Let’s talk about jobs. Not the big-picture kind – I’ll leave that to our esteemed officials in Washington, D.C. No, let’s talk about those jobs that form us and get us started in the world.
I was a senior in college when I got my dream job. After a couple years of waitressing, I wanted something different. One day while at Dayton’s downtown Minneapolis, I wandered into J.B. Hudson, the fabled jewelry store. I wanted to work here, I thought, applied, was hired on the spot, and assigned to china and crystal. Perhaps you remember the old J.B. Hudson. You entered Dayton’s main door on 7th & Nicollet, turned right, and were in Dayton’s, but if you continued straight through the heavy revolving door, you entered the sanctum of J.B. Hudson: silver and gifts to the right, fine jewelry in the middle, diamonds and watches to the left, china and crystal on the balcony to the rear of the store.
China and crystal was a good fit. My mother grew up in a tony household in St. Paul, where she lived on and off until she married my father, a farmer. When her parents died, my mother, an
only child, got everything and hauled most of it down to the farm. While the house itself wasn’t quite “Green Acres” dilapidated, the juxtaposition between the house and its contents was vast. I learned the word “redundant” far earlier than my peers when my mother used the term in reference to sterling silver: “If it’s not sterling, it’s not silver.” And so it went, the farmhouse filled with antiques, fine china, silver, crystal, and all stripe of frippery.
Up on Hudson’s balcony, I was at home. My coworkers (the youngest in her fifties) marveled that someone my age knew so much about the wares that surrounded us. To be fair, others have marveled at my knowledge of tractors, balers, combines, and the joy of pulling corn from the crib to be shelled.
I began the day before Valentine’s Day. The store was bustling, and I sold one Belleek teapot after another, confident they’d never be used, only admired and consigned to a lonely china cabinet, as was all my mother’s Belleek.
Early in my tenure, one of my coworkers whispered, “She’s here.” “Who?” I asked. She pointed to the main floor and said simply, “Mink Coat.” There she was, a wealthy matron who patronized the store steadfastly, and whom I’ll always remember. I’ll call her Mrs. P.
Even in my callow youth, I came to find Mrs. P. sad and lonely: Why else would anyone shop so much? She was always clad in full-length mink, which made sense in February but not in July when she ascended to the balcony and our paths crossed. “May I help you?” I asked. “Yes, Dear, I need new dishes.” The main decision – the pattern – was settled on quickly: Royal Crown Derby, Old Imari. Hand-painted and heavily gilded, it was the most expensive pattern we carried. Then followed three weeks of nearly daily visits to add to the harvest–five-piece service for 18, plus platters, tureens, then coffee & tea sets, napkin rings, next steak knives, then also butter knives, fish knives. Would this never end? Finally, Mrs. P. was ready to buy. I added up everything, took her charge card, placed it into the ZipZap machine –swoosh shoosh – and she signed the form.
All was well until that moment, post-sale, when Mrs. P. asked insouciantly, “Now, Dear (she never used my name), can I put these dishes in the dishwasher?” My entire being recoiled – partly because I knew what these precious dishes were all about and how to treat them (I realize now my mother had taught me to respect fine things), and partly because I knew this woman never, ever did dishes. The words fell out of my mouth: “Do you put your mink coat in the washing machine?” Her face froze. I was no longer “Dear.” Mrs. P. turned and left.
Yes, she called and reported me for being “impertinent.” Yes, I was reprimanded. But, no, I was not fired. In fact, I received accolades at the next manager’s meeting for having the highest sale of the week.
At the time I felt exultant. Somehow, I see now Mrs. P. had hurt me but at the same time I was too young, too uncomprehending (of myself, of her) to be kind.
– Dorothy
