooms were separated by sex. Now and then, as I changed from my waitress outfit into street clothes, tiny gray mice would scamper across the floor. I was used to the vermin at home, but other female workers apparently were not. Laughter erupted when I heard loud shrieks, a sign someone spotted a mouse.
Most customers tipped with small change, such as a dime, fifteen cents or a quarter. I rarely received a dollar bill. I took home about $25 a week in coins, which for a high school kid was a lot of money. I interacted with our customers because talking to people was fun. Some tipped well, a few stiffed me yet others were excessively fussy and demanding about the cheap food we served. There was one middle aged woman with coal black hair teased into a swirling bouffant who came in every Saturday morning. She rarely spoke but was polite. I called her rye toast because she placed the same order every week – plain rye toast and black coffee. Her bright red lipstick smudged her empty coffee cup, but she always left a quarter for a tip.
Sometimes I arrived early for work and wandered around the store sniffing out bargains. Employees received decent discounts. Theft or violence weren’t significant issues so there were no security cameras and few guards. The try on room was a breeze. Carry in garments, try them on and then leave. Easy peasy.
Department supervisors wore small plastic red flowers, and the head honchos wore white ones. Some employees aspired to work in the fashion or garment industry and used Macy’s as a steppingstone to further their careers.
I goofed off with my co-workers, most of whom were high school students like me. We didn’t always take our jobs too seriously. As sixteen and seventeen-year-old girls we were more interested in boys and the latest fashion trends.
On Saturday, our workday ended around 5 p.m. After changing clothes, I left the store by way of the cosmetics department. For free, make-up employees applied face powder, eyeliner, lipstick, and mascara on women for their hot dates later that evening. Now and then, I watched ladies leave, looking fine and fancy. At one point, I dated one of the bus boys, but I never looked as gorgeous as the women in the make-up section.
As Macy’s employees, the waitress staff belonged to a union. In my senior year of high school, the union called a strike, probably over wages, working conditions, and benefits. One of my neighborhood friends worked full-time at Macy’s and urged me to join the picket line after school. She said it was my civic duty as a union member. The weather was blustery and cold, so I bundled up to join with other workers. I rode the subway into Manhattan after school, picketed in my school uniform and carried a sign saying we were on strike. I felt proud of myself. That was my first introduction into the American labor movement, which was already beginning to lose strength in the USA. The strike didn’t last long, and we got a raise.
I came of age before convenience. On-line shopping can be cheaper unless an item doesn’t fit or is damaged. Returns can be expensive, time consuming and even annoying if you must wait online at the post office. It may be impossible to reach a human being through on-line shopping. Nothing can replace human interaction, however. Malls get crowded and lines grow long. Selfish people cut in front of you. Parking may be scarce especially at holiday time. But at the mall, unlike online, you can try on clothing and ask your friends, “Do I look good in this outfit?” Shopping with friends has other advantages. Walking around the mall or downtown is good exercise. Mall shopping sometimes presents the chance to talk with friends and neighbors and to catch up on what’s new in life. Shopping for hours can work up an appetite. Shoppers break for lunch and relax over a fresh salad or a juicy burger. Bookstores allow us to thumb through the latest best sellers, chat with customers, or ask the clerks for recommendations.
Bookstores also host noted authors who read from their new books and answer questions from the audience. There are two independent bookstores in the Phoenix area where I now live – Changing Hands and the Poisoned Pen. I’ve attended book signings at both stores by authors famous and not so famous. Some authors donate part of their proceeds to local charities. Our local bookstores donate books to literacy groups or public libraries. Can’t beat that.
I love the mall, the bookstore and taking a stroll downtown on a crisp cool autumn day. That’s what makes America great – the simple things in life. I hope shopping centers never die. What will become of America if they do? I hope I never find out.
Debra’s social work career ended in 1994 due to brain trauma from a pedestrian car accident. At the end of a long recovery, she found a new life in creative writing and volunteer work. She wrote for magazines, literary journals and newspapers. She reviewed books, contributed book chapters, and wrote a breed specific book for TFH Publications. Her latest book, All Shook Up, will be released in October. Her webpage is: www.debrawhite.org
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