On a recent Thursday evening, I popped into Macy’s Union Square in Downtown San Francisco. (Sadly, one of the Macy’s stores slated for closure.) As I pushed the heavy glass doors and made my way to the escalator, I immediately noticed how eerily empty the store was. Soon I spotted one person, then another, then two women buying shoes, but that’s not what it should have been. What it used to be.
Although the store looked good, bright lights and shinny new products, there was decidedly an odd vibe.
Perusing the handbags, I was startled by an agitated female voice busting through the background music, “Don’t touch me,” she yelled. I looked up and saw a woman escorted by a security guard headed toward the exit doors.
It’s been a while since I crossed the threshold of SF Macy’s, but back in the day I was a regular. This was my go-to department store as a high school student. Already interested in fashion and developing my own style, I bought shoes, nylons, dresses for the annual Christmas dance, and makeup at Macy’s. At least once a week, I’d take the bus Downtown and with crowds of other shoppers I’d enter Macy’s on Stockton Street. Once in, I’d take a whiff of the blended expensive perfumes and feel a rush of excitement. What stylish treasure will come home with me today? I even worked at Macy’s for a few weeks one summer ironing some of the clothing before it went out onto the salesfloor.
After I watched the agitated woman leave the store, I went up to the third floor to find a swimsuit. Once again it was pretty empty, except for a couple of saleswomen who were chatting and not at all interested in asking if I needed help. The collection of suits to choose from was minimal, but I found a few and asked where the fitting rooms were and this is where it got interesting.
The women pointed. “Over there,” one of them said. I approached three ratty looking doors. There was a woman waiting in line and I asked her if she’d been waiting long. She nodded. I was surprised there was no salesperson monitoring the rooms. “Are you sure all three rooms are taken?” I asked. Again she said nothing, but approached one room and knocked. No response so she tried to open it. Locked. She knocked on another door; a woman said something I couldn’t make out and it didn’t sound to me like she was trying things on.
I shook my head. No no. This is not right.
I returned to the saleswomen, who hadn’t moved an inch, and explained about the locked door. “Oh no. That one is dirty. We don’t even want you to see it.”
What? Don’t want us to see it? This shopping trip was getting even more surreal, not to mention unpleasant. I went back to the fitting rooms, hung the swimsuits on the rack with other rejected items and headed for the escalator down to the first floor where I made a beeline for the exit.
Macy’s is not what it used to be. Shopping is not what it was. And I’m feeling sad for the loss of something that I thought would always be there.
OverDressed for Life 