I was annoyed…
At first …
Then I was amused.
- - -
I have lived in Midtown Manhattan for most of my adult life and Eugenia’s Creations just off Herald Square is my favorite boutique. I am a curvy girl and Eugenia designs specifically for ladies with a figure. I tend towards the slightly edgy side of strong tailored pieces, which means I don't do frilly stuff well. Nevertheless, I have a great appreciation for good design that is executed with style; wearable, functional clothing that doesn't overpower the wearer but definitely makes you stop and look.
On my last visit there, Eugenia helped me find the perfect dress for a particular occasion. It was a royal blue wrap dress. It was a bit pricey but I knew I would wear it because I absolutely loved it. No wonder they have three locations. One in Falls Church, Virginia, one in Toronto Canada and here in New York City. The trouble is, I have to avoid walking anywhere close to the boutique because I swear it has a magnetic pull that draws me in and forces me to spend more money.
This particular visit was on a Friday afternoon and I had taken off early from my business office downtown to sit for a final fitting for a custom-made suit. The boutique was busy that Friday, what with everyone looking for last minute weekend must-haves.
I walked into the store and waved to the staff at the front desk, then made my way to the rear of the store to find an unoccupied dressing room. Once in there I peeled off my jacket, slacks and blouse, took my business calendar from my purse and reviewed what impending work and social obligations were pressing.
So there I am, awaiting the arrival of a sales assistant while standing in the dressing room wearing nothing but my Double-D bra and high-waist nylon knickers. What a delightful word that is, ‘knickers’. I learned that from a good friend I have in England… But that is another story.
“I have your suit, Ma’am,” a youthful voice chirped.
Now I am usually served by one of the mature sales staff members who conscientiously go about their duties in a polite competent fashion but on this occasion, I was being addressed by a young teenage girl. She seemed a little out of place as teenage sales assistants are more usually found in the chain stores catering to teens, like Wet Seal or The Gap.
I thought she was attractive, in a rather conservative way. She was as tall as I was but very slender and wore a plain, blue, knee-length, half-sleeved dress and black flats. She had wonderfully long, shiny light brown hair that appeared to be tortured into a tightly curled Princess Lea type Danish bun on the back of her head. I thought that while not too flattering, it was perhaps practical.
The nametag on the front of her dress said, Jeanie.
Jeanie was attentive and very obliging. She fetched, carried, and fussed around me, but with this girl, it was all a bit much. I thought she was too accommodating and too fussy with everything. What was annoying me the most was that she was ‘mamming’ me to tears.
“Yes Ma’am, I have your suit.” “Very nice material Ma’am.” “I really like the color you selected Ma’am.” “No Ma’am, Yes Ma’am, three bags full Ma’am.”
Now that was extremely annoying.
I finally told her to knock off the ‘Ma’am’. At that time, I was 28 years old and she was coming across as if she were a scullery maid groveling in front of Queen Elizabeth. I told her that if she wanted to address me, then Helen was just fine with me. Eventually, she seemed to settle on, ‘Miss Helen.’
Jeanie removed my soon-to-be-finished suit from its box and hung the jacket up, then took the skirt, shook it out, knelt at my feet and held it open. I stepped into the suit skirt and Jeanie’s hands seem to be forever fussing at me. Helping pull the skirt up over my hips, buttoning the waistband and closing the zip in back. Then she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time kneeling at my feet and crawling around checking if the hem was hanging equally, front, back and sides.
Ohhh-kay. I got it. New on the job, most likely her very first job and therefore a bit overly attentive,
There was a moment when Jeanie was kneeling at my feet, playing around with the hem of the skirt, when she looked up. It was an inquiring gaze, traveling slowly up my legs, across my skirt, up over my waist and breasts to where she eventually was looking me in the face. It was an interesting look. A mixture of both shyness and curiosity that made me feel that her visual appraisal was not strictly confined to my clothing.
As our eyes met, she hurriedly dropped her gaze, blushed furiously and stuttered, “Should I b-b-bring the other blouses in Ma’am? I m-m-mean Miss Helen”
With that rather shy demonstration, I became amused.
In reply to her question, I smiled and nodded and off she trotted to fetch the two custom blouses I had ordered. I was left standing in my bra and skirt curiously wondering what exactly was going on with Little Miss Fussy.
I am a bit busty and most button-down off-the-rack blouses do not fit me worth a damn. For me, even something as basic as a simple tee shirt can be a challenge. Now blouses can be the real nightmare. You know how that goes, they fit well enough across the shoulders but your bust stretches the front apart to where you can see flesh between the buttons, plus pulling the front up so that it comes out at your waistline.
The usual solution to that is to keep your suit jackets closed or buy those rather billowy pullover blouses. My answer to that was to have my business blouses custom made at Eugenia’s Boutique so that they actually fit me correctly.
Jeanie returned with my blouses, removed them from the box and held one up to facilitate my sliding my arms into the sleeves. She then commenced to button up the blouse, making sure it was tucked neatly into my skirt waistband.
Now, normally I would have taken care of that small chore myself. I am quite self-sufficient enough to dress myself, thank you, but by this time, Jeanie’s attentiveness was just a little more than I would expect. Nothing that obvious, but certainly were some signs there when you knew what to look for.
Her eyes, oh lordy it was her eyes. She had these large soft brown eyes that reminded you of a squirrel counting hazelnuts. You know what I mean. Somewhat like the surprised wide-eyed look you get when accidentally sitting on something sharp and pointed, or have just been handed a thousand dollar bill.
One might reason Miss Fussy could have been examining my body and clothing for stray pieces of lint. An appraisal, while not critical, did signal something a little more intimate that stopped short of being worshipful. It was something in between.
Oh my god, it finally clicked. She was enamored. In spite of all that nervous shyness, Little Miss Fussy was checking me out.
For some reason, it surprised me. Is anyone that shy and innocent anymore?
At that fascinating moment, our visual tete-a-tete ended when the boutique’s tailor stepped into the dressing room to make some last minute minor adjustments to the skirt. A pin here, a tack there, along with a note to increase the length of the kick-slit in the back hem. I prefer a four-inch slit, not the two-inch they had tailored.
The tailor promised that all changes would be accomplished by the end of business, and made assurances that my suit and blouses would be delivered to my townhouse on the following day.
With that accomplished, I shed my new clothing, re-dressed in the top and slacks I had arrived in and went to pay the bill. I settled my financial obligations by adding the charges to my account and bid the staff farewell. Farewell at least until the next time when I couldn’t resist another of Eugenia’s creations. Walking those few city blocks home I felt good about my purchases, and smiled at the brief encounter with Miss Jeanie.
~ ~ ~
The following day introduced some drama into my life.
A few minutes after twelve noon, my front doorbell chimed. I opened the door to behold some strange young female standing on the steps with a passing resemblance to young missy sales assistant, Jeanie.
She was clutching a box from Eugenia’s Creations Boutique.
“Er… Miss Helen, the shop told me to deliver your suit and blouses.”
Little white lie number one. I was sure the shop did no such thing. In my experience, they always used a messenger service.
However, underneath the disguise, it was indeed, Jeanie the sales assistant, and oh my lord, what had she done to herself?
The ‘delivery person’ was wearing a small rayon tank-top that left most of her back and stomach bare and featured her small braless endowments standing out like twin peaks underneath the thin material. The top was accessorized by a light blue denim skirt so short that if she sneezed she would show her address and telephone number.
That fascinating fashion statement was topped off with her long hair hanging in two fat braids that hung down behind her ears making her look like a Goth version of Heidi. She added to that ensemble by using, several pounds of black and purple eyeshadow and a garish smear of cherry red lipstick.
All of that peculiar display was balanced on a pair cheap platform shoes that looked positively dangerous.
Where was the fresh-faced Jeanie in the plain dress and flat shoes?
She didn’t seem to be there.
I am seldom rendered speechless, but that particular apparition did a fair job of gluing my lips together. After what seemed to be enough time for the Kardashians to grow old, wrinkle and mercifully pass into oblivion, I took the parcel from her hands and placed it in the hallway. I did not invite her into my home; instead, I grabbed a cardigan sweater from the hallway coat closet and threw it around my shoulders.
“Come on Jeanie. Let’s get some coffee.”
We left my home and walked a block and a half to a small neighborhood café on the corner of Thirty-Third and Broadway.
Jeanie looked confused, desperately out of place and miserable.
I felt my heart twist, and felt her fear and trepidation.
I knew, oh my god how I knew. I may never have put myself out there in quite the same questionable manner as Jeanie, but in some measure, many of us have been there. Those moments when you desperately seek to connect with someone with little idea of how to do so. You place your very heart and soul on the line, without knowing where the line is.
However, she had the courage to try and I found myself admiring her for that.
I could have simply accepted the package, thanked her and closed the door, but I could not in good conscience do that. Why should I punish her for being curious about me? I was not an innocent party here. I had involved myself the moment I amused myself watching her antics in the store. All right, so she was nervous, clumsy, and way out of her normal comfort zone, but I felt she was due more than the sight of my backside walking away and ignoring her.
I also had to ask myself, was Jeanie too young? The voting age is eighteen and New York mandates the legal drinking age for alcohol to be twenty-one. The internal confusion she was wrestling with at that moment was a damn sight more important to her spirit and identity as a human being than both politics and drinking.
She was seventeen, dressed as if she were ten and wanting desperately to be thirty.
I was forced to reflect upon my own life. I had certainly experimented with other girls that were her age during my own high school years, but that was among peers. Back in those days when we are all young and curious. Oh hell, you know how that goes.
We always had that safety net, our built-in excuses for wrestling around, dressing up, sleepovers, girly slap and tickle, and we played in such a manner that it could always be fobbed-off as, non-serious childish play. Deniable awareness. We weren’t really doing sexual experimentations, were we? We weren’t, god forbid... lesbians?
Now Jeanie had set herself a tougher task. She wasn’t playing around with her school friends; she had cast her attention on an older woman.
Oh yes. I had been there also, and I was younger than Jeanie was then. The accompanying guilt sets in. Fear of being found out, discovered, and exposed as, ‘one of them.’ The fear of peer ostracization, social derision, role and gender confusion, all resulting in self-doubt and recrimination, which can be devastating when you are young. All because you had the temerity to be, however briefly, attracted to another female.
It’s funny how mothers always warn us about boys, but never about girls...
Very few of us are prepared for that moment, so we stumble through it. We make a joke of it; we claim we were just acting the fool, drunk, partying or misunderstood. All of those rather pathetic rationalizations in case we made total asses of ourselves. That fear before you even start, is how do you get back? So without emotional wings to fly with, we cast ourselves out there, and without knowing what will befall, we pray to god for a gentle landing.
I have often wondered wherein lay the greater trauma. Feeling terrified and ashamed if your intended lover shames you and rejects you, and says, ‘No,’ or the different kind of fear should she say, ‘Yes.’
In this instance, Jeanie had just landed on my doorstep and in my lap. Damn it; like it or not, want it or not, her immediate emotional welfare was my concern and responsibility.
Jeanie sat across from me at a table, nervously biting her lip. She was anxious about what she had gotten herself into and close to panic. Her hands trembled and small beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. Those huge expressive eyes that had so lingered upon me in the dressing room, now flicked nervously from side to side as she looked around the café containing the usual mix of neighborhood residents, yuppies and business types.
Jeanie knew that she was out of place and looked as if she wanted to run away.
“I guess I shouldn’t have worn this skirt and top,” she murmured.
I smiled at her. “You didn’t have to wear a miniskirt to get my attention, Jeanie. I actually thought the sales assistant I met yesterday was attractive and kind of cute.”
Those eyes looked across at me. “Did you? I wanted to look... better for you.”
“Well, you don’t need to advertise yourself in quite that manner, Jeanie. It is unnecessary and degrading.”
She sniffled. “I screwed it up, didn’t I? Made a real fool of myself.”
“Well you had expectations, didn’t you Jeanie? What did you think would happen today?”
She looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure. I thought you might... I mean we might kinda... you know...”
I placed my hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Relax Jeanie. I promise you that nothing, nothing is going to happen today. What we ARE going to do is sit here and drink too much latte and gorge ourselves on cinnamon buns.”
For the first time since arriving at my doorstep, she gave a rueful grin. “I screwed up, didn’t I?” Her eyes watered. “I feel so stupid, stupid, stupid. I feel like such a fool. I wanted it too much. Oh god... I just wanted to look sexy for you.”
“No Jeanie. You didn’t screw up. This is the moment when you began to grow up.”
~ ~ ~
ONE WEEK LATER:
What a difference a week can make.
It was a warm spring afternoon in the city and I could feel a pleasant breeze coming off the East River. I had left home and walked those few blocks over to the same café where I had sat with Jeanie a week earlier. I was comfortably clothed for springtime in a short-sleeved, summer dress and sandals and clutching a copy of the Village Voice newspaper. I don’t think I even glanced at a page. I was wondering if she would show up at all.
Then I saw her weaving her way through the crush of pedestrians walking down Thirty-Third Street towards the café. She was wearing blue jeans, white sneakers and a canary yellow light summer top that came down to her hips. Her hair was free flowing and swinging delightfully around her shoulders. She wore no eye makeup, no lipstick, and most importantly, she looked happy. She looked like Jeanie should look.
We shared a light hug and parked ourselves at a sidewalk table. I ordered up two mugs of coffee and a plate of French pastries and we simply sat and enjoyed the sunshine, the bustle of people and the endless parade of vehicles in the street.
And we talked.
How we talked. Small wonder we didn’t both go into cardiac arrest from caffeine overdose.
Jeanie talked about her parents, and that she lived with her family in a tenement apartment on East Ninety-First Street. She was seventeen years old and attended Cathedral Catholic High School for Girls in Midtown and already had her sights firmly set on attending university. She also explained how she was hired for her summer job; it seems her father is the maintenance man for the building that houses Eugenia’s Boutique.