A true story circa 1998, Vancouver
I was warned about her and even picked up bad vibes from her.
She had her believers, her pawns who volunteered at her shop.
I could see right through her Liberace-cum-Rasputin facade.
Unfortunately, as all artists know, financial duress can sometimes win over intuition.
Needless to say, I brought a collection of my designs to her store to sell.
On and on she went, trying to make me believe she was taking my designs out of pity,
'They really won't sell here. ' But she took them anyway.
Two weeks later, I dropped in to see if she'd put them out. I hated walking into her Main St. shop with its stained carpet and the stench of cheap incense, mildew and pot - even worse was her cackling about colour and texture to every dahhhhliinnngg single person that walked in. Luckily, she wasn't there, just one of her minions flagrantly gossiping to hang around - hence the whole shop. I approached the counter to ask about my account as my designs weren't on the floor - alas, I stood unnoticed.
There was an open black binder on the countertop, and coincidentally enough, it lay open to my account, which was marked with a massive slash through it with the number 86 written at the top. If you've never had the joy of working in the food and beverage industry - 86 means sold out, finished, no more.
Panicked, I left the shop. Calling up the minion a few hours later, he told me that my things had sold out and that there would be a cheque for me the following week.
Onwards to the following week. I went in to pick up my cheque first thing in the morning, wanting to make the whole ordeal as quick and painless as possible. Liberace-cum-Rasputin was cawing on the phone.
It was just her and me in the shop. She gave me a snide, 'How are yooouuuuu...' thank god she didn't try to touch me. I told her I was there to pick up my cheque. She went to the black binder and looked up my account - not opening the book in its entirety.
'Oh, didn't we call you last week?' she miffed.
No, I called you and spoke to a guy who said my cheque would be ready today.
'Oh, dahhhlliinnng, I'm sooooo sorrrry, but your things were stolen.'
WTF?
Onward two weeks.
I'd been invited to one of Vancouver's most highly respected vintage clothing collectors' homes for a private sale. His private sales were noted as the end-all be-all, and to be personally invited meant he thought you were worthy to view and shop his private collection. I was nervous about going and almost didn't, but I grabbed hold of my gumption and BFF, and off we went.
Once we arrived, my jitters passed, and I was in all my glory. Encompassing my thoughts was one thing; how I wanted to roll, naked like a dog in grass, amongst the mountains of vintage silk, velvet, and chiffon that lay strewn around his old Victorian home.
And then there she was, the Liberace-cum-Rasputin vintage shop owner, carelessly planted like an invasive species on the pink velveteen sofa, cackling, as a not-so-stellar jay-decked head to toe in my 'stolen' 86'd personal designs. Yes, stolen alright - by her.
