THE FACTS
Varsha Anjali worked at Smith & Caughey’s (Newmarket) as a part-time sales assistant, mostly in menswear, while she was studying at university. She started when she was 18 and left when she was 22 in 2014, bar a six-month gap. She shares her experiences, and the lessons she learned.
I remember the first time I heard it. Short, sharp tones drawling out of the mouths that breathed and stuttered in the correct way. It wasn’t British – but it sounded sort of British.
I thought it was a game at first. Something like a roleplay. A joke that everyone was in on because it’s fun to play a posh Brit, I guess? I stood there voyeuring, suddenly aware of where I put my hands, where I put my spine.
It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. More a kind of intrigue, laced with the knowledge that accent alone could open and close doors. Good afternoon, ma’am. Of course, sir. That’s a beautiful choice, ma’am. I listened, I mimicked, and I understood no one else knew about the game. But they were still playing.
Let me explain. This was my first exposure to the upper class of Aotearoa. I was 18. It was a far cry from the thundering laughter and humility of Onehunga, where I was raised, shaped and gifted a tongue. I’m also an Indo-Fijian immigrant. It was 2010.
I remember serving Christopher Luxon. He told me he ran an airline. It would have been 2013 or 2014. He came in alone to the Newmarket branch of Smith & Caughey’s and got two shirts. As I was bagging up, he asked me if I was a student.
I was used to men coming in and making useless conversation, often bizarre tales, that non-casually wove in ludicrous wealth. I’m a manager of this and that, they would say. I’ve travelled here and there. Once, a middle-aged man detailed coherently in 10 long minutes how he helped forge passports to get people out of the Bosnian War. All I asked was if he needed help finding something. These chats almost always led to an invitation to “talk more” and a gifting of the holy business card at the till. I’m very aware of how conceited I sound, but this happened. Every single shift.
I remember thinking they were all boring, and I didn’t understand at that age why they thought talking about jobs and wealth was a good way to flirt. Perhaps it was because, as a student on basically minimum wage, I knew I couldn’t reciprocate. Perhaps it was because the main shop we got our clothes from growing up was The Warehouse. Perhaps it was because it isn’t a good way to flirt. I would smile. I would feign interest; being polite was my job.
Luxon wasn’t at all like that, though. Not with me anyway. I told him I was studying a BA in Politics and Spanish. The degree that gets criticised for poor job prospects. I expressed my uncertainty about my future. He said: “I studied the same thing [referring to the politics part, though I’m not sure in what capacity], and now look, I’m the CEO of Air New Zealand.”
I never forgot that moment for two reasons. One, Luxon did indeed succeed in inspiring a young student suffering from disenchantment. Two, it didn’t feel like I was his tool to score validation. Luxon’s politics as the leader of one of the country’s most conservative coalition governments to date aside, that energy was rare in the menswear department.
Although the talk was often dull, I admit I was always curious about how they came to be how they were. I’d serve men with their breast-implanted trophy wives, fashion designers, models, gangsters, politicians, sugar babies, drug dealers, chief executives, escorts, the I-grew-up-poor-and-now-I’m-here people, the generational wealth people and the I-wear-real-fur kind of people. Not all of them were pillocks, of course. I’ve had plenty of nice and kind conversations with customers at Smith & Caughey’s. But being nice and kind is the baseline. What I remember more is the absurdity of exchanges with some of them, fascinated by their delusion of power. And that’s what this story is about.
I remember when a man literally threw his cash at me after I asked for payment.
“There you go, I just paid your wages,” he said, looking at me dead straight in the eye. I looked at the woman, presumably his wife, standing beside him physically and, apparently, metaphorically. Are you okay with your husband speaking to me like that? I said to her with my eyes. She held the same expression as him and said nothing.
Once, an older man of large stature, maybe in his 60s, perhaps even early 70s, walked in and stopped dead when he saw me. I greeted him as I was trained to do. He looked me up and down without any coyness. Instead of greeting me back, he said loudly: “Mmm, I want you. I want a piece of you”. While I was no stranger to flattery, this felt different. His eyes were wide and locked in. The arrogance of his display told me he didn’t play by normal social rules. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t say anything more. And yet my frozen body wanted to get as far away from him as possible.
What followed is a blur; I found an excuse to walk away and hide, forcing my colleague to attend to him. After a while, I returned, and the man had left. I told the security guard what happened, more out of making conversation than to prompt action. His anger surprised me. The security guard went out onto the street to see if he could spot him. He reviewed the security footage. He told the assistant store manager, who then came down to personally check if I was okay. I will note that I always felt physically safe while at work. It was clear that our store manager was protective of her staff.
Before this job, I was a part-time sales assistant at a Hallensteins outlet store in Dressmart. There, discounts were king. Here, in the land of $200 keychains, discounts were offensive.
I remember the first time I voluntarily told a Smith & Caughey’s customer about a sale. It was also the last. The woman was looking for a nice handbag, which was the department I started in before moving to menswear. I showed her the ones on special first, thinking she would be grateful to know – everything is rudely expensive, after all – and it’s a normal practice for retail staff. But this wasn’t a normal place.
I might as well have told her I had a lovechild with her son and stole her cat. She didn’t need to buy things on sale. The price didn’t matter. She could buy anything in the store if she wanted to, and I darn well should know that.
I remember the first time a customer shouted at me. It had to have been in my first year. His signature did not match his credit card. I politely let him know, even asked if he wanted to try again. He started pointing his finger. He started protruding his veins. It was like he morphed into an evil character from a Hayao Miyazaki film.
“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DO THIS TO ME. NOT TODAY. I AM A LOYAL CUSTOMER,” he screamed as he walked off with the goods. I was shaken and in tears. I didn’t know how to handle angry men then. I’m not sure I know how to handle them now.
Concerned about a potential theft that I let happen, I informed my superiors. The counter manager told me they called him, secured payment and that he was sorry for how he treated me. A colleague told me the company called and apologised to him before rewarding him with store credit for his loyalty.
I remember a man walked in with – I kid you not – his nose in the air. Our conversation was the following: “Good afternoon,” I said. “I need a pair of jeans, but I am far too rich for you. Smith & Caughey’s won’t have the jeans that I need. I am too rich,” he said. It was like a scene from a cartoon.
There is nothing wrong with grandeur inherently, nor the desire to show appreciation for someone’s artistry and the beauty of their creations. Feeding a fantasy is something else. Some Smith & Caughey’s customers, I know, felt special when they were inside. They felt like they “made it” – they were “a somebody”. To simply be seen there, for many, I believe, was always the point.
A masterclass in marketing. Until it wasn’t.