Who Wants My Money?

I DON’T like to shop, but I do like to buy. There are thousands like me — busy business women and housewives who have a million things to do at home. I am a business woman working on commission, and I make money which I like to spend. My time is money — money for myself and for the retailer. But does the average retailer care? Apparently not, for he makes buying just as much of a time-wasting and nerve-racking performance for me as he possibly can.

It seems that many stores still think of their customers as women with unlimited time. To-day, however, most women are in business, busy with public affairs, or managing a family; with them time and the elimination of waste motions are important matters. They may be willing enough to shop carefully for large purchases like rugs, furniture, and expensive clothing, but the smaller items they wish to buy quickly without shopping.

To indicate how little the stores are aware of this fact, let me tell you of a recent attempt I made to spend my money.

One day in January I set out with a list something like this: two brassières like my last ones; one pair of fleshcolored side garters; two pairs of women’s pajamas, cotton, sleeveless, size 38; two spools of white thread, number 60; an eggshell sweater; a pair of walking shoes like those I had bought the week before (they were so comfortable and good-looking that I thought I had better buy another pair before they were gone); four pairs of lisle socks, size 11; four sets of men’s underwear, broadcloth shorts and white lisle shirts; an over-the-bed lamp in either blue or yellow; a fifteen-dollar wedding present. I allowed two hours for these errands.

Three and a half hours later I returned to my office exhausted — without the brassières, the sweater, the shoes, the socks, or the wedding present. So much for the bare story of my time. And what, you ask, did I do with it? Perhaps I should tell you that I live and shop in one of the five largest cities in the United States. I went first to one of the largest department stores — one with a national reputation and officers who travel round the country making speeches about efficient store management and satisfied customers.

As I walk in the main entrance I decide to buy the pajamas first. I don’t know where they are. Is there a direction booth near the door or anywhere in sight? There is not. I approach a pleasant-looking, hatless man and ask about pajamas. I find that I am talking to another customer. (What has become of the old-fashioned floorwalker? He may have been haughty, but you knew him by his clothes and his expression.) I ask a clerk for directions, thus costing the store selling time; she tells me that pajamas are on the fifth floor.

This store does not have express elevators. I enter a car with only one other passenger and we both say, ‘Five,’ as it starts upward. But the operator has been trained to stop at every floor, open the slow-moving double doors, announce the departments, close the doors, and start upward again. Why should store elevators be run differently from those in office buildings and hotels?

Arriving at the fifth floor, I survey a vast acreage of shoes, hats, skirts — everything but pajamas. Again I ask directions. First girl: ‘Sorry, I am new to this floor.’ A second girl sends me northeast, where I am promptly sent southwest. There are pajamas of all kinds except the ones I expected to find. Somewhat weary, I select a pair that will do, although they are striped (I wanted plain ones) and have no pockets (I adore pockets).

‘Size 38, please.’

‘We don’t carry anything over size 18.’

To finish with the pajamas let me say that I had to go to three stores before I found them. A week later I learned that the first store had another department of pajamas on the sixth floor full of the kind and size I wanted. Didn’t the salesgirl know this? Perhaps she didn’t like my looks.

At any rate I knew where the corset department was. To avoid the slow elevator I found the stairs and walked down two flights.

‘Brassières, flesh, size 38 — number 416 Toujours.’

The girl disappears for five minutes. ‘All out of your size. We have discontinued the model.’

‘But that is the model you fitted me to when I bought corsets two weeks ago.’

A shrug.

‘How long will it take to order some for me?’

‘Not less than three weeks. You had better be fitted to a new style.’

I am still getting along without those brassières.

At the notions counter I ask for a pair of flesh-colored side elastics and two spools of white thread, number 60. The girl returns a few minutes later to say that they are out of both; they are taking stock next week and the buyer can’t order any goods until then.

By this time I have had enough of this store. I walk across the street to another one and go to the men’s department. I ask for lisle socks and am shown some flashy ones which a fussy lad of eighteen would not think of wearing. ‘No rayon, please.’ ‘We haven’t anything but silk socks without rayon.’ So I try for the underwear. Again I find sunset effects in rayon, but no plain white lisle.

The next day I visited an exclusive men’s store and bought both socks and underwear of the kind I wanted. I noted too that they were cheaper than the shoddy things which had been offered me the day before. That store is going to get more of my trade in future even if I have to dispense with the door man, auditorium, rest room, hospital, and free-delivery service to Kalamazoo.

But to get on with my shopping. Next I look for my shoes. The store is out of my size and is not going to reorder because spring is so near. This is January. It will take four weeks to get an order through and it may not come through at all. I give up the shoes.

Now for the sweater. I want a good one, so I go to a well-known firm that specializes in women’s sport clothes; it has stores in six cities and an impressive shopping card which entitles me to charge purchases in any of them. I find just what I want, but not in my size. The saleswoman promises to get it for me in three days, so I leave my charge address, business address, and telephone number.

After a lapse of ten days I began to wonder what had happened to the sweater. I called up and talked to four people, having asked for the sweater department in the first place. The fourth person said, ‘Oh, yes. The manufacturer told us that he was all out of the yarn for that sweater. We telephoned you, but you were out to lunch.’ Evidently they have no stenographers in that store. I asked if there was any chance that the manufacturer might secure some more of the yarn. The voice replied, ‘We heard this morning that he has some now and can deliver in a week.’ Two weeks went by and I telephoned again. I still liked that sweater; having waited so long, I was determined to get it if it were humanly possible. This time I talked to five people before I found one who knew anything about it. She said, ‘ We heard a week ago that the yarn was unsatisfactory and that the manufacturer rejected it. I called you up, but you were out of town.’

So I am still without the sweater, but I have made a note to send that store some postage stamps and stationery next Christmas.

Now let me tell you of my experience with the lamp. I go to a store that has been advertising its lamp department extensively. I find the lamp counter, only to discover that nine other customers have found it before me. There is one salesgirl. She makes a sale and fills out the usual income-tax return on the sales slip. Going three aisles over, she makes her own change and wraps the bundle (very badly). The next customer asks for something which, apparently, will never be found, for the girl disappears and has n’t been seen since. Finally, after waiting an interminable time, I reach the bursting point. I go to the head of the department and tell him that I have been standing at the lamp counter for eighteen minutes and that I have promised my family to be home for Easter Sunday. His manner makes me realize that I am the unreasonable shopper in her worst form; nevertheless, he takes two girls from a counter that is not busy and puts them on the one that is. He has been in full view of the counter all the time, talking over hockey matches with a friend. One of the girls listens to my request for an over-the-bed light in either blue or yellow. She hunts and she hunts and she hunts, only to report, ‘We have only one over-the-bed light; it is pink and it is broken.’

I too am pink and broken, but I manage to reach another store. There I find just the shade I want and think that my troubles are over; but I have forgotten that I am in a systematized store. I decide to charge the purchase, and produce my shopping card and charge coin. The girl disappears for a few minutes. She comes back with a check. ‘If you will go over to the bundle counter with this check, the girl will give you your parcel.’ I obey orders and wait at the bundle counter while the girl jiggles the telephone hook up and down with no results. She says, ‘The charge girl does n’t answer. I’ll try again in a minute.’ She does up three bundles and then tries again, this time with success. She tells the person at the other end, and several interested bystanders at the counter, that Mrs. Me, 1614 Where-I-live, wishes to charge a lamp at $5.95. She chews gum and I wait; I have no gum. A bell rings and she hangs up the receiver. She tells another girl what she is going to wear to a dance and then does up my bundle. Holding out a languid hand, she gives me the bundle and takes my check.

I call it a shopping day. I could hardly call it a buying day. I still haven’t bought that wedding present, the shoes, the brassières, or the sweater. Somehow I have n’t the strength. It’s much easier to leave my money in the bank. If I must go shabby, my friends will understand; they too are busy women. Every time several of us meet, the conversation turns to the difficulties of buying. In business women’s circles this topic takes the place of the eternal gabble about prohibition among business men.

I realize, of course, that the rapidity of style changes makes it hard for merchandise managers. They must try to plan their stocks to minimize markdowns. Then, too, they always have on their desks that dreadful little book, ‘Beat Yesterday,’ with its daily sales totals representing so many hurdles to be got over. Perhaps these are some of the reasons why retailers are thinking more and more about stock control and less and less about their customers’ convenience. Whatever the cause, customers are finding it increasingly difficult to spend their money in the highly systematized stores. The situation calls for fewer gestures of service and better quality of performance. Staple stocks should be kept adequate regardless of inventory time. Stores should be so arranged that a customer can find his way about without hiring a guide or carrying a Baedeker map. Then some simple method should be developed to enable a customer to get her purchase in less time than it takes to make her selection. This last, I believe, would do much to increase sales and cut delivery costs. Many times I have articles charged and sent when I would gladly pay for them and carry them myself if it did n’t take so much more time.

‘Getting back to fundamentals’ is the catch phrase of the day, and it applies with a peculiar emphasis to the modern retailer. So, from the bottom of my heart I beg him to heed the moral of my tale: Busy women have money to spend; make it easier for them to buy and they will spend it.