The Hamptons are sometimes referred to as the Beverly Hills of the East Coast. Every summer, this oceanside resort area lures a stylish, affluent crowd whose itinerary is always on repeat: beach, spa, shop, dine. For a few thousand dollars, you can elevate your resort wear for that celebrity book signing you’re attending that afternoon. Or, you can schedule your wellness treatment at a beachfront club for that facial and massage that will create the best version of you.
Saturday summer mornings have a Zen-like quality in East Hampton — quietly meditative before the tsunami of tourists overwhelms the sidewalks. As I hurried to my store, several young, well-toned girls floated by me on their way to their yoga class or, perhaps, to a workout with their personal trainer. This tranquil ambience does not embrace us retail store managers, however. With almost three decades of luxury retail experience, I knew my store’s opening time at 10 a.m. was a mandatory obligation, non-negotiable. I was laser focused. My self-imposed mission was to meet that required deadline. Glancing at my watch, it was already 8:30.
The cleaning lady was standing at the store’s front entrance, waiting anxiously for me. I unlocked the door for her and, as I glanced back, I noticed her. She was seated directly in front of the store on a bench facing the street, that same bench where day trippers would soon perch hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities. She was dressed all in pink, from her leggings to her puffer jacket, which conjured an impression of a cotton candy confection in human form. Her sun-streaked blond hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. And, at that moment, with her hand cupped over her mouth, she was engaged in a whispered, clandestine conversation on her phone, as if she were speaking about some high-level security issue.
I refocused my attention on my necessary “busy-busy” preparations. The cleaning lady proceeded to the back office while I remained on the selling floor to create the new weekly merchandising theme for the large front window and store interior.
By 9, the mannequin had been stripped and was now reclining in the main window, reimagined in a new ensemble of neutral cream tones accented in seashell pink. Maybe my choice of color palette was influenced by the pink lady still entrenched on her bench and still chatting on her phone. It suddenly occurred to me that she could be my first customer of the day and that she was simply passing the time, waiting for my store to open. There’s a superstitious belief in the retail industry that if your first customer of the day makes a purchase, you will finish that day with great success. I could feel this was going to be an exceptional selling day. My first sale was sitting right outside on a bench.
With her office and stockroom duties complete, the cleaning lady was now outside on a ladder washing the storefront windows while I completed the remainder of my opening checklist, all the while keeping the front door slightly ajar to welcome my first sale, as soon as she finished her phone conversation.
The windows were now sparkling, reflecting another glorious Hamptons summer morning. The final 30-minute countdown began with the cleaning lady mopping the imported Russian oak hardwood floors while I meticulously arranged the collection of crocodile and python handbags with the final result a highly curated art exhibition.
With a few minutes remaining before our opening, I commented, “Boy, Elvia, that lady’s been on her phone for almost an hour and a half now!” Elvia glanced at me in a curious, almost embarrassed, way and replied softly, “Mr. Randall, that lady, she has no phone.”
I stood in the doorway in stunned silence, staring at the bench. Then, looking past my pink lady, I noticed the town’s highly enameled, forest green trash can hiding a bent, rusty red, granny-style shopping cart filled, not with the latest couture “have-to-haves,” but with torn and dirty plastic bags. My creative, visual merchandising was now assaulted by her reality. I was so absorbed in opening the store on time that I had missed an opportunity to open the door to compassion for a tattered lady sitting directly in front of me.
My thoughts of the first sale of the day evaporated into a sad sigh as I turned back to my world of luxury retail while the sound system began to pulse Cafe Costes music from Paris. This lady would not be shopping in my store that morning nor in any other boutique on Main Street in East Hampton.
Randall Hemming lives in East Hampton.