Looking Back to 1974-My Short Stint Selling Clothes

As many of you know, I’ve had more jobs than I can remember. It seems many writers are afflicted with this talent, and I’m no exception. Hey, Henry Miller couldn’t hold down a job, and look how well he prospered.

Back in 1974, when I was home for the holidays, I got a job working in a clothing store for the Christmas season. It was located on Ventura Blvd. near Coldwater Canyon, but I sure don’t remember the name of the place, probably because I only lasted there a few days. Here’s why.

Psychology majors shouldn’t sell clothes. It’s hard for a psych major to tell you that plaids will make some people look wider than the streets, or that a floral pattern makes others look like a neon birthday cake. 

When customers would ask me how a certain outfit looked on them, I was supposed to shower them with accolades, false flattery, so I could secure a sale, earn a few dollars and ensure my job. 

But, I always turned the question around and asked them how they thought they looked in their chosen outfit.  This prevented me from lying to them, and forced them to look in the mirror to see that those tight jeans gave new meaning to the term “muffin top,” and that women of a certain age looked ridiculous wearing clothes suitable for pre-teens.

They always gave me a quizzical look when I deflected their need for approval, but I felt I was being true to myself (after all, it was the 70’s) by not telling them that the outfits made them look ridiculous.

A few days later, after selling no clothing during my shifts, my boss told me that I would be relocated to a different department, and he proceeded to usher me upstairs.  There, I was placed on one of the rivet machines, and instructed in the nuances of putting those metal buttons on the sides of several pairs of jeans.

Needless to say, I’m not great at space relations, and soon, my “promotion” to the rivet department was on shaky ground.  I couldn’t remove the rivets and try to space them out evenly along the side of the denim, so I would usually cram the ones I’d worked on and hide them in the corner, hoping that the manager couldn’t find them.

By the end of the day, my manager discovered all my faulty fabrics, and soon, I was taking the bus back home along Ventura Blvd. to spend the rest of my Christmas holidays with my pals.

The rivets still gleam in my memory, reminding me that my talent working retail was pretty abysmal. Thankfully, I found a suitable career in the advertising field where my weird sense of humor was finally appreciated.