Adventures In Capitalism (2)
Sep. 10th, 2003 08:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraEncouraging Saturday. Toad Sweat tasting. Ice cream draws a crowd.
Moderately encouraging sales continued through Monday and then yesterday the weather changed. The marine layer hunkered, ugly and gray; the bus people got that predatory, Hogarth look. I felt like an Amsterdam hooker sitting in my tiny, jewel-like pink and green box, trying to lure the money stream. Immaculately turned out in pink silk blazer, black jersey slacks and jellyfish pearls. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Making eye contact with everyone who passes. Smiling at ugly babies. They all lurch by like Frankenstein with a credit card, the buy lust triggered by mysterious forces that elude my ability to choose merchandise.
Mood not improved by the constant rotation of three generic Latino CD’s that Ben bought me to set the right cues. (Salsa is salsa in any medium.) Or by the fact that the products I bought at the Gift Show have not yet arrived and in several instances, have not even been shipped. Or by the miserable design specs of Quickbooks Pro which I’m struggling through in an effort to reconcile my inventory with the numbers spat out by the sophisticated point of sales program that I really haven’t found time to fine-tune despite the fact that I’ve been getting up at six every morning to do necessary paperwork and correspondence. New business. Baby business, not even two weeks old. My business plan did not project profitability until the third quarter. I have to keep reminding myself that we’re actually doing better than I anticipated, though not as well as the phantom sales forecasts I threw together to cinch the lease. Several times last week, big wigs from the Cannery Row company wandered by to view the store with horror. Had I thrown this enterprise – mostly cash sales – together to launder money from my thriving chain of meth labs?
On Monday a very interesting woman sailed into the store with her adolescent daughter in tow. "She was like a character out of a Toni Morrison novel," I told Max later.
"I doubt that, Mom" said Max. "Toni Morrison writes about people who live in Ohio."
"Well, if Toni Morrison wrote about the South," I said defensively.
A Creole princess, this woman. Immensely beautiful, coffee-colored features under bright blue eyes, wafting on a current of L’Air Du Temp and cheap wine, and the daughter was a younger, gawkier version who still adored her mother. "Hot things!" cried the woman. "Look, baby – this is our kind of store!"
"I love your lights and your masks," said the daughter. She was an earnest young thing, her mother’s cascade of hair unstraightened made a kind of Afro halo around her face.
In thirty seconds I had the woman’s life story. She’d marketed her own line of specialty Louisiana sauces, they’d been picked up everywhere, Whole Foods, Albertson’s, Andronico’s, but the problem was that she was being shuffled along by a big marketing firm and she really did not have the resources to hire staff and after a while she couldn’t handle the constant round of tastings and glad-handing. The enterprise went belly-up.
I nodded sympathetically. "You have to be really careful about scaling too fast."
"I know that now, baby. I know that now. Now I’m working on back to basics. Want to set me up a little restaurant where I can cook again. Just me and my pots."
"Where?"
"Santa Cruz. Granzy’s Gumbo Shack." She smiled. "I’m still sniffing up the cash."
"Can you apply for an SBA loan?"
"Oh honey, I went that route the first time. It was a mistake. Those people gave me bad advice." She sighed. She shook her head. "Contis and I are playing hooky today."
"Where do you go to school?" I asked the girl.
"Santa Cruz Waldorf."
"Your store is the most fun thing down this way," said the woman.
"It really is," piped the girl.
"It’s an honor to host two such beautiful ladies in it," I said.
The woman laughed. "And to be hosted by such a beautiful woman herself. Here’s to beauty!"
"My name’s Patrizia," I said, reaching over to shake her hand.
"I’m Contis," said the woman.
"What’s your name?" I asked the lookalike daughter.
"Contis."
"What an unusual name."
"It’s French, baby," said the woman. "Contis, whaddiya say? I think we need a bottle of something hot."
"Oh, no," I said. "You really don’t have to buy anything."
"But I want to," the woman said. "What would you recommend?"
I was sincerely worried about her. Clearly drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon and with this beautiful child to take care of. Still, the kid went to a private school and that meant there was money there somewhere. Six bucks wasn’t going to set her back too much. "Well, when I’m invited anywhere for dinner," I began, "I always bring Marie Sharpe’s as a hostess gift…"
Moderately encouraging sales continued through Monday and then yesterday the weather changed. The marine layer hunkered, ugly and gray; the bus people got that predatory, Hogarth look. I felt like an Amsterdam hooker sitting in my tiny, jewel-like pink and green box, trying to lure the money stream. Immaculately turned out in pink silk blazer, black jersey slacks and jellyfish pearls. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Making eye contact with everyone who passes. Smiling at ugly babies. They all lurch by like Frankenstein with a credit card, the buy lust triggered by mysterious forces that elude my ability to choose merchandise.
Mood not improved by the constant rotation of three generic Latino CD’s that Ben bought me to set the right cues. (Salsa is salsa in any medium.) Or by the fact that the products I bought at the Gift Show have not yet arrived and in several instances, have not even been shipped. Or by the miserable design specs of Quickbooks Pro which I’m struggling through in an effort to reconcile my inventory with the numbers spat out by the sophisticated point of sales program that I really haven’t found time to fine-tune despite the fact that I’ve been getting up at six every morning to do necessary paperwork and correspondence. New business. Baby business, not even two weeks old. My business plan did not project profitability until the third quarter. I have to keep reminding myself that we’re actually doing better than I anticipated, though not as well as the phantom sales forecasts I threw together to cinch the lease. Several times last week, big wigs from the Cannery Row company wandered by to view the store with horror. Had I thrown this enterprise – mostly cash sales – together to launder money from my thriving chain of meth labs?
On Monday a very interesting woman sailed into the store with her adolescent daughter in tow. "She was like a character out of a Toni Morrison novel," I told Max later.
"I doubt that, Mom" said Max. "Toni Morrison writes about people who live in Ohio."
"Well, if Toni Morrison wrote about the South," I said defensively.
A Creole princess, this woman. Immensely beautiful, coffee-colored features under bright blue eyes, wafting on a current of L’Air Du Temp and cheap wine, and the daughter was a younger, gawkier version who still adored her mother. "Hot things!" cried the woman. "Look, baby – this is our kind of store!"
"I love your lights and your masks," said the daughter. She was an earnest young thing, her mother’s cascade of hair unstraightened made a kind of Afro halo around her face.
In thirty seconds I had the woman’s life story. She’d marketed her own line of specialty Louisiana sauces, they’d been picked up everywhere, Whole Foods, Albertson’s, Andronico’s, but the problem was that she was being shuffled along by a big marketing firm and she really did not have the resources to hire staff and after a while she couldn’t handle the constant round of tastings and glad-handing. The enterprise went belly-up.
I nodded sympathetically. "You have to be really careful about scaling too fast."
"I know that now, baby. I know that now. Now I’m working on back to basics. Want to set me up a little restaurant where I can cook again. Just me and my pots."
"Where?"
"Santa Cruz. Granzy’s Gumbo Shack." She smiled. "I’m still sniffing up the cash."
"Can you apply for an SBA loan?"
"Oh honey, I went that route the first time. It was a mistake. Those people gave me bad advice." She sighed. She shook her head. "Contis and I are playing hooky today."
"Where do you go to school?" I asked the girl.
"Santa Cruz Waldorf."
"Your store is the most fun thing down this way," said the woman.
"It really is," piped the girl.
"It’s an honor to host two such beautiful ladies in it," I said.
The woman laughed. "And to be hosted by such a beautiful woman herself. Here’s to beauty!"
"My name’s Patrizia," I said, reaching over to shake her hand.
"I’m Contis," said the woman.
"What’s your name?" I asked the lookalike daughter.
"Contis."
"What an unusual name."
"It’s French, baby," said the woman. "Contis, whaddiya say? I think we need a bottle of something hot."
"Oh, no," I said. "You really don’t have to buy anything."
"But I want to," the woman said. "What would you recommend?"
I was sincerely worried about her. Clearly drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon and with this beautiful child to take care of. Still, the kid went to a private school and that meant there was money there somewhere. Six bucks wasn’t going to set her back too much. "Well, when I’m invited anywhere for dinner," I began, "I always bring Marie Sharpe’s as a hostess gift…"
