Confessions of a Department Store Girl

A few months back, I occasionally passed by this big department store in the city. I would stop and gaze at the carefully arranged displays, allowing myself to fall into the trap of visual merchandising. If I were feeling exceptionally generous, I would go in and try out things, play-pretend having money I did not have, and even lead some sales assistants on, “I love it! I will do a quick tour around and come back.” I would say, watching as their smiles turned sour. Another deal unsealed. 

I always thought of the department store as a glitch in the matrix, a portal that transports you into a heightened capitalist hell. Being there is both distracting and suffocating. In the most unexpected turn of events, I applied for a sales position there. I could no longer rely on my stagnant modeling career or my non-lucrative passion for writing to survive. When the acceptance email hit my inbox, I felt relieved I would finally have some stability through a monthly paycheck. But beyond the relief was real anxiety; how could I be a good sales assistant? I never aspired to work in sales and never understood my mother, a passionate businesswoman, when she spoke of the thrilling experience of a good deal. Ultimately, I knew the job required bullshitting, and I was willing to try. 

The retail executives were impressed when I wore my uniform for the first time. “You look good in [insert brand name]! You will sell very well just by wearing the clothes.” 

Still, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being an imposter, of wearing something that did not belong to me and could never belong to me, especially since it was worth more than my humble paycheck. I also knew it wasn’t true: models sold clothes just by wearing them. We, department store girls, needed to be a bit more convincing.  We had to open our mouths and let the sweetness come out of our forever-smiling mouths. We had to talk –even lure you into it. 

At first, the sweetness was not easy for me to perform. I wanted to scream at the clients that a two thousand euro jacket would not make them feel good about their divorce or their mother dying. I was slow in hiding my winces and clumsy in my bullshitting, I paused a little too long, and my eyes betrayed me. But people mostly came to be lied to; They came to feel good about themselves, just as I had done all those times before on the odd visit. So, I got better at it.

Walking around the building as a new employee, I had more time to observe my colleagues. I watched the broad-shouldered security guards who kept the expensive Chanel bags safe and wondered if they ever had to carry a wealthy but weirdly kleptomaniac lady off the premises. I closely watched the older sales assistants, who felt obliged to keep an illusion of youth with makeup and flamboyant style but were ultimately betrayed by their bodies, corrupted by years of standing and smiling mindlessly. I was becoming a compulsive smiler myself. I would smile even if someone ran by the store and didn’t look in its direction. In the most desperate times, on those sunny Wednesdays when everyone would much rather drink Aperol in the sun than be inside a windowless maze of concrete and price tags, I felt like a prostitute walking up and down the hallway, looking to catch the slightest whiff of human smell, anxious to hit my target in sales.

It was hard for me to doll up every day, especially on those days when I wanted to bathe in my ugliness. I had to go into a place where people barely outnumbered mirrors, so it was impossible to escape my reflection. It was also difficult to stay pleasant when all I wanted was to be angry; angry at rude and entitled clients who ignored me, raised their voices, and treated me with no respect. 

Most of all, I could not hide my jealousy at swift swipes of credit cards and happy couples so attuned to each other’s style that I cringed at the thought of my exes and their hideous sense of fashion. I felt this foolish pang of envy of the beautiful women who came into the store, those who were married to wealthy men who waited for them as they dressed and undressed. I felt particularly vulnerable when successful architects, designers, and professors came by. During the Berlinale, I sold a white shirt to a film producer from New York. Amid what had felt like a rare and genuine conversation with a client, I told her I was a writer but immediately hated myself. Once again, I felt like an imposter. I  imagined myself in her eyes, a young writer working a retail job that would slowly kill all her creativity. Of course, the lovely woman from New York probably had kinder thoughts about me than I had for myself. But it did not matter. It was clear that I could not shake off my fear; of what this job would do to me. I was overwhelmed with a deep sense of understanding and love for the people working beside me, those who work in the shadows of luxury, behind doors that say STAFF ONLY where the floors are less pleasant and the smells are terrible.

In the cafeteria, I took up the habit of sitting next to this beautiful solemn woman who always reads on her lunch break; I would watch as her face moved in reaction to the words she was ingesting. I would see myself in her and wonder if she also likes to write. I wonder if she ever self-published a romance novel and woke up the next day, dolled up, and was on her way to smile and sell some bags. And most of all, I wonder if she is happy.