©2013twmcdermott
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| San Francisco Clothing, Lexington Avenue |
In
November 1978, the day before
Thanksgiving, I was on mid-day duty, behind the counter of a small, thriving
clothing store at 975 Lexington Avenue called San Francisco Clothing (it is
still there). A lot of customers must have gone away for the long holiday
weekend, because I distinctly remember that the morning had been slow, which
was why I was alone at the counter, the owner, manager and a saleswoman being
in the back of the shop, probably seeing to inventory.
A
woman in a long, hooded, loden-style coat came to the door and I reached under
the counter to buzz her into the shop. I recall that she kept her hood on at
first and I could not see her face well, since she also wore sunglasses. She
told me that she was looking for a Christmas present for her daughter, wondered
if our sizes ran small in women’s clothing, and thought that a tweed riding
type jacket might be a good idea.
As
it happens, our ladies’ tweed “riding” jackets, made in England, and tucked
considerably at the waist, were a huge hit, and so we proceeded to the rack
where they hung. At this point, in order to be more able to inspect the tweed
while she held it out in front of her, she pushed back the hood, briefly removed the glasses, and I suddenly
realized who she was. Right about the same time, someone else came from the
back of the store, saw what was happening, and abruptly disappeared again in
back.
Meanwhile,
my customer continued to ask questions about the jacket. She wondered if a young woman might be available try it on; so I went in back to get someone and was
confronted by the owner, who wondered nervously if everything was OK. I said it
was and asked the young saleswoman, who was studying ballet, to model the
jacket.
By now, you may
have realized they were in a tizzy over the fact that Jacqueline Kennedy
Onassis was buying a jacket for her almost equally famous daughter.
Looking
back over the years, I’ve realized that she must have had these kinds of
everyday (for her) encounters dozens of times a day, and I am still amazed by
how matter-of-fact and gracious she was, knowing full well that I’d remember
the encounter forever, and she would forget it in minutes.
She
decided to purchase a brown-gray tweed jacket for her daughter, who was a
student at the time. But, while doing so, an extraordinary thing happened.
Well, two things actually.
First,
she handed me her credit card, embossed with the famous name, and said in her
soft, polite voice, “ I’m having lunch next door at La Petite Ferme. Would you
wrap it up for me please and I’ll come back later to pick up the coat and the
card.”
With
that, the hood went back up and she strode out the door, turning left, since
the restaurant, which had opened to serve the chicest of the chic at 973
Lexington in 1977 was literally next door.
And
there I stood holding one of the wealthiest women in the world’s credit card in
my still-shaky struggling writer’s hand.
But,
before I had a chance to explore the possibilities surrounding this
opportunity, another thing struck me as I filled in the date on the sales slip:
It was November 22. I had just spent a few minutes with the woman whom millions
of people were thinking about on that day, the 15th anniversary of
that horrible day in Dallas.
You can’t make
these things up, or at least shouldn’t, and I’m not.
Fifteen
years before, in 1963, I had been 54 blocks south at Xavier High School’s ancient gym,
where we had just finished JV basketball practice. I was watching the varsity
taking their layups, when I first heard about what had occurred in Dallas. Early
reports were vague, but the impact was immediate. On the subway, headed home to
Queens, I saw the headlines in the evening papers held by riders boarding at the
34th Street IND station. It was eerily quiet, except for the steel
wheels grinding away below our car.
We had no way of
knowing what we would all share in the days ahead and that the memories of
those days would last throughout our lives.
I’ve
often wondered who was at lunch with her. Absolutely none of our business, of
course. I do not mean this report marking the 50th anniversary as an
intrusion, merely a personal recollection on a solemn occasion.
A
couple of hours later, Mrs. Onassis, for that is whom she was at the time,
returned for her package and her card, said a courteous “Thank you,” and was
gone as quietly and quickly as she had appeared.
Last week, her
daughter became our Ambassador to Japan.
Postscript: A couple of months later,in early 1979, a BMW pulled up in front of the shop and the young driver got out and buzzed the door. She wasn't happy, wanted to return the rumpled jacket she tossed on the counter, and asked to see the manager. The owner came out; he refused to take what he called a well-worn item back. Words were exchanged. She left with the jacket, clearly miffed. Guess they really did run small.
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