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"You what?!"

"I quit!"

I woke up in a cold sweat and sat up with the words ringing in my head. It was a mantra of terror repeating itself over and over in my mind.

"You what I quit, you what I quit, you what I quit!"

It was a nightmare to me because I was not a quitter. I had been raised with credos like never give up, hang in there, hang tough, work hard to get the job done, and most importantly, nobody likes a quitter. My grandfather had laced up his high-top shoes every day and worked from dusk to dawn to make his citrus ranch a success. My father had always finished whatever he had started and he had taught me that good things came from hard work. And now I was terrified by the recurring nightmare mantra that was haunting me day and night. It was as if my father and grandfather were standing over me with their proud postures and callused hands questioning my right to carry on the family name.

"You what?!"

"I quit!"

I was working at my first real job. Sixteen years old, confident and brash, I had gotten a job working two nights a week and weekends as a sales clerk at a men’s clothing store.

JOHN P. JENKINS - FINE MEN’S CLOTHING.
It was the finest men’s clothing store in my valley and for all I knew with my limited perspective, the finest men’s clothing store in America. Suits with labels from New York, Chicago and San Francisco. Stetson hats, tasteful silk ties, formal and Ivy League shirts in broadcloth and oxfordcloths. Harris tweeds and beautiful alpaca sweaters, gold and silver accessories and fine leather shoes from New England and Italy. And of course a wide range of underwear for every occasion. All of these clothing gems were in a setting of muted indirect lighting, mahogany-paneled walls, glass and oak showcases and perfectly handsome and debonair mannequins.

My enthusiasm in selling was sincere and infectious.

"That looks great on you!"

It might have seemed that I was a natural salesman. In fact, everything that anybody tried on actually did look better than anything I had ever seen in person so it was easy for me to compliment the patrons as they tried on apparel.

"You look great with that on!"

I had early success with my innocent and instinctual approach, but I wanted to be the best in everything I did and I had much to learn from the real pros who gave John P. Jenkins its real distinction. They were a hand-picked crew of specialists.

Old Frank was the veteran on the floor. He seemed as if he had actually emerged from the walls of the store. He was a perfect three-piece 38 with matching accessories and a gold watch-chain. His thin build made his pin-striped suits look like a million dollars and his razor-cut gray hair qualified him for at least Secretary of State. He moved slowly with grace and always looked as if he were going to be feted that day at some important event. Old Frank never went after customers. They came to him. He was the best, and he made his customers feel important. His clientele was exclusive and no one interfered with that contract. It almost seemed as if Old Frank were not there for the store, but that the store was there for him.

Frank had men’s clothiers disease. He was color-blind. All of those years with muted lighting and looking at muted colors had taken its toll. He couldn’t tell the difference between black and navy blue or between browns, olives or charcoals. In fact, I don’t think he could tell the difference between red and blue. I gained part of my apprenticeship by being Frank’s eyes. We developed signals. When he was with one of his customers, I would hover in the area checking racks or straightening shelves, and if he looked toward me with his hand on a suit, I would rub my nose for olive, pull my ear for brown or scratch my head for navy blue. This was usually sufficient, but occasionally he would call me over as he was holding up two suits for a customer.

"Rob, which of these suits do you like best for Mr. Artunian?"

"Actually, I like them both very much. But I think this charcoal brown looks particularly handsome with his complexion. Then again, the olive green has a wonderful subtlety for certain occasions."

Frank usually sold both suits in those situations and sometimes more. Of course he also sold the customer a complete complement of perfectly tasteful accessories, shirts, ties, shoes, underwear, cologne and often a hat and raincoat. His customers always left with a full wardrobe and empty pockets and they always had a smile on their face. They knew they had been helped by the very best. I learned a lot from Frank.

Good Ol’ Ed was second in seniority. He was a big man. A 44-long with alterations. He was a good-ol’ boy with a touch of class. Overweight, jovial and slightly rumpled, Good Ol’ Ed wooed his customers with humorous stories and friendly camaraderie. He made people happy and glad to be spending time at the store. He always looked well-dressed, but never too stuffy. He looked like he might have just come from an Elks Club meeting where he had humorously toasted a new member and then taken around the goblet collecting penalty money. Everybody liked Good Ol’ Ed. He had his own clientele, also. They came to see Ed because they could relate to him and they knew they’d hear a good story or share some friendly small-talk. They didn’t always buy, but Ed eventually roped them in - usually around pay day. Ed’s pitch was a slow sell, but it was very effective. Of course he was also color-blind and I had the same eye-support arrangement with him that I had with Frank.

"Hey, Rob. Doesn’t Mr. McQueen look snappy in this blazer!"

"Sure does! Navy-blue is definitely his color. He could go straight to the country club"

"Rob, get on over here. Mr. McQueen’s gotta hear about that fishing trip you took. Did you really catch the limit in a half-hour?

"Sure did. The whole boat did. When we cast our lines, the bonito and yellowtail were hitting as soon as the lures touched the water."

"I thought you told me the fish were actually jumping into the boat."

"Well, uhh... yes, your right. In fact, I stopped using a pole altogether and just held a gunny-sack to catch’em. The hardest part was holding up the bag, it got so heavy."

I learned some tricks from Ed, but mainly I just enjoyed listening and being drawn in to his stories and slightly off-color jokes.

Then there was Young Jim. Older than I , but considerably younger than Frank and Ed, he was probably in his mid-to-late twenties. Young Jim was a lady’s man. A perfect 40- regular off the rack, he had Paul Newman features and an easy-going raw charm. Jim worked at the store, or at all for that matter, only to support his habit... women. He wasn’t color-blind yet, but he was definitely blinded by his raging libido. Jim was in a hurry. He hurried to close sales, hurried off to his coffee breaks, hurried when he left work and he hurried in to work to make it on time. He often came to work wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before. I think Jim felt that he had a lot to accomplish and not enough time to do it all, and he spent a lot of time on the telephone juggling his "appointments" to insure that he was making maximum use of his time.

I became Jim’s apprentice. At the store, that is. He took me under his wing and taught me every trick he knew about selling men’s clothes. He also boasted subtly about his "tricks" outside of the store and he carried his manhood proudly and confidently like a trophy. I was sometimes embarrassed by his stories of sexual escapades, but always fascinated with his single-minded (perhaps not the correct adjective) dedication. After all, I did have similar things on my mind.

I was the punk rookie at John P. Jenkins. A rookie among hardened pros. But I did my best. When I wasn’t straightening racks, rearranging shelves or running errands, I applied what I was learning on top of my raw enthusiasm, sincerity and competitive nature. The only customers that I got a shot at were the stragglers. Men who wandered into the store lost and looking for directions or who were just killing time while their wives shopped along the avenue. For the most part, I tried to sell with honesty and integrity, but gradually I got caught up in the spirit of the hunt and in my desire to prove myself. I went after my stragglers with a fervor and used every trick I had learned.

A customer picks out a horrendously loud, plaid sport coat - the ugliest jacket in the store.

"Yes, a bold choice. That gives you a special flare. It shows your individuality."

An extremely rotund customer tries on a suit coat that makes him look like he’s wearing a tent for two.

"Yes, a very natural drape. It gives you a line of casual elegance that will set the trend in a wide range of situations."

A customer picks a very expensive pair of shoes that are only available in a size too small.

"That’s one of the finest Italian leathers and it will stretch and mold to fit your foot perfectly like a glove."

Then there’s the man who chooses a very expensive suit that is only available in a size that is far too tight and makes him look like Pinky Lee .

"That’s a very tasteful choice. Why don’t I bring out our tailor. He’s one of the best and he can tell us if he can work with it."

I race to the mysterious back room and call for Luigi, the tiny Italian tailor. Luigi scurries onto the showroom floor with his quick shuffle, smelling of steam, his measuring tape over his shoulder and trailing behind him like Isadora Duncan’s scarves. His air of assurance permeates the room and before I can introduce him and explain the situation, he throws open his arms and proclaims, "Oh, yes. This very beautiful suit. It very special for you. I make it perfect!" And with a flourish of measurements, white marks and reassuring touches, Luigi works his magic. And before dashing off, he guarantees, "You come back in one week and you have the finest suit around. You look like king."

I was starting to sell a lot of merchandise. In fact, I was selling almost as much as the pros in about half the time.

Then one day, Jim asked me if I wanted to go for a cup of coffee. I had never had a cup of coffee and in a lower voice than normal, I said, "Sure". We went to the soda fountain in the drug store next door and he ordered two coffees. As I carefully sipped my first coffee, Jim proceeded to inform me that all of the other salesmen were earning commission on all of their sales and since I was now selling more than my fair share, I deserved the same. I listened to his words carefully. He was planting seeds of discontent in my mind and they were already starting to grow - especially since my head was starting to spin and my eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head with my first coffee rush. We went back to the store and for the rest of the day his words rang in my ears as I tried to restrain my shakes and the desire to crash through a wall.

"You what?"

"I quit!"

The nightmare was worse than ever and the inequity of my compensation plan at my job was gnawing at my brain. Something had to be done. I stewed over my discontent for a couple weeks and then I made an appointment to see the owner, John A. Jenkins, son of the legendary store founder and city father, John P. Jenkins. I knew that I carried with me a just cause, I knew I was right and I was ready to take my case to the highest court of men’s store justice.

I walked into John A.’s office confident and prepared. I had my statistics, my justifications and my proposal ready. The office was enormous with dark wood paneling, burgundy leather chairs, beautiful brass lamps, tasteful paintings and plush carpet. It seemed like I walked several miles to his gigantic desk. I could barely reach across to shake his hand and then we both sat down. As I sat across the great desk from Mr. Jenkins, I was struck by the large portrait of his venerable father on the wall behind him. Even in an artist’s rendering, John P. Jenkins was big - bigger than his son - with a bigger uneven Mona Lisa smile, bigger blue eyes, bigger cheek bones and a bigger square jaw to take on the world. There was John P. Jenkins, the biggest, and there was John A. Jenkins, big, and there was me, not very big. In fact, I felt myself shrinking with each moment until I could barely see over the desk. But my heart was big.

I presented my case. I pointed out that I was selling as much or more than the full-time salesman, that I had learned well and that I had proven myself with consistent results. I said that with my consistent performance, I felt that I deserved to be commissioned like the other salesmen.

"I’m not asking for a raise, just to be compensated for achieving strong sales results."

His smile seemed to harden as he responded.

"Rob, I want you to know how much I appreciate the terrific job you’ve been doing. We’re all proud of you. You are a fine addition to the store. But we do not pay commission to part-time employees. That is our policy."

"Yes, I understand, Mr. Jenkins, but I was hoping that you might reconsider that policy in my situation since I am bringing such consistently strong results."

"No, I can’t."

There was a long silence. There was nothing more to say. No "I quit" and no "You what?". Just the level-setting facts sitting heavy in the room. I thanked him for his time and left.

I worked one more week at John P. Jenkins and then I handed in my resignation and walked away. I would not be treated unfairly. I knew that I had done the right thing and that I had not violated the "Don’t be a quitter" ethics of my family, but I continued to have my "You what, I quit" nightmare for years after that.

* * *

It’s one thing to have goals and another thing to achieve those goals. But it’s another thing altogether to be a prisoner of goals.

I walked away from a couple of big goals in my life after that early experience at John P. Jenkins. I walked away from my obsession with athletic superiority and winning when I realized how destructive it could be. And I walked away from show business when I found myself becoming a prisoner of vanity. I couldn’t pass a mirror without checking to see if I looked O.K.

There seem to be so many opportunities to walk away. But now as I stare at my reflection in the still water, I see many places to stay.

Stay to listen to the quiet voice within
Stay with love
Stay to learn
Stay to teach the forgotten lessons
Stay with the helping hand
Stay with healing
Stay with family and friends
Stay to mend the broken promises
Stay to ask to be forgiven
Stay to forgive
Stay with the gentle caress
Stay with compassion
Stay with an eye to nature’s beauty
Stay to hold the door for those who follow
Stay to fight the noble battle
Stay to quell the burning fires
Stay to know the role of a fool
Stay with humor
Stay the course of new horizons
Stay to understand what can’t be known
Stay to know what can’t be understood
Stay to finish the work so innocently begun
And stay to appreciate the beauty of the moment

Once the feeling is gone,
It is never the same.
The idea lingers on,
But it’s only a name.
The moment is sublime.
And my only enemy is time.

And so I stay and see the point in the still water where the pebble lands and sends the ripples in every direction to touch eventually the distant shores.

Sites of Related Interest
THE KONA KABANA
Live Poets Society at Boston University
rusty zipper vintage clothing

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