PART VIII - Career Path

     I went to a psychic, who had been referred by my mother.  Previously, she had two meetings with him.  It was on Halloween night in his enchanting Victorian home—which I innocently thought was fun.  He claimed to have a cadaver body part transplanted inside him, and that gave him a link to the “other side”.  During my $250 session, I asked why certain people came into my life but seemed to be shooed away or pulled out of my life (while I wasn’t doing anything wrong).  He told me that I was watched over by female presences that were doing this for my “protection”.  I asked who and why?  He said, “They won’t tell me, and they say that you don’t need to know.”  (For $250, that was unfair and useless from a psychic).  Again, I felt cheated while "asking for help".  

     He said the young man I was attracted to "radiated to a dark/confused color", but I radiated to a blazing, positive orange.  He said there was every possibility of love between us, but when I wasn’t around, the young man was in turmoil.  Next, he informed me that I was an “old soul” who had ties to the “big band era”, the colorful early-Victorian era, the 1700s, the Renaissance, and the Roman Empire (as a senatorial/judiciary figure).  He said that I had learned much in an era where "hair" was important for status.  I asked if it was the 1700s-era of powdered wigs, but he was unsure.  I asked about my stalled careers and the jobs that continually deteriorated from under me.  He merely said that boons awaited me.  I asked why all the good deeds I did in my life weren't bringing better karma?  He didn't have an answer.  (In reality, it was about to get worse, but I didn't get a warning).
     The session got weird when he offered to sell me another kind of treatment, where “energy” coolly filtered in through me “to cleanse me”.  I got scared about having anything “spiritually inside” me, and I cancelled the treatment.  In conclusion, I was given a "crystal of good energy".  He gave me a big hug and wished me luck.  (I still have the tape-recorded sessions that he sold me).  *[Soon after, that young man whom I was attracted to got a job transfer into Manhattan and told me that he met “the ideal girl”, who impressed his persnickety parents.  I never saw him again].

     Around the same time, my college friend (David)’s gay brother contacted me.  I was impressed that he still remembered me, after meeting me briefly.  He was a professional ice skater, and he intended to visit Long Island for a business trip... and he wanted to have dinner with me.  I accepted.  He told me that David floundered through three jobs and was stressed about repaying his immense college loans (like most overcharged Americans).  Eventually, David married a rich fat woman, whose father gave him a job and house... but David had to do everything that his wife decreed.  He was already getting fat and bald from succumbing to the stress and unhappiness.  
     As you recall, despite my attempts, I never had intimacy with David... but his brother seemed enticing.  After dinner, we went from "bar to bedroom" at his hotel.  As you recall, evidence indicated that David had sex with my sister (instead of me), so it was ironic that I could have sex with his brother!  I was thrilled with the "adventure" of it, and the brother's figure-skating kept his body looking chiseled and toned.  However, he only wanted to swap oral and have "body contact".  Oddly, he was more interested in making sucking and blowing motions all over my face and neck.  It was extremely weird.  Only sucking air and blowing, like a Dementor wraith from "Harry Potter" films.  

It freaked me out, so I ended things and left.  Why was I being ushered into the paths of weirdos?  

     With all the anxiety from trying to run a restaurant at "4-star standards" with few patrons, the owners started an Early Bird Special.  That further undermined the standards and brought in undesirable clientele.  Every day was unbearable.  Some of the bloated argumentative customers reminded me of this scene from Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life"...

     The vast 200-person restaurant had too many sections.  The waiter stations were spread too far apart, so you trudged across the whole room to get a customer some water or more bread.  Without a "service bar", you had to wait for the chatty bartenders to look at you.  Understandably, the overworked kitchen staff got grouchy, as did the Latin American dishwasher who used a run-down machine.  They quit.  The chef quit, too.
     There was perpetual turnover in food suppliers/vendors... all because of lies to lure them and false promises.  Both of the Party Planners, who were lured by the owners, quit.  The big refrigerator died.  The bosses kept promising me that “they’d take care of me” (they sounded like my mother, and the VP at my previous job).
     In reality, they planned to ditch their own restaurant and didn’t care how many calluses or bunions their employees got… as long as they got their steak dinners alongside a cute waitress, parked their brand new Mercedes in front, and gave free meals to their friends.
     It didn’t help when they embarked on a half-brained scheme to deliver office meals.  Many times, I drove chafing dishes to corporate offices in industrial parks (the kind I used to work in), parked outside with my hazard lights on, and made several trips up-and-down elevators while carrying food and paraphernalia—dripping sauce all over my clothes and all over the trunk of my car!  

     I arrived home at night to my idle father, as my mother complained to me how tired she was from her receptionist job!  By then, I stopped contributing money, claiming that I had been the hardest breadwinner for too long and needed to save so I could move out respectably—unlike my sister.  I searched for a new job.

     Many people in the restaurant business let their cash earnings get them into trouble, debt, brothels, and addicting habits.  Not me.  If I wasn’t knocking on the restaurant's bathroom door to eject teenage guests trying to have sex...

...then I was declining invitations by coworkers to go to Atlantic City casinos.  (My mother went to enough casinos for both of us).  I lacked interest when the owners hired strippers to come and perform for some of the staff.

     I quit.  Two weeks later, the owners appeared on the Nightly News “Shame On You” episode, with a reporter at their homes in Little Neck, Queens, scolding them for abandoning the restaurant without paying their employees and absconding with party deposits.  I’m not sure if any consequences befell them. 

     After all of my hard work, recruitment, long hours, lifting/carrying/cleaning, working ALL holidays and ALL weekends, training perpetual new staff, customer issues, fights among the Hispanic kitchen staff, and memorizing daily "Specials", what was my reward?  Just a LIFE LESSON of what NOT to do, and another experience of my “loyalty” being abused.

     [Not everyone lost on that chapter in life.  There was a $40,000 Superbowl prize held amongst customers and employees.  By chance, an adulterous manager and the senior parking valet won (on a shared ticket) and split the money.  With his effortless winnings, the valet took his girlfriend (who had come to my home and sold my Mom some Cutco knives), to the Plaza Hotel for dinner, and put money toward his car "improvements", a long vacation, and college costs].  

     As for me?  Yet again, a young man with all my education and skills needed a new job.  Instead of selling "party bookings", I decided to sell something else that I knew about: clothes.  I bought my suits from a high-end retailer (I'll avoid the name to protect the innocent).  Like all American retailers of that era, its salesmen sold me baggy suits in size 42 Long (but I’m 39 slim) and charged me for tailoring to make them fit.  It was like Steve Carell's character in "Crazy Stupid Love".  As a college sophomore, I bought my first suit from that clothier, and it lasted me for 11 years before the fabric started to get glossy from wear.  Thus, I believed in the product (at that time).  During my prior jobs as an office worker, I always got compliments on my attire, which was from that clothier.  

     It was a "heritage" brand.  Its pedigree of historic clientele included generals, gentlemen of leisure, aviators, adventurers, and Captains of Industry.  I hoped to transition into higher fashion, and do networking within its large corporate structure.  I told my mother about my new intention, and I got the odd reply, "You think you know what you want."  (as if to say, "you'll be sorry").

     I had absolutely no retail background or "industry knowledge" for that field, but I knew about the products, and I was determined to get a job.  I applied at the flagship store on the Gold Coast, where I bought my first suit.  I was rejected by the General Manger for my lack of experience.  He was afraid that after my post-college desk job, I couldn’t stand on my feet all day.  Ha!  I explained about my catering job and banquet sales job (on my feet), but to no avail.  
     Not to be discouraged, I drove across Long Island and applied at a smaller mall location and was hired—incidentally replacing a veteran employee named Wayne, who used to be my salesman there.  

     I am proud to be a "self-made man" for that long part of my career.  I got the job because of my knack for "dressing well", mastery of menswear, comprehension of the company's culture, and salesmanship.  What I didn't know, I studied and learned.  I'm a "quick study" with a short learning curve.  It helped me that I was previously known as a "good customer" at the store... well-regarded because I was friendly with the salesmen and tailors.  

     I felt like Pierce Brosnan's suave TV character, Remington Steele: posing as an expert that I was yet to become.

     There were many challenges.  Compared to selling retail at other companies, I had to sell clothes AND rules of dressing.  

     In today's world, imagine trying to tell customers that their trouser creases must be pressed, shirt plackets ironed, socks are supposed to match their trousers (my socks are colorful), belts must match shoes, unpolished shoes are slovenly, ties and pocket squares should coordinate but not be from identical patterns, there are different knots for ties, there are correct shirt collars for different-shaped faces, pleated or flat-front trousers depend on body type, and there is a correct "break" for trouser hems.  Imagine trying to tell all of that to mall customers who are shopping purely based on "discount" prices and who otherwise shop at T. J. Max or Jos A. Bank.  

They don't care about any of it!

     There wasn't any type of "company training", so I learned everything on my own.  I adapted.  I read helpful books.

     With my sartorially impeccable outfits, composure, well-spoken phrases, and a flair for subtly of nuance, I began to succeed.  I focused on a niche that salesmen ignored: made-to-measure clothes.  LIFE LESSON: If you endeavor at what everybody else is ignoring, you can make a name for yourself.  I did a great job, and it led to an enduring friendship with my hiring manager.  Despite the company being mostly conservative, heterosexual, and "WASP", I was a success!

     I observed my colleagues and learned two LIFE LESSONS: take your full lunch break.  Overworking yourself and stressing with anxiety about when the next sale will occur (or other people's sales while you were at lunch) wastes energy and is unhealthy.  The "point of diminishing returns" occurs if you sacrifice your breaks and don't see rewards for the sacrificed time to recharge.  Also, as the commission part of your paycheck goes up, taxes consume more of it.  

     I made more money than sales associates who arrived at work extra-early, never took a break (despite their fatigue), ate fast 5-minute lunches, and fretted over when the next client would come in.  Instead, I refreshed my mind during lunch, and I took an afternoon break (a chance to network around the mall and avoid "negative" coworkers).  That's me, below.

     I was the only one who befriended Quincy, a stylish salesman from Guyana.  

     He was a well-to-do divorced father (of two daughters), and he considered this to be his last job in retail.  He was impressed with my attitude, manners, and cheerfulness.  As we walked to the parking lot after work, he noticed how I respected the engineering of his top-of-the-line Jaguar Vanden Plas.  

     Growing up in Guyana, he was accustomed to driving on the left side of the road (due to influence from England), and he re-learned how to drive in the USA.  Most of our coworkers were socially-uneducated Americans, and I was one of the few who didn't tease him about his British mannerisms.  I was the only coworker who got invited to his home in Dix Hills for dinner with his daughters.  

     I complimented his native recipes and enjoyed hearing tales from his South American homeland, which is part of the Commonwealth of Nations.

     He disliked how my racist parents treated him coolly when I invited him to my house for one of my home-cooked meals.  They did not like black people, and his preppy attire (which matched my own) did not impress them either.  At his home for another dinner, he was delighted that I appreciated jazz and recognized the voices of Nat King Cole, Sarah Vaughn, and Billy Eckstine.  Months later, I helped him host an outdoor dinner soirée for his neighbors.  I connected Quincy with jazz musicians whom I relied on, and the night was sublime.

     To enrich my palate, he took me to wineries on the North & South Forks of Long Island.  Responsibly, I made myself the "designated driver".  

      As our company made it harder and harder for us to achieve our monthly goals, Quincy decided to retire and relocate to a less costly (and less racist) place than New York.  He advised me that I was "too good" for our ever-cheaper company, and I deserved to work elsewhere from the "hellhole shopping mall".

     Working at a suburban mall was not great.  At its best, it was a mediocre milieu.  The mall could be horrific: mobs of baby strollers and pushy shoppers, throngs of cars maneuvering aggressively for parking spots, 

dents/scratches put on cars from other vehicles/shopping carts, 

how far away employees had to park (to leave room for customers), 

extra-long Holiday Hours, how malls stay open in snowstorms, the higher probability of shoplifter gangs, and distasteful food courts.  

     During that winter, a snowstorm hit our region.  Smaller stores in the mall closed early and sent their employees home for safety.  But the three bigger "box stores" uncaringly remained opened, so the mall remained opened.  We called our District Manager for permission to close early.  That weakling said that "our safety was the company's priority", yet he expected us to remain at work as the snowstorm got worse.  He actually suggested that we use the downtime (since there were no customers) to check inventory and clean the store!  After two hours of worsening weather, we called him back, but he uncaringly said, "I'm at home in Connecticut, and the weather doesn't seem so bad.  Are you sure you need to leave early?"  Just then, a mall security guard announced that the mall was closing early, so we could, too.  By then, our cars were covered with heaps of snow in the parking lot.  In typical style, the overpaid county did a bad job plowing, so the roads were treacherous.  Two of my coworker's cars got stuck in the snow on the onramp to the highway, so I helped push both cars!

Thanks to the uncaring "profit-driven" priorities of our District Manager, we were endangered by experiencing the expressway after more snow accumulated... and more accidents occurred.  Some managers/executives truly do not care.

     When malls were designed in the 1950s, they were intended to incorporate décor from European plazas.  But the greed and style of American retailers corrupted malls into giant, hollow, homogenous blocks with the same chain-name stores... all across the country.

     I have no idea why consumers (perhaps tempted by TV commercials) prefer to spend so much time and gasoline grinding their way along backlogged expressways—in the stench of each other's exhaust—one hand on the horn and one foot on the brake, to go shopping at malls.  The trips back and forth causes your eyes to pop during the nerve-racking search for hidden cops, road rage drivers, blind lane changing, and stone-throwing trucks (stones from their tires regularly chips your windshield).  They all drive in a baffled fury, hating each other.  

     They arrive with shattered nerves and fight for parking spaces.  Later, after fighting against the mall's baby strollers, toddlers, crowded congestion, and cashier lines, they return—blinded by Xenon headlights.  Those are the distinctions of suburban Long Island shopping malls.

     LIFE LESSON: due to people's attachment/craving for material goods (to be better than their neighbor & to appease their relatives), they put themselves through long lines, inconvenience, 4am shopping times, poor service, unorganized stores, and stress.  (No wonder consumers prefer online shopping!)  The mall owners and manufacturers laugh "all the way to the bank": the buyers are doing it to themselves, while making the store owners richer.

     I had rising sales numbers and acclaim from my District Manager.  I was promoted as the youngest Keyholder (the responsibilities of an Assistant Manager but who is a salesman earning commission pay).  It was a challenge to add more duties but still use my time to achieve my monthly sales quotas.  Yet, I succeeded.  I also helped uproot problematic personnel.  In my first few months, I was authoritatively involved with the Loss Prevention Department in terminating the other Keyholder who transferred-in merchandise that he gave away to his buddies when they "picked up" their tailoring alterations.  Then, a stock girl tried to coerce the Greek tailor to help her steal things by smuggling them outside; she was fired and he was saved.  My store's manager and two assistant managers were astounded.       

     Thankfully, instead of resenting me for discovering what they didn't notice, they applauded my help.  It was the last time that I was valued for something like that.  For the next 17 years, corrupt people at my jobs worked together to eject me for being "too good".  (After 17 years and several companies, I finally met one that disliked corruption.  That indicates a lot about the behavior of companies in New York).

     When I learned about a job opening at the flagship store (where I first applied), I telephoned to inquire.  It was in the exalted Suit Department.  All of a sudden, that manager was eager to have me!  As Fate had it, on the day that I spontaneously drove there to discuss it, the manager was coincidentally with the District Manager and the Human Resources Director.  My verbal application couldn’t have been more easily received.  I figured that it was "a sign".  

(By then, I should’ve been afraid of “signs given to me”!)

     My manager at the mall wished me well, as he gave his resignation to pursue a more prosperous career in Florida with LVMH.  He warned me about my new General Manager: a treacherous, back-stabbing, power-hungry/ambitious gay man.  I had no choice but to press on.  I intended to continue "climbing the ladder" and transfer into Corporate.  My outgoing manager simply gave me some advice and then went his own way with his family.  

     I considered how much more money I'd earn at a flagship store.  Money meant freedom.  I was immeasurably happy to drive to work, AWAY from the crazy mall traffic and sloppy shoppers.  I wanted a polished environment, a true luxury market where I didn't have to scavenge for sales and work so hard for each one.  (That's me on the left...)

     Once again, I was bounced back to the Gold Coast, where clientele resided in mansions on ever-smaller plots of land (due to the greed or real estate developers).

     My new commute took me past Inisfada, an ornate mansion from the turn-of-the-century... and the fourth-largest home in America.  At that time, it was a religious Retreat House.  Convenient for that, the estate had a chapel because its first owner was a Catholic robber-baron.  The Pope rewarded him by making him a papal duke.

*(NOTE: January 2015, it was sold to a developer and torn down... demolished—without saving any historical architectural elements—to build more suburban houses in an area that's already overcrowded).

     My new job's shopping complex was near a Long Island Railroad station, so I imagined going to the city some nights, after work.  I expected to meet sales associates at the other boutiques: Prada, Brunello Cucinelli, Chanel, David Yurman, Zegna, Giorgio Armani, Hermes, or Tiffany & Co.  Looking at the pictures below, you can imagine how excited I was to advance my career there.  Off I went, like a moth to the flame.

     Alas, the other retail workers insulted my brand as "Baggy Blazers & Saggy Slacks".  Evidently, I worked at the least-trendy store, so workers treated us as the least-popular.  Such people reminded me of immature high school children.

     My company's corporate headquarters began to have a new leadership, which got louder after the privately-owned company’s (inherited) billionaire owner took Anna Wintour’s advice and hired a famous designer (even his name was spelled trendily) for a special collection that won Fashion’s acclaim.  
     I disliked the boring, year-round outfits that some of my coworkers and clients wore: blazers with tan slacks, or dark pinstripes with dark-hued ties. 

In fact, a majority of American suit sellers only offer black, grey, and blue... so millions of men (mindlessly) only wear those austere colors.  It's apparent on American TV and city streets.

     But I knew that other types existed.  Compare typical America to mens fashion in Europe and China: they are unafraid of color, pattern, and texture... and pocket squares.

You rarely see those outfits in the USA.  The main type of pattern that my company used was an outdated checkered one.

     I researched the archives and used my own "sense of style" to create dapper outfits that complied with our "dress code" but had some flash!  I used my employee discount (60% off, twice a year) to buy made-to-measure garments, which came from a larger variety of fabrics.  In spring, I wore colorful V-neck sweaters under my enamel-buttoned blazer (made of Loro Piana wool).  In summer, I wore white trousers with canvas/leather spectator shoes, or I wore a baby-blue sport coat and yellow pants with suede loafers.  

In cooler months, I donned Tweed or corduroy sport coats, suede vests, camelhair jackets, and patterned wool trousers.  

I was known for my bold-patterned or striped ties, my textured "sock ties", and summery madras ones.

I used a wide variety of cuff links: many from my maternal grandfather.

I like colorful socks and argyles ones... 

I utilize pocket squares in almost every color.

     I was the first salesman to wear a lavender shirt (custom-made by the company to achieve the correct slimness).  I had the tailors trim down my jackets, trousers, and suits—way beyond what they thought was normal… which was still a bit baggy.  
     I wanted to look good and stand out.  I wanted my appearance to help me get customers.  My job was to make people look great.  Look at the picture below.  The guy on the right is rumpled.  His jacket is too small and is "pulling" across his midsection.  His jacket sleeves are too long, covering his cufflinks and practically covering his hands.  The jacket hides his vest lapels.  His trousers are too baggy and too long (which ruins the crease).  The pleats don't look good on him, and the pants legs are too wide at the cuff.  It was my job to make him look like the middle guy: the correct lengths, flat front trousers, items slim enough for his dimensions, and a perfect "break" in his tailored trousers, just above the shoes.

     Little did I know that I was at the ONE store in that whole shopping complex that was fashion-backward, stuffy, stodgy, and who treated their employees poorly (we were the worst compensated/treated until Dolce & Gabanna—who fired employees over policy infractions—were themselves facing jail time for billions of dollars in tax evasion).  My coworkers were the type who drove a Ford Taurus or Buick, ate soup and hot dogs for lunch, and held a rigid sense of protocol.  But, they kept hundreds of traditional clients happy.

     To consumers, the company proudly touted itself as having long-time "experienced" salesmen with relationships to generations of the same families.  In reality, the company's "top brass" considered those long-time employees as unwanted expenses.  Executives wanted to shake them loose from the payroll (while increasing their own incomes).  The company didn't want customers who could tell the difference between good/poor craftsmanship; they wanted "fashion clients" who bought feverishly at every season.  Even George Plimpton, who initially raved about the company's newest owner, ended up publicly ridiculing the way the company turned.
     My coworkers befriended me—even if they teased my brown leather shoes with my grey flannel suit (below).  I learned a lot from them… things that sales professionals are clueless about nowadays.

     An article was written about our store in the local magazine.  I'll include the part that mentions me:
"Was there ever a better sales team than the classic lineup at that veritable 'Miracle Mile' in Manhasset?  Mostly the same guys for twenty years; you just don’t see that kind of dynastic continuity anymore.  I had the pleasure of watching the suiting team in action, and let me tell you, there was never a group more scrupulous in its pursuit of making customers’ ideals come true.  Unfortunately, in 2005, such a team is an anachronism of what clothing used to be, but those men wear their lapel pins with dignity, strolling up to customers casually—never in a caffeinated hustle.  ...  Ken is a magnetic force with an expressive, clear-cut and convincing voice that he uses to describe the garments.  He cringes at TV portrayals of loud-jacketed, sleazy car salesmen, and he enjoys his team's respectability and unpretentiousness.  Clients buy him lunch, local bakery goods, tickets, and bottles, and they keep in touch after the sale.  ...  I like those high-spirited men with their American-dream optimism and Sinatra-natty appearances.  Quite a contrast to the competition: mostly younger guys with foul mouths, bad habits, and assaulting colognes who don’t appreciate collegiality and don’t care for nice manners."  
     Quite nice, really. 
     *By the way, the community of Manhasset was named for the Native American tribe that initially inhabited the area for centuries.  Its chief was the Grand Sachem of all Long Island tribes.

     However, human talent was ignored for wasteful, speculative spending by the new senior-management.  Losses didn't cost anything to them: the cost of their losses went to their employees.  As one tailor said, "Fish (corruption) stinks from the head".  

     Regardless of the company's new owner, my GM was a problem, too.  He was a narcissistic gay man who divorced his coddling wife to be with his current partner—who, rumor-had-it, paid for everything.  My GM drove a new Mercedes C-class, moved into his partner's luxury high-rise overlooking the Long Island Sound (then insisted on moving them down several floors, when an apartment vacated—to be closer to the water).  He maintained a schedule that allowed annual trips to Paris and Tuscany, and time to pamper his grandchildren.  It could be said that he got to that stage in life by “screwing people”.