Stamped: October 23rd, 2007 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: advertising, angst, around town, complaint dept., new york, shopping.

Friday I found myself in the unusual position of being above 14th street in the heart of enemy corporate territory – the 50s and Madison. I’d had to attend a meeting at 30 Rock, naturally scheduled at an ungodly early morning hour. The good news is that I was liberated by 11 a.m., and as I bee lined for the nearest express subway stop to take me back to the haven of downtown, I started to see an disproportional amount of yuppies carrying black and white Abercrombie shopping bags. I sniffed the foggy air (which smelled like burning dollar bills), looked to the sky, and realized I was on 5th Avenue and 50th street, just blocks away from Abercrombie’s ginormous New York six-floor headquarters which had taken every unemployed model in the city and half the student population of NYU to staff.

While usually I would’ve blocked all uptown stores out of my line of sight, sporting an imaginary human version of those equine visors they strap onto the abused carriage horses in central park, on this particular morning I did not. Just a week before, I, a girl who hasn’t set foot in an Abercrombie store since age fourteen (and even then thought it was pretty lame) was actually searching for an Abercrombie establishment near Washington Square a mere week prior. I only succeeded in finding a Rugby (sort of the same thing), and called a girlfriend to ask where the hell Abercrombie was downtown and why I was too stupid to find it.

“There is no Abercrombie downtown,” she replied. “There’s only the mega store on 5th and 55th.”

“Really?!” I was dumbstruck. “How could the corporate Nazi’s at Abercrombie forgo putting a store near NYU…easily a third a their clientele in Manhattan?”

This made no sense. And I was peeved. While I generally dislike Abercrombie and don’t own any of their clothes, I recently abducted one of my roommate’s tank tops that fit me notably well. It was just the right length, the right amount of elasticity around my chest, the right amount of support so that I didn’t have to wear a bra and the proper transparency so that forgoing lingerie would not be inappropriate, just slightly sexy. I quickly turned the tank inside out, and my mouth gaped open in astonishment when I saw the oversize Abercrombie & Fitch label on the back, followed by the delightfully sick ‘Made in Vietnam’ tag.

Hence my quest for an Abercrombie store. It was my intention to sprint in, and sprint out with the same style tank top in two basic colors.

As I approached 52nd street, I began mentally preparing myself for what treacheries might await me at this fabled Abercrombie Disneyland. I’d never been, only heard it was massive, and that Abercrombie’s corporate office were stacked about the five-floor store. That’s a lot of Ambercrombie energy for a sixty-meter radius.

“This shopping experience is probably going to be horrific,” I cooed to myself while forcing down deep breathes. “But I can do it.”

* * *

No amount of mental training could have prepared me for the shit show I witnessed the moment I entered this store. There were two models at the entrance; the girl in a bikini top and yes, the guy was actually TOPLESS, but not nearly attractive enough for me to be okay with it. I think they offering perfume samples or something. I honestly have no idea since I ran away from them as fast as possible.

I then entered the first room of the first floor: a miniature model zoo. The model workers stood behind registers and booths like animals in pre-assigned cages. Most were folding clothes; some were just staring wistfully into space, perhaps fantasizing about freedom.

Two things jumped out at me immediately as odd. One was that the store was darker than a basement. How were you supposed to shop when you needed a flashlight to see the clothes? The second was that the music was at a decibel level I’d be comfortable with if at a club like Marquee, but absurd for a store in the daytime. It was remarkably loud. And peppy. I almost left right then because it was taking my ears an unusual amount of time to adjust to the abuse. Then a saw a male model worker at a jeans display who I swear I know from Tenjune, so I rushed to the next floor before we could properly make eye contact.

If the store had any kind of organizational structure, I was too inept to figure it out. I kept looking for those signs that most department stores put near stairs and elevators that inform you that ‘the first floor is Women’s, second floor Men’s, the third floor Accessories etc.’ At Abercrombie, every floor looked exactly the same…the displays were similar and sported the same clothes. Men’s and women’s were mixed together throughout every floor. As I rushed up and down staircases and circled stacks of clothing, I couldn’t help but feel I was seeing the same outfits over and over and over again. I was beginning to feel mildly insane so contemplated asking someone for help. Then I realized that doing so would force me to scream at the top of my lungs over the techno remix of Beyonce they were blasting, so I didn’t bother.

I later caught a glimpse at the changing room line, which looked twice as large as the usual morning stack up at the Starbucks on Astor Place. The registers were clogged as well. And it was eleven a.m. on a Friday.

What was this jungle like on a Saturday at noon?

That thought, coupled with the Justin Timberlake spunked-up glitter music that was now pulsating through the stereo confirmed that I had to leave this store immediately for my own well-being – despite the fact that I had miraculously located the tank tops I wanted. I ditched them at a men’s display and fought my way out of the store like trauma victim.

On my way out, the topless male model tried to approach me with some sort of flyer and I almost screamed in panic, in part because his chest was hairless and clearly waxed (men without chest hair frighten me) and in part because I recognized him from karaoke night at Cipriani’s Upstairs.

To the Abercrombie store: never, ever, ever again.

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