NONFICTION  -
     WITH A THEME OF WORK

In fall and winter, cloches, turbans, toques,  -  -  -  
                          Photo by Weebly.com                                    

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First Jobs
by  Meta Pasternak

The summer I turned 16, I landed my first job—packing pickled peppers. My best friend’s parents owned the business that was located just across the driveway from their house, on the edge of their acres of peppers. As small green peppers came down the conveyor belt, my friend and I grabbed the good ones and stuffed them in the jars before they were doused with the secret vinegar marinade. It brings memories of Lucille Ball grabbing chocolates and eating them to keep up with the task, but no one was going to injest a pepper; they were way too hot. It was 1957. At the end of the month I’d earned $50 and felt rich.
 
I had my sights set on something bigger. I was going into retail. I knew of a part-time job opening at The Personality Shoppe, a boutique in my small California valley town. Come to think of it, we didn’t even use the word boutique back then. Basically, it was a hat shop with a costume jewelry counter, a purse and glove counter, and a tiny lingerie section in the open loft that jutted out above half the bottom floor.
 
The teenager who had worked there was going off to college so I did my best to ingratiate myself with her and got an interview. Not difficult since I knew the other two adult sales women; they knew my family, and I was in.
 
Mrs. Helen Morton was the owner, a milliner (a word we did use) although most of the hats were readymade. A nervous, birdlike woman, claw-thin fingers, long nails manicured in vibrant red, she was always hatted and smelling of cigarettes, and a newcomer which meant she’d come after WWII; she was also a divorcee and the only female storeowner in town. I started at 75 cents an hour, but she soon raised it to $1.00, the new minimum wage. I’d wanted that job no matter what it paid. I worked Saturdays and after school during the week.
 
The rest of the sales force consisted of two, part-time women. Margaret had a deep throaty laugh and I adored her; Bertha could be a bit dour, but she kindly taught me how to wrap packages after she discovered my bungled attempts. Mrs. B completed the group as bookkeeper. Her desk was in the loft along with the lingerie and Mrs. Morton’s work table. At the end of the month when the bills went out, she could be counted on, just after the store closed, to lean her ample bosom over the low loft wall and say in a stage whisper, “Are we alone?” Out of her view, Margaret would chuckle and shake her head; Bertha rolled her eyes, and I stood in amazement. Who could know so much about the women in town! And was she really supposed to tell who couldn’t pay their bills? At that time, credit cards did not exist. Customers had accounts at the store, or they paid cash or wrote a check. That’s how Mrs. B knew so much about them. Some even came in to discuss their financial dilemnas with her—hence her gossip knowledge. Whose mother-in-law was not loosening the purse strings? Whose husband had just lost his job? Who needed just a few more days to set things straight? 

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​Within the deep drawers at the middle of the store nestled hat upon hat, color-coded, spooned comfortably in embraces, to be touched and removed only by the sales ladies. In fall and winter, cloches, turbans, toques, pillboxes and felt hats with brims. In spring and summer, straw hats, decorated with flowers or ribbons, floppy hats for the beach. If someone wanted a hat, she sat demurely on a chair in front of a cryptich mirror, as she was shown one hat at a time, to approve or not. If approved, the hat found its way onto her head, carefully placed there by Margaret, or Bertha, or myself—but the customer was always a bit chagrined when she found I was her salesperson, a mere teenager, instead of one of the adults. I could always tell. She’d start looking around, in hopes someone else would come to her rescue. Women usually came in pairs. When I was the salesperson, the talk centered around them; they made it clear they didn’t need my advice.
 
The glove counter also supplied chairs and the products hidden in drawers. Want to try on gloves? Tell the clerk what size and color. We would whip out a cloth, and set it on the glass topped case while we brought out a pair of leather or cloth gloves. The customer knew the drill. She set her elbow on the cloth, arm extended upward, while we slowly pulled the glove over her hand. The soft leather gloves, usually white, but sometimes brown or black lay perfectly flat in their plastic coverings but when we began pushing the fabric carefully over the lady’s hand one finger at a time, the subtle leather would grow. In some hands it grew more than others. Inevitably, the customer would hold out the gloved hand, perusing the palm and forehand before pulling the fabric off each finger. Sometimes she bought the pair, sometimes not.
 
I learned about more than hats in that shop. Although I’m not sure what I learned from each of these incidents, they have stayed with me for over 60 years. A woman once said plaintively, “My husband is very good-looking and I know he would love for me to lose weight, but I just can’t.” Another woman I came to admire because she was a successful CPA, dressed well, and owned her own home. One Friday after work, she went home and hanged herself. No one knew why. When a couple returned from a trip to Europe, very rare in those days, the woman commented, “I really don’t think it’s so great over there.” That was when I realized what we say often tells more about us than what we are commenting about. And there was the married woman who burst into the store the day after Christmas with one of the signature lingerie boxes in hand and announced as she marched up the stairs, “I’m going to educate you and my husband about my correct size!” Some people can even turn a boutique into a stage.

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​I lobbied for Mrs. Morton to buy circle pins, since a friend from the East Coast said they were all the rage, and faux scarab bracelets since I’d seen them in Mademoiselle. She obliged. The circle pins sold well, not so much the bracelets. My favorite piece of jewelry was a pendant watch, a perfect orb encrusted with pearls on a gold chain. I’d never seen anything like it. We were allowed to wear the jewelry as a sales ploy. I wore it every chance I got. Although it was costume jewelry, I still couldn’t afford it. One Saturday, I came to work and discovered it had been sold. I castigated myself for not spending money on something I cared for. Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, we all exchanged gifts just after the store closed. I have no memory what I gave Margaret and Bertha, but I will always remember what they gave me—the pendant watch.
 
When I went off to college in San Francisco, I splurged on a gold fur-like toque to go with my new wool coat. My mother and I always wore hats to church, but in 1961 it was becoming evident that hats were giving way to headbands with attached veils. My second year in college, I left the hat at home. But for my wedding, I added a beautiful pale blue brimmed felt hat to my “going away” ensemble. Over the years I wore beach hats, a cloche or two. My husband even bought me a few hats.
 
Thirty- six years later, my husband and I rented an apartment in Manhattan for a week. The young couple who owned it met us there. The décor can best be described as Ikea meets Grandma’s Persian rugs. This was his apartment; they were living in hers.
 
Making conversation, I asked what she did in New York. She was a hat maker! I was fascinated. I told her about my teenage job. She told me where her workshop was located and invited me to visit.

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​On our last day in the City, I ventured out to her workshop in a hotel suite on the upper East side. When I entered, she was directing her assistants in blocking hats. She was a formidable boss, but she stopped work to show me her recent designs. One was a lovely straw hat whose intricate lattice work brim was trimmed in a navy-blue ribbon to match the dark crown. I loved it. With her permission, I tried it on. She alerted me to pull it down farther on my brow. I could imagine the sunlight shining through it, casting alluring shadows on my face, perhaps as I turned my head coquettishly towards someone, my husband of course. I asked the price. She said it wasn’t finished and seemed a bit brusque. I left thinking she might not have wanted me to visit after all.
 
But I wanted that hat. I called her after we returned home and said I wanted to buy it. Her voice sounded kind when she said, “Oh, dear even if I give you a discount, I’d have to charge you $300.” Three hundred dollars was exactly what my father had given me for Christmas that year before he died and my father loved hats. It was easy. Pack it up, send it. I can’t say I’ve worn it often, but when I do it’s a reminder of different periods of my life, different events, different eras. And I always wear it low on the brow, coquettishly, even in my 70’s.

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​​Meta Pasternak is a retired high school English teacher who moved to San Francisco from Lafayette 10 years ago. Besides writing, she enjoys being a volunteer tutor at Redding Elementary School in San Francisco.

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