Chapter 19: SPRINGTIME IN PARIS (1980)

As alluded to previously, despite my resounding successes, the corporate environment was not necessarily where I saw myself spending the rest of my life, at least not at Puritan.  After proving that I could do it, the question was, did I really want to continue?  The quagmire, however, was that I had become quite accustomed to the financial rewards.  Not long after moving to Squire Lane in East Providence, I retained the services of an executive marketing firm.  They assessed my merits, wrote my resume, identified my target, designed my program, and then taught me how to market myself.

Once I completed the research and compiled my mailing list, I started the mailings.  For a few months I sent out twenty-five resumes a week, each with individually typed letters (this the days before the PC, so it was a lot of work), addressed to presidents and CEOs of my target corporations and institutions.  Curiously enough, that list included locations in just about every state except California … earthquakes you know.  There was never any expectation that a CEO would actually read my letter.  The strategy was to have it opened by the CEO’s secretary, who then date stamped it and sent on to human resources, where it would attract more attention coming from the CEO’s office, than it would in the pile of other resumes received in the mail each day.

Resumes and letters were also sent to a number of “headhunters” (AKA executive search firms), and one morning I got a call from one that I had just sent a resume to a few days earlier.  Being that it was completely inappropriate for a headhunter to contact a prospect at their current place of work, I began to read the fellow the riot act, when he told me he didn’t know what I was talking about.  He had called to get a reference for a former employee of mine.  While discussing that, he had quickly perused my resume, and then said he thought he might have something of interest to me, so he called me at home that evening.

               Paris Fabrics was the premier window coverings retailer in Rhode Island.  The owner, Don Cohen, was planning to retire, and was looking for someone to take over when he did.  He and his wife were impressed with me, and it seemed as though it was a glove fit, except for one gnawing reservation.  Don had offered me a job when I was with Sears, about thirteen years earlier, but I had declined … he made me uneasy.  Sadly, this time I was too anxious to get out of Puritan to be cautious.  Although the salary they offered was only 70% of what I was currently making, with commissions and profit sharing I would easily make much more … so I took the leap.

              The timing was perfect as it got me out of Puritan before the move to Johnston (before anyone discovered that Bob Designer wasn’t up to the design job), but leaving after five years was very emotional, to say the least.  My staff gave me a great luncheon, as they had for my three promotions.  It was quite amazing to then be sitting amongst more than eighty employees, when at the first luncheon the number was a mere twenty-two.  Afterward it was the usual hugs, tears, and promises to stay in touch—then it was over.

My father was royally pissed when he heard I was leaving Puritan—he had enjoyed reliving his former executive days in Providence vicariously through me—and he would not accept the truth, not even after the fact, when I showed up in a new car.  “Oh, you got a new company car.“  “No, that’s my car.“  “Where’s the company car?“  “Well, when I stopped working for the company, they made me give it back.“  “Oh, so you did it.“ he hissed.  Then spit out in a disgusted tone, “So, you’re a drapery salesman.“  “It’s an honorable profession, Dad, not unlike being a laundry man.“ I spit back.

During this drama I told Marion how mean my father was being about my leaving Puritan, and going to work at Paris Fabrics.  And I told her some of the things he had been saying to me, and the way he had said them, which in some cases made it nastier.  When I said, “He really hurt my feelings.” Marion looked at me incredulously, and said, “Lance, I cannot believe what you just said.”  “What?”  “Lance, your father has been hurting your feelings your whole life!”  Yep.

Back in the drapery business again was quite different for me, as I was no longer a

kid in my twenties.  I was matured, accomplished, confident, and I had panache (except when it came to Louis Vuitton).  I took to it like a duck to water, and in the first six months I wrote more business than Don Cohen normally wrote in a year.  Unfortunately, Don had never quite recovered from paying a headhunter $3500 (1980 dollars) for finding me, or from the fact that he was paying me much much more than he had ever paid anyone in all of his years in business.  So almost from day one he was out to get me, and the more successful I was, the more I accomplished, the more he hated me … despite the fact that he was the one profiting.

At times I have used a paraphrase of the “Twenty-third Psalm” in reference to myself, which goes something like this … “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil, because I’m the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the valley.”  I was wrong, Don Cohen was the meanest son-of-a-bitch I have ever had the misfortunate of knowing in my entire life.  In some instances he was so mean that given the choice between being mean or smart, he’d pick mean.  He was mean even when it was to his own detriment.  He had a fight with a customer one day (well, a prospective customer), and ended up yelling at her and storming out of her house, simply because she insisted on having her tiebacks three inches wide rather than four.  Afterward he told me, “You would have made that sale.”  And I thought to myself, Well, yeah, of course I would have, because I’m not an obnoxious, mean-spirited asshole.

Never never never never never at any time in my life had I ever met a man like this.  Another example:  The pine boards that we used for valances came in standard widths of 5½“, 7½“, 9½”, 11½”, but Don would never order valances with returns in half inches, although it made no difference.  The installer, Pete, would have to cut ½” off the boards with a hand saw, because Cohen didn’t have a power saw, rip cutting the full length up to twelve feet sometimes.  When Pete offered to take the boards home to cut on his bench saw, not mentioning anything about getting paid for it, Cohen snapped at him, “Go ahead, but I’m not paying you!”  Pete was a wiry old guy and could be just as stubborn, so he kept cutting by hand and getting paid for all the time it took.

With me Don was unrelenting.  Paris was located in an attractive two story building near the Midland and Warwick malls, which he had had built, and one of the features was the employee lunchroom.  Naturally, one of the first things that everyone did when they got to work in the morning was go to the lunchroom and get a cup of coffee, but I was forbidden to do so.  Consequently, after checking into work some mornings, I would leave in the van for an “appointment” … an appointment at a restaurant where I had a nice breakfast, parking the van out of sight of the road, just in case.

Usually I wore a jacket and tie, frequently a three piece suit, but sometimes I would wear a jacket and tie with a “V” neck sweater.  It was okay for me to be on the showroom floor in my shirt sleeves, but the sweater with tie and no jacket was forbidden.  One day a couple came into the store, both of whom happened to be deaf.  Despite that obstacle, I was still able to work with them, and ultimately sold them a few hundred dollars’ worth of draperies.  I thought that it was an accomplishment, but Don gave me hell of not selling them lining too.

The harassment continued and sometimes he would plague me so much that I would actually drive home in tears.  Most of the employees were quite fond of me, naturally, and a couple of the gals had been with Don for years.  They told me that I didn’t have to worry about getting fired, in over thirty years Don had never fired anyone.  He would simply make a person’s life so miserable that they would quit (that way his unemployment contribution rate didn’t go up).  I made a pact with myself.  No more tears, and no matter what he did to me, no matter how malicious and venomous he was (and he was indisputably the most detestable and malevolent cur I have ever known), I vowed that I would never quit.  If he wanted me out, he would have to fire me. 

Things almost came to a head over a sale I made to an elderly woman and her middle-aged bachelor son.  They liked me very much and a close relationship developed.  Frequently I went to their home for lunch, and would always stop by for a chat when in the area.  Their ordered came to over $8000 for the living room and dining room … a lot of money for window coverings at that time (still a lot in the 21^st century).  Don was so disconcerted that I had made such a big sale, that he did everything he could to sabotage the project.  We went to the home together, and he completely alienated the clients.  He picked apart my specifications, made them change the valance style for the sake of one inch, and generally screwed the whole thing up so much, that completion was delayed at least a couple of months.

When the job was completed and it was time to pay the balance, they refused to do so.  They said that Mr Cohen had made them wait an extra two months for their draperies, and they were going to make him wait two months for his money.  Needless to say, Don was livid.  He took his revenge on me.  He said that things weren’t working out with me … I could stay, but my pay was being reduced to minimum wage.  Okay.  I called the clients and discussed the situation with them, telling them that I understood completely and supported their position … but could they please just pay the guy so I wouldn‘t be the one victimized. 

“How do we know that he hasn’t put you up this?“  “Because I think that you know me better than that, and trust me to tell you the truth … but if you don’t, by all means, don’t pay.“  They told me to come and pick up the check.  When I returned to the shop I dropped it front of Don, and the look on his face was priceless.  While staring at the check he said, “How did you get this?”  “I reasoned with them.”  “Your reasoning?”  “Yes, my reasoning.”  When he looked at me his face was glowing crimson, and in his eyes I saw a deep festering hatred.  A hatred the likes of which I never experienced before or since.  He was happy to get his money, but once again I had demonstrated that I was better than him in every way possible … a better businessman and salesman, and a vastly superior human being, and he loathed me.

My compensation remained intact, but a few weeks later Don had his victory.  In that six months I had racked up over a half million dollars in sales, and all of the projects were completed flawlessly … then there was a mistake, perhaps it was mine.  One pair of floor length draperies had to be shortened less than one inch.  It was a little $500 job, my commission was $50.  Don claimed that correcting the error cost him $70, and that it was going to be deducted from my pay.  I informed him that according to state and federal labor laws, he was only allowed to deduct up to my commission on the job, not more.  “But you‘re the boss, you can deduct whatever you want.  I just thought you should know the law.”  “How do you know this?“  “Well, being that a substantial part of my compensation was to be commission, I checked up on prevailing regulations before I accepted your offer.“ 

Don was an ugly, fat faced rodent of a fellow.  He had a blotchy red mug with scales, that got redder and redder the madder he got … which was most of the time.  He was always picking his forehead, leaving blotches of blood and scabs.  His thin salt and pepper hair was usually a greasy yellow.  He looked like Beelzebub himself, and I could rarely look at him without visualizing little horns … which were quite prominent the day he confronted me at my desk in the showroom.  He told me that he had checked my facts regarding commission, and had discovered some loophole, perhaps a discrepancy between federal and state law, that he alleged was contrary to my claim.  Whether it was valid or not I have no idea.  “I bet that makes you happy.” I said.

“What do you mean by that?“ he yelled.  “Well, you have been harassing me since day one.  Despite my stellar performance, and the money I have made for you, you have found fault with everything I do.  Now, for the first time, you feel that you have gotten the better of me.  I’m certain that makes you happy.”  “Get out of my store!“ he screamed.  “Are you firing me?” I asked.  “What difference does it make?”  “Well, if you are firing me I‘ll leave and not return.  If you are not firing me, I‘ll leave and come back in the morning.”  “Just get out of my store now!” he spit out, while picking franticly at his scabby forehead, his repugnant face getting redder by the minute.

“GET OUT OF MY STORE!“  “Should I report to work in the morning?”  “What’s the point?“  “The point is, if you are firing me I‘ll leave and not come back.  If you are not firing me, then I still have a job, so I‘ll leave now and see you in the morning.”  “Get out of my store!“  “Once again, … ARE … YOU … FIRING … ME?  It‘s a simple question, Don. Yes or no answer.”  “You’re cool, aren’t you? You’re real cool.” he said, sputtering and fuming.  He was right, I was cool.  Butter would not have melted in my mouth.  My voice was quiet and steady.  I wasn’t nervous, upset, or even angry.  I was calm, I was collected, I was most definitely cool, and … I was in control!  I wasn’t going anywhere until he answered my question.  “Are you firing me?” 

This dialogue repeated itself a few times, only slight changes to the verbiage.  Finally, defeated, in a very meek voice he said, “You’re fired.”  “What’s that?  I didn’t quite hear you, please speak louder.”  “You’re fired.”  That wasn’t good enough, I insisted that he say it again, even louder.  I was in control.  That wretched excuse for a human being, that pathetic wimp repeated it a third time, “You’re fired.”  He wasn’t yelling, but it was loud enough so that everyone in the showroom full of customers could hear.  He might have fired me, but I had beaten him at his own game.  Walking out triumphantly, smiling, practically skipping, I called back, “Have a good Christmas, Donny boy!”

My tenure in that living hell, also known as Paris Fabrics, began shortly after Billy and I had moved to Green RFD, and not long after that move Billy told me once again that he was leaving.  He had stopped seeing Dr Keller months earlier … I was still in weekly sessions, had been for over a year.  This time my reaction to Billy’s announcement was a simple, “Okay.”  Obviously there was a big change in the way I was handling this break-up, psychotherapy was working.  In a way, his leaving was a relief.

During our parting dinner at a Chinese restaurant, we discussed the settlement of our finances.  He got some furniture, enough to set up a comfortable apartment.  If he wanted to keep his car—the one I had bought for him when I left Puritan—he’d have to pay for it.  We agreed to twelve monthly payments.  “Palimony” was in vogue at the time, and he thought that he was entitled to some.  “Palimony?!?!  You arrived with the clothes on your back and two shopping bags.  I supported you for the better part of our seven years together.  I got you the only two jobs you ever stuck with.  What palimony?“  I do wish that I had saved the cookie fortunes, his said something like, With freedom comes responsibility.  And mine, As long as you keep giving, people will keep taking.

He asked if I would help him find an apartment.  No.  Would I help him move.  No.  “You want to go, go.  You’re on your own.”  Compared to how I had handled the departures of Bobby and Hal, this was a major change.  God bless Dr Keller.  Although I refused to participate in Billy’s departure in any way, I did suggest that Bob Perron might be willing to help him move.  Covertly I had asked Bob to help when Billy asked, as a favor to me (I know, I know, shut up).  The day he left we hugged and I said, “Have a good life.”  Seemingly he did, for a while.

Alone at the house in Green RFD was not going to work for me, so I started apartment hunting and rented a small one bedroom on Ruxton Street (ADDRESS #21), in an old residential neighborhood in Cranston.  It reminded me of Norwood, where I grew up.  Then when things at Paris had reached the point that I knew my departure was a question of “when” and not “if” I started to formulate a plan.  First, I made a solemn vow to myself.  Although my six months at Paris was decidedly the only blemish on an otherwise resplendent work history, I was done.  I swore that I would never work for anyone else again … I never did.

The first thing I did after being released from that cruel and unusual punishment, AKA employment at Paris Fabrics, was to call Ray and Mal (well, the first thing I did was smoke a doobie, then I made the call).  The last time I had spoken with them, they had mentioned that one of the apartments in the Sweet Fern Lane house was vacant, and I wanted to know if it still was.  It was the first floor not the second, but I took it and gave my landlady notice.  Then, after she gave me a good scolding for moving out so soon, I started packing

At unemployment my claim was handled expeditiously, although the woman did call Don to verify my story.  As she ran through the laundry list of justifiable reasons for termination, her eyes began to roll more and more.  For example:  “Was there a problem with Mr Edwards’ attendance?“  Don obviously responds.  “Please clarify that.  During his six months there, how many days did Mr Edwards fail to show up for work?“  He responds again.  “Oh, I see” she summarizes, “He never failed to show up for work, his attendance was 100%.“  In the end he was able to give no valid reason for firing me, documented or not.  His only reason was that I had said, “I bet that makes you happy.”  More eye rolling.

My benefits were approved for a year, and the stipend provided me with a subsistence income.  It was enough to keep me going while I started creating a cash flow, which would involve me in a few businesses.  In addition, I had the pleasure of returning to Paris Fabrics once a month for three months, to pick up a check for my commissions on pending orders, commissions were only paid when projects were completed.  In less than two years Paris Fabrics ceased to exist, the business liquidated and the building up for sale or lease.  Oh yes, I’m smirking.