Nelson is Shakespeare: My Bag-o-fashionwords

It was another smashing evening performance in the fitting room for Nelson; my clothing counsel was met with thunderous applause from those who received it, and countless cries of “Encore! Encore!” rang throughout Podiatry during my shift.  From the moment I opened the door to their fitting room saying “And my name is Nelson! Please let me know if I can do anything for you,” they were putty in my manly hands.  How does he do it?  How does he pull off a convincing performance when his true product knowledge is non-existent?  

Just as Shakespeare exploited the power of puns, metaphors, and malapropisms in order to create dramatic masterpieces, Nelson has discovered the power of certain words...certain turns of phrase.  The thing is, these literary devices did not come from a script.  No one instructed me in “fashion-speak,” and my understanding of fabrics, cuts, and styles is limited to none.  These are words that entered my world at some point in time in my life (i.e. that time I actually committed to watching Project Runway, season 3 I believe it was), rolled around my subconscious, became buried in the wrinkly folds of my brain, and were then resurrected magically when Nelson first got into costume.  Read and learn.  

Nelson’s Bag-o-Fashionwords

Ruching.  (My definition: the use of gathered fabric on an item of clothing, oftentimes achieved with elastic.) To reiterate, I have no idea how or when I came to know what “ruching” is.  In fact, I wasn’t even aware that it was in my vocabulary until I was suddenly saying to someone “Oh wow, the ruching on the back there is very flattering.”  Even if I’m not always certain if I’m using the word correctly, dropping it with authority always makes their eyes wide with respect and awe: RUCHING.  It sounds technical, and people who know technique understand clothing.  With words like ruching, it’s OBVIOUS that Nelson understands clothing.  

Tailored.  (My definition: adjective often used to refer to clothes that have a specific, more controlled shape.)  Originally, I’d say that “tailored” had some connection to the “tailor,” the human who sewed the garment; to be tailored meant that the garment had been handled and manipulated by the tailor.  In 21st century terms, then, tailored would have to mean that the garment has been handled and manipulated by a host of foreign child laborers.  However, the word must have lost this connection because now, instead of being a word that reminds people of their undue privilege, it’s another one of those terms that, used confidently, inspires belief in Nelson’s advice.  “That’s such a smart, tailored look,” I might say.  Again, the word is ambiguous but somewhat technical, giving the customer the idea that I am the keeper of fashion understanding.    

Empire waist.  (My definition:  when a dress or top has a seam just under the bust and then is un-fitted throughout the waist and hips.)  This is a term that most people know and use.  But Nelson takes it a step further by bringing a touch of exoticism to the table.  Any ole nobody can say “empire waist.”  But can they give it the French twist?  Instead of saying “im-pyre,” pronounce it as the French would: “ahm-peer” with the subtle back-of-the-throat French rrrrrr at the end.  Who knows if this style actually originated in France or England or some other European country.  History is irrelevant to today’s consumer whereas flair is everything.  “Ahm-peerrrr” turns heads every time and almost guarantees a purchase on the part of the customer. 

Take today for instance.  A woman, let’s call her Ashkenazy, was searching for a dress to give as a gift to a friend.  She was interested in something long and summery and wanted to make sure that it would be flattering on most all figures.  I immediately thought of the $268 summer-camp-tie-dye-session-gone-horribly-wrong dress hanging in the front of the store and led her in that direction.  “If you’ll notice the elastic ahm-peer waist on this one, you’ll see that it will give if it needs to or contract if it doesn’t.  These cuts are really capable of making anyone look classy.”  I wasn’t lying about the flattering cut.  But no one would look classy in that print.  It’s looks like what would happen if Lisa Frank suddenly felt that her calling was abstract art and started lamely exploring that aesthetic but with her same color palette.  Despite this print-transgression on the part of the designer, Ashkenazy grabbed it up, totally in awe of the ahm-peer waist, and added it onto her tab which ended up totaling $800.    

I’ll add on to the Bag-o-Fashionwords continually as I pinpoint the little gems that help Nelson fool the world...

They've roped me in...

It's happened. They've accomplished their sick, sad goal to dominate the brains, wallets, and lives of their customers and employees. They've ROPED ME IN. They may still be paying me (minimally), but now...NOW I'M PAYING THEM.

I bought a top from Podiatry. Granted, it was heavily discounted (60% instead of our normal 40%), but even with all those percents slashed from the original price the single top drained forty smackers from my humble checking account. It's a long white tunic shirt with elaborate embroidery on the neckline and cuffs of the three-quarter-length bell sleeves; despite the fact that the material is quite thin and see-through, it's of a pretty high quality (unlike much of what we sell for over a hundred bucks).

I'm not sure if I bought it because it is a beautiful top...it is...or if I did it because I felt I needed more options for work-clothes...I did need that, I believe...or if there is a more insidious reason: the need to belong. That in itself is not an insidious need, but giving in to a system in which you have to buy things in order to feel that you belong...that's not necessarily the best option.

Here's the shocker: it worked. I wore the magic top two days ago, and my coworkers practically SCREAMED with delight at the initial sight of my Podiatry-clothed body. “OHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYY GOOODDDDDDD! That looks SOOOOOOOOOOOO good on you!” or “Well, look at you!!!!!” etc. I've gotten not so much as a nod to my attire before this. If anything, the magic top made people notice more than my attire; it made some people notice NELSON for the first time.

Unless I'm mistaken, before the advent of the top, JubJub and I were not on the best of terms. Out of all the managers at Podiatry, I'd argue that JubJub has received me in the least friendly of manners. Her behavior was not out and out hostile, but it was markedly less friendly, and, at moments, somewhat passive aggressive.

For example, during my performance debut as Nelson, I was “processing” clothing in the fitting room (unnecessarily formal jargon for putting things back on the hangers that the lazy-ass customers leave littered on the floor), and Mama Skaggs informed me that a particular jean was hung in a special, confusing fashion. She quickly demonstrated the awkward steps: grab it by the crotch area then make it straddle the right side of the hanger allowing the legs to drop to one side then twisting the legs around the left part so that they hang limp over the back. Unable NOT to anthropomorphize the jeans, I felt dirty watching her do it, listening to her explain it, and then attempting it myself. She departed as I tried and tried to make my jeans match the example on the hanger, grabbing the crotch over and over again. JubJub came in to grab some “go-backs” (a no-nonsense term referring to the “processed” items ready to return to their rightful place on the floor), and before she whisked them away, I asked her for some advice on this complicated method, much to her chagrin. Although the store atmosphere was not particularly hectic at that point, perhaps she had a specific objective in mind and did not want to be bothered. In any case, she looked at me, annoyed, as she hastily fled my presence, throwing out an emphatic, “You know, Nelson, it doesn't really matter right now. We can talk about this later.” Well, which is it Podiatry managers? Do you want me to care about the jean-hanging? Or does it not really matter?

Maybe she was just having a bad day, but whereas the other managers and I have shared at least some personal information and joked around a bit, it has consistently been all business with me'n'JubJub. UNTIL two days ago and, of course, the top. Suddenly we're talking, joking, she's asking me this and that about my life. With the top on, I'm worthy of her attention?

The top-buying experience was an interesting one, but I think it's back to soap and candles only for my Podiatry purchases seeing as the top constituted roughly a fourth of my last paycheck (though the upcoming monies should be much greater...I hope). Maybe I should put into action a new experiment in which I wear nothing BUT the top for the next month. JubJub would probably do a 180 going back to giving me the cold shoulder...maybe she'd take it even further and not even look at me. Course after a month of wearing nothing but the same white shirt, I probably wouldn't want to look at me either.

Nelson is a FRAUD

*Note: This post may or may not make the true identity of Podiatry quite clear. Having only worked in this particular retail environment, I cannot speak to whether or not what I'm about to describe is a common retail practice or a program unique to Podiatry. In any case, I will proceed as normal, asking again that no one comment on this site with conjectures or revelations.

As I near my second month anniversary as a Podiatry foot solider (haha, pun intended), I worry that Nelson's cover is growing thinner and thinner. How long can I keep up this grossly untrue facade? The thing is, if I were endowed with hundreds of dollars to spend on a new weekly wardrobe, I am convinced that I could successfully dupe my fellow man into believing that Nelson is Nelson. However, I do not have those funds. My Podiatry paychecks pay little more than for my groceries. I've rotated outfits one too many times...the coworkers that were hired, oriented, and trained alongside me have acquired countless Podiatry goods with which to adorn their figures (that is, blown the entirety of their meager paychecks on high-priced, low-quality items) whereas I've given in only to the allure of the high-quality home fragrances (candles people...they're great when you have two kittens whose massive poop piles fill the house with the sharp and unbearable scent of an unkempt buffalo pen). If Nelson were truly Nelson, would he not take every opportunity to fawn over and purchase the Podiatry clothing with our “generous” 40% discount? And even if he didn't, wouldn't Nelson have an eternity's worth of cleverly conceived-of work outfits with which to dazzle coworkers and customers alike? How can Nelson be Nelson if he wears one of about 5 different ensembles each time he clocks in? How can Nelson be Nelson if all he cares about is candles?

Apart from my lack of wardrobe variety, another incident stands out among the various that have recently highlighted Nelson's fraudulent ways. At the beginning of each month, one of the managers of Podiatry hosts a one hour event in which employees are scheduled (and paid, thank god) to come to the store from 9-10 am (before open) to do a kind of community-building/product knowledge activity. This monthly kick-off is known by the Podiatry staff as “JIVE TIME!” (the name has been changed, clearly, though I wish we were called in and paid for something called “JIVE TIME!”). We all gather in the fitting room and are given certain parameters for that month's particular make-an-outfit challenge, the parameters changing each month to educate us about our brands, the new styles, and certain trends we are pushing.

The first JIVE TIME! I attended, we were paired off to complete our task (task: finding two outfits that matched the adjectives that we randomly drew from a hat...the word “ethereal” gave a lot of my coworkers considerable trouble, and extensive lessons on its definition and pronunciation took up a good 10 percent of our hour together). Because of this partnership, I was able to hide the fact that I was TERRIFIED by having the whole of Podiatry as my palette for creating an outfit for my employee peers to judge. Maybe if I'd been given several days advanced notice, I could have pulled this off alone, but 5 minutes was our time limit. Lucky for me, my partner powered through, finding both of us perfectly “romantic” and “feminine” attire. I was saved.

I did not, however, prove so lucky for June's JIVE TIME! I was on my own...a beached whale, trapped on the shoreline, and told, as it struggled and withered in the sun, to find an outfit composed of the two brands that it pulled from a hat. As the others practically fought their way into the store like a hoard of hyenas on a trajectory toward carrion into which they will eagerly tear, the ideas pumping through their fashionista-brains, I quaked in my boots and worked up a clammy-sweat.

The result on a scale from “Tragic” to “I can do some damage control” was closer to the “damage control” side of the spectrum. Nelson's on the spot oratory skills came to him even in his darkest moment to turn a hopeless situation into a survivable one.

When we had each emerged from our fitting room clothed in our self-selected ensembles, Zebulon, the manager hosting JIVETIME!, bade us give an explanation of the two brands we'd selected and deliver a short speech about the thought-process that governed our outfit choices. My peers looked stunning, taking risks on what to me are hammock-like crocheted sweaters or gauzy poncho-ressembling garments. They'd taken the time to go by the accessories table and choose a bulky piece of jewelry that, alone, looked like toy building blocks strung together or a scarf that I could have sworn was actually a ragged kitchen dishcloth. However, when they put these things all together, it was not a collection of disparate items; it became simply an aesthetic...an impression. If I hadn't been so embarrassed by my own attire, I'd have been in awe.

I on the other hand was wearing:

70s-ish high-waisted, stovepipe-leg jeans that were a size too big, meaning that the stove-pipe concept had turned into more of a smoke-stack concept. And even if the fit was too big, because I'm so tall, the high-waistedness wasn't quite high enough, hitting me JUST below the belly button. As such, it looked like I was trying to be one of those circus clowns on stilts whose pants are hilariously over-sized and attached to his body via suspenders. No suspenders here, however, as I'd chosen a sack-shaped, peach top which, on its own—or paired with skinny jeans—would look perfectly fine. But I was wearing billowy on top of billowy. I misguidedly attempted to give myself some shape with a belt (official commandment number 2 of Podiatry, “Thou shalt belt-it”), but I chose the utterly WRONG belt with tons of detail and textures that conflict with the texture-y details of the top. No matter how I stood or how poised I attempted to appear, I looked like a very clean vagabond.

Somehow, though, when it was my turn to share, I successfully went on the defensive, explaining the “idea” behind the choices and how the time constraint meant that the “execution” of the idea was not ideal...very heady stuff.  I spoke as eloquently as possible about the brand, citing facts about when it was first conceived and noting the highlights of its design philosophy. Furthermore, I dropped a well-placed “This brand isn't really consistent with my style," suggesting that I actually have an articulated, coherent style, "but I'm glad to know more about it so I can help the customers.”

Phew. Close one Nelson, but they still haven't found you out. Yet.

Nelson is Cinderella

When at Podiatry, I most enjoy doing tasks of a concrete, completable nature. “Help us meet the sales goal” is nebulous. “Vacuum the floor” is specific. I prefer the latter. Usually.

I worked the Sunday morning shift today, one that I've never worked before. Unbeknownst to me, Sunday morning shifts are the ones during which Podiatry sales associates hang up their heels for a couple of hours and don their janitorial coveralls. None of this bothers me, I just wish that I'd had a bit of notice so as to dress appropriately for my two hours of ass-busting cleaning.

I've learned to bring a pair of super comfortable shoes for the opening or closing hours during which customers are not around. For instance, last night, I ripped off my strappy, high-heeled sandals when the clock hit 9 and slipped my feet into the loving embrace of a good, supportive Chaco. I chose to forgo bringing the pre-open shoe today, assuming that I wouldn't be doing much walking for the first couple of hours...just putting clothes on hangers, moving minimally while doing restock, then chilling in the fitting room. Instead I just put on my 2 and a half inch-high leather wedges and clomped into the store at 10 a.m. ready to work. I went for the vacuum as usual (I do just a quick sweep of the fitting rooms before heading to work on restock) when Zebulon (a character I've not yet described) mentioned offhandedly, “Yeah, go ahead and vacuum the whole store before doing the fitting rooms. Oh, and mop them too.”

It's hard for me to gauge size, but just to put it in perspective a bit, I'd venture to say that Podiatry is housed in a warehouse-like space that is about a third (or more) of a football field in length and possibly about that in width. It's roughly the size of 8 boutiques put together or one small department store.  I joke not. 

So off I go, teetering about the store on my shoe-stilts wielding a great metal tube attached to a roving, gray pod on wheels that houses the bag in which a week's worth of Podiatry floor-refuse comes to rest. I vacuum and vacuum and vacuum. It sucks mightily. I vacuum more. It sucks more.  Sometimes it makes a great, high-pitched squeal, and I turn it off and dig a clump of twisted matter out of the mouth of the tube.  I switch it back on and vacuum more.

I regard my progress; an infinite amount of floor awaits me, it seems. I pull the gray pod along as I extend the tube into the darkest reaches of the establishment, sucking out gobs of dust, little fern leaves, stray coffee beans, buttons, hair, dried lentils?, a Subway club card, etc. The pod follows behind me as would an obedient dog, albeit a blind one, constantly bumping into obstacles as it tries to keep up with my crazy, sucking pace. If suddenly I can reach the tube no further, I check behind me, and it's indeed the dumb gray dog, caught on one of the hundreds of fixtures set up in the store. I proceed in this frustrating fashion throughout the maze of Podiatry, needing yet being impeded by the presence of this oafish, mechanical companion, frightened that at any moment it will smash into a table or rack, sending hundreds of dollars worth of breakable goods crashing to the floor.

I forge on, coming to a mirror that exists so that customers can hold things up in front of their bodies to test whether or not those items...would look good if held in front of their bodies. Instead of contemplating merchandise, I regard my disheveled self: sweating and hunched over, manipulating an industrial-sized piece of equipment while dressed in skinny jeans and heels. I look ridiculous.

To complete this gargantuan task took an hour and 15 minutes. And that was before I kicked off my shoes, rolled up the bottom of my pants, and got down and dirty with a mop in the fitting rooms.

As I pressed the lever that squeezes the water out of those mops that look like sticks with wigs attached to them, I had a violent flashback to my last-summer job in which my 10 hour shifts would culminate in a solo, restaurant-mopping extravaganza. (I was the equivalent of a night-manager and would end the days alone in the store doing the manual labor that the other employees were too annoyed to complete.) For a moment, the vision had a PTSD-like effect on my psyche, dredging up the hateful ire of food-service woes and bringing a bitter bile to my mouth. The nice, clean, soapy water I had prepared for the fitting rooms suddenly became the mop-water from my restaurant days; dark, oily, and mysterious, with bits of shredded lettuce floating around in it. I felt for certain that I smelled that sour, rotting smell of all different kinds of half-eaten food discarded in the same trashcan, much of the residue hitting the wall just behind the bin and sliding down to the floor leaving a crusty, rancid trail to a pool of congealed stuff at the base.

But then I realized that I was in a food-free area, a brightly lit, well-cleaned world where I was merely performing perfunctory upkeep of the small space. The dark phantoms from my past receded into my brain, and I finished my tasks with plenty of time to spare before opening.

I feel that a comparison between food-service and retail is in order soon, and not just because of my flashbacks. So far, in my work, there seems to be a noticeable difference in the amount of and in the kind of respect that I have received as a human being in these two different worlds. Coming soon...