Notes From A Non-Breeder: Shopgirl
Behind the counter at a high-end baby boutique.
by Kathryn Savage
February 5, 2009
"Do you have any retail experience?" the petite boutique owner asked, biting into a salami sandwich. "No, but I love kids!" I chirped. My interview took place in her office, which was stuffed with kiddie crack: unpacked boxes overflowing with brightly colored crayons, toys and plastic animals. Her phone rang ceaselessly, vibrating across her desk like a yappy dog. She looked haggard in a hot way. How hard can it be owning a store that sells kids clothes? I wondered. She gave me a once-over and asked, "Can you start tomorrow?"
I got there early, full of new-girl jitters, ready to fill a child's life with store-bought joy. Half an hour later, a skinny brunette, wearing an embroidered denim top and bottom, jogged up. "I'm late!" she said. "I'm sorry! I'm always late!"
Four huge boxes waited for us inside the store — a wonderland filled with silk capes, soft lighting and pretend kitchen sets. The boxes housed high-tech ant farms that we sorted and priced. "Are the ants inside the box?" I asked. "Of course! You dump the prepackaged ants into the neon blue nutrient goo and they stuff their faces with it," She smiled. "It's developed by NASA."
It was nice in a way, all this trying to be nice.
The next few weeks were an exercise in faking it. My job was to prove that loving parents buy $300 angora jumpers for their newborns, that children sleep easier beneath organic cotton starry night sheets. Each day I'd grab a coffee, unlock the store, pump some Enya, and adopt a soothing voice. It was nice in a way, all this trying to be nice. The better I was at feigning enthusiasm over wooden food, swank ant farms and pricey bikes, the more I sold. But I couldn't help feeling weird about it. I don't have kids, I'd think. I don't have a mortgage. I have a bottle of cheap wine waiting in the fridge at home. I steal internet from my neighbor. I don't know the first thing about what babies need to be happy.
Soon, my all-denim cohort moved to Long Beach with her bodyguard husband and the "warm, calm environment" Craigslist promised became a sea of after-hours sales meetings, screaming children, imported infant kimonos, and one dying cat (the boss thought it should die there, with me, rather than at home, where she would torment the family). The perks of working alone were swallowed by an endless flow of UPS boxes to unpack, inventory, sort and price.
Before I started the job, I imagined the customers would be well-dressed stay-at-home moms with interesting academic careers, good hair and timeshares. I fancied small talk circling around the latest fiction in The New Yorker.
©2009 Babble
About the Author
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Kathryn Savage lives in Minneapolis with her husband and her pit bull. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including The Rake and Nerve. |
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