The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (18 page)

"Why does it say 'New' on this package?" I asked him.

"Those are two-tone, sir, something new SuppHose has come out with." His smile was still pretty tentative.

"No," I declared, "I want solids."

"All right, sir. in solids we have a choice of four colors— black, brown, navy blue, and medium gray."

"May I see the navy blue, please?"

"Here's navy blue. It looks dark but the light is different here than outside."

"Maybe I should stick with black. How many pairs do you have here?" I poked around the rack looking for stray pairs of black, size small.

"Sir, we have eight here, but I can get you as many as you'd like."

"Eight's enough." I didn't want him taking a cigarette break in the stockroom on my time. "And, please take them out of the boxes. They're hard to carry."

His tentative smile faded. "Sir, they're on cardboards."

"That's okay. Just take them out of the boxes. You don't have to take the cardboards out."

"The only thing I would say, sir, is if for any reason you want to return them you can't if they're not in their boxes."

"No, I won't return them." I never return anything. That's worse than not buying.

The salesman began to take them out of their boxes. When he was on number seven, I asked, "Is there any other brand?"

"There's one other brand we carry, sir—Mandate. It's not as effective. But it
is
less expensive." "No," I said.

Just then B came back from buying a bunch of socks for himself in various dark, respectable colors—navy, brown, forest green, charcoal, black.

"Why do you buy different-color socks, B?"

"So they're easy to separate when they're washed."

"But if you get all the same color you can put any one with any other one."

We paid for our socks and walked on through Macy's. It really was crowded and noisy and much less like a museum than Bloomingdale's. I suggested a little lunch somewhere in the store.

"Lunch in a department store?" B was absolutely horrified, as if I had suggested sending out to a sewer or something. He really is a spoiled brat, a product of postwar affluence.

"Okay B, we'll have lunch in a hotel uptown." B smiled; he was as pleased as he could ever be pleased. "But first let's go to Gimbel's. They might have some old jewelry. They buy estates."

Outside it really hit me that New York isn't Paris. Thirty-fourth Street was crawling with potential muggers, potential rapists, potential degenerates, potential murderers. There were very few potential victims in sight.

"Let's cut through Woolworth's to 33rd Street and Gimbel's," I said. I used to buy my underwear at Woolworth's so I have a sentimental attachment to it. The first thing you notice when you enter Woolworth's is the smell of fried chicken frying. It smelled so good I almost bought some even though I don't like fried chicken. In high-class stores they sell through "display," in low-class ones they sell through "smell." B of course had his nose wrinkled up and was rushing right through.

"Why are you rushing, B?"

"That buzz is driving me crazy."

"What buzz?" I listened and there was a buzz, probably a faulty air-conditioning system, but for me it was completely drowned out by the smell of roasted peanuts. "Aren't you glad you were born rich, B?" B is just not the five-and-dime type, so he's lucky he wasn't born into a five-and-dime family.

We were almost at the 33rd Street side of Woolworth's, where they have those 3-0 postcards of the World Trade Center and the Spanish-speaking greeting cards. We exited and crossed the street and entered Gimbel's. It was as crowded and noisy as Macy's. B groaned. "Can't we look for old jewelry at Cartier's?"

"Cartier's!" I was really getting angry with B. "Listen, B, I think we should do this every day, it would do you a lot of good, coming out into the world and seeing what life is all about. It doesn't start at Saks and end at Bloomingdale's. It's not a YSL boutique. Maybe you should spend more time getting underwear and socks and going to the dime store." B grimaced. "This is what real life is, B!" I turned away from B in disgust and noticed two little girls, about ten and twelve, rustling through a drawer of tee-shirts. "Those little kids are shoplifting!" I shouted.

"That's how much you know about the real world," said B. "Didn't you ever just open drawers when you were a kid to see if they had different things from on top of the counters?" "No."

"I used to open drawers and find different colors and sizes and styles. Anyway, what's wrong with shoplifting? Didn't you ever shoplift?"

"No." I couldn't be bothered with B. I had just discovered the In and Out Shop—Gimbel's version of a "head" shop. I was contemplating buying it out—every last piece of fake stained glass, every Mexican silver bracelet, every Kama Sutra poster, every daisy-decal mirror, every peacock feather. This is what people will probably be collecting in the 80s. Art-a-Go-Go. The 60s Plastic-Psychedelic look. There won't be any 20s, 30s, 40s, or 50s stuff left.

B was rushing off to the school-supplies department. "Did you used to get a new lunchbox and briefcase and looseleaf and pencils every September? That was my favorite time of year. It was really exciting dividing the looseleaf into different sections with a different color for each subject. I could never decide which bookcover look I liked better, the shiny Ivy League covers from the drugstore or the plain brown paper-sack covers you made yourself. Did you have book covers, A?"

"For what?"

"For school."

"No."

I asked a passing salesgirl for directions to Used Jewelry and she told me it was right past Cosmetics. We walked on. "Shiseido Presents Exotic Makeup Artist for Free" was also playing at Gimbel's.

At the first-floor jewelry department, a sign said, "End of the Season Gold Clearance—20 to 50% off." I wondered which season was the Gold season. The single salesman there was helping a customer try on a ring. "How does that one feel?" he asked.

"Tight," said the customer.

As much as I hate to cut in on a purchase, I did. "Where's your used jewelry?"

"The used jewelry would be on the fifth floor."

B and I headed for the escalator. On the way up I noticed Robert Redford on the way down. "Look, B, there's Robert Redford." Maybe it wasn't Robert Redford. But he was wearing a white suit and had sandy blond hair and a big smile.

"My sister saw Robert Redford on Madison Avenue the other day," B said.

"I saw him the other day too. He must be in town."

"My sister followed him up Madison."

"I followed him in a cab."

"He lives on Fifth Avenue."

"I followed him on Park Avenue, from 64th Street to 65th Street. He was walking too slow for my cab to keep up with him, so I lost him."

"My sister said nobody recognized him."

"I know, I was the only one following him on Park Avenue . . ." We were just arriving at the third floor and there was a seersucker suit on a mannequin that looked like Robert Redford.

"I come out of a department store," B was saying as we headed up to four, "feeling like I've been hit over the head. I only like small shops. Big stores take too much out of you."

"But you can get bargains in big stores."

"If you have the patience to look. But just think of the time it's costing you."

At the fifth floor the used jewelry department was right near the escalator. There were two counters, sparkling with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, gold, silver. On the first counter everything looked new. I asked the salesman if he had any jewelry from the 40s. He said no. "Do you have an old counter?" I persisted. "We have nothing there, either," he said.

I approached the salesman behind the second counter. He saw me coming and looked down and pretended to be writing in his order book.

"Excuse me." He didn't look up. "I'm looking for used jewelry. Do you have any?" He still didn't look up. "I read your ad." He finally looked up and said, "No."

"Well, you have an Estate Sale, according to the ad." I never had to work so hard to buy in my life.

"What we have is all mixed up," he said. "We don't keep everything in one case." He waved his arm across the counter. I looked down through the glass. A very simple three-color gold cigarette case caught my eye.

"How much is that?" I asked. "Is it on sale?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't advertised."

"Well, what else is there? I'm looking for something with a big stone. A big, big stone."

"There are some rings over there. You might see something you like."

I looked.

"Remember," B said, "how big that amethyst we saw in Paris was. How purple. It was Siberian, not South American. It belonged to the Imperial Family." As B talked the Gimbel's jewels looked smaller and smaller.

There was one gold-and-diamond brooch in the 40s style I liked because it reminded me of the good old days.

"May I see this one?"

"This one?" said the salesman, picking it up as if it were a black widow spider.

"Is it signed by any name?" "No."

"Is this a good diamond?"

"Is it a good diamond?" Suddenly the black widow was a butterfly. "Yes, sir. This is a very good buy. This is an Estate Piece. There are two carats of diamonds in here."

"Let's go, B," I whispered. "This guy is awful." As we headed toward the escalator I overheard a customer ask the salesman at the other counter, "You mean you might not have another one for three years?"

"That's right. Come back in three years."

"But will the price be the same?"

"I don't know if the price'll be the same
tomorrow."

I stepped on the escalator, frustrated that a salesman had kept me from buying.

"How come you like jewelry so much, A?" B asked.

"I don't like jewelry that much. Let's go buy some Dr. Scholl's Footsavers. Jewelry will never replace Dr. Scholl's."

"I'd rather have jewelry," B said.

"Why?"

"Because a diamond is forever," B said. "Forever what?"