Those of us who consider New York a mecca for the ultimate in chic are in for a rude awakening. A clear and present danger is threatening the lifeblood of the city’s highly competitive retail fashion trade: the ubiquitous street vendor, a unique New York phenomenon, is flourishing and multiplying at a dizzying pace.
Haven’t you ever wondered about the demise of such beloved stores as Bonwit Teller, De Pinna’s, Arnold Constable, Best & Co., Peck and Peck and Abercrombie & Fitch? Honestly, respectable department and specialty stores just cannot compete anymore. Isn’t it baffling that an item can be marked down on Memorial Day, July 4, and again on Labor Day and still provide the retail store with a profit? Someone has to pay for all those executive bonuses.
The declining old guard, who cling tenaciously to their plush carpets, boutonniere floor managers and high-priced labels, are now pitted against the clothiers of the street in all their pristine glory. Comprising a veritable rainbow of the human species—Blacks, Greeks, Jews, Hispanics, Hindus—the vendors, clad in their Adidas sneakers and jeans, are conquering the sidewalks of New York. This is the American dream come true. Only in the United States could pushcart workers topple the captains of the fashion industry and bring them to their knees.
The street vendor is as firmly imbued in the New York panorama as Radio City, Broadway and Central Park. Without really trying, I compiled a list of 41 distinctly different items on sale on the streets of Manhattan. One has to wonder about the proliferation of these outdoor merchants and their obvious success. Naturally, on rainy days the notorious umbrella lady of Grand Central and her branch operations do a brisk trade. But how on earth do the others survive? Yes, they attract lots of passersby, but how much money actually changes hands? Since some of these people have been at the same location for years, they must be able to make a substantial living.
Where did they come from? Who are they? What do they sell? Why are they doing this? Everywhere. Everyone. Everything. Money. Items ranging from spring bonnets to summer clogs and from cologne to luggage can be bought on the streets of New York. However, the street vendor is not for everyone. Some compulsive shoppers need the security of knowing that they do not have to hire Kojak to return something because these urban nomads cannot be found again.
On another level, there are the poor, insecure souls who are not comfortable purchasing anything that comes in a plain brown wrapper. They are lost without a Gucci or Bendel shopping bag advertising their good taste. Then there is the woman who will not leave her house in the morning with a shopping bag if she cannot find one that will be color coordinated with her outfit. Finally, you have those patriotic fanatics who believe in keeping the economy strong by having a credit card for every department store in the Northeast corridor. They don’t have any cash, just credit.
In an industry that thrives on eee-zee credit plans, it really is a wonder that cash and carry is doing so well. These concrete fashion peddlers do not have Washington’s Birthday sales or blouses inconveniently located on four different floors. But they do fascinate the buying public looking for a bargain. It is probably an addictive experience like bingo or eating peanuts. The Casbah atmosphere lures its willing quarry day in and day out to an ever-changing world of discounts and delights in a pavement paradise. This hybrid of the ancient species homo mercantilist is adapting to its environment, much to the dismay of tax officials, department store owners and municipal agents.
Most of the vendors hawk their wares so that you will at least stop and look. But there is one rather odd little man who parades silently in the Park Avenue South area. He has managed to turn himself into a human showcase. He drapes his body, literally, with his entire inventory. From the arms, neck, hands, chest and waist of this living, breathing display case, you can find a belt suitable for any occasion, from mourning the death of your pet rock to celebrating admission to Studio 54.
One of the nicest vendors | met was an attractive, young black woman. I will call her Alice. She sold insurance before selling the motley assortment of scarves, handbags, earrings, necklaces and toilet articles she had with her the day we spoke. Poor Alice, I thought. Such a lovely person. This city! Look at what it is doing to its people! All of my maternal instincts welled up within me. But Alice, I asked, isn’t this kind of rough for you? Can you bring home enough to make a living? She looked at me, tilted her head ever so slightly upward and gave a little shrug.It’s not so bad. I average about a hundred a day.”’ She even suggested the possibility of my going into partnership with her. The lady is ready to expand. Shaken and dazed, I wandered through the crowd in Herald Square mumbling over and over “A hundred a day? A hundred a day!”’
The Grand Central area is getting busier and busier. Gold chains, decorative combs, straw hats, tee shirts, jeans, shoes, leather bags— you name it, they’ve got it. Any fashion conscious individual can get an entire outfit on that block. One caveat though: beware of that which might possibly be purloined. I have it on good authority—the vendors themselves—that some merchandise is stolen. A shifty fellow once told me that his stuff [was] the real thing. [My] old lady just lifted it out of the jewelry case where she works. For some peculiar reason that seems to be an added inducement for some people to buy.
Then, of course, you will see some merchandise that no one in his right mind would take the time or risk to steal. For example, a man, who lost almost all ability to communicate in any language when I tried to interview him, sells flowers for the familiar dollar-a-bunch in the Grand Central area. For nine years, he has been selling flowers that look like they are going to a funeral—their own.
Another entrepreneur in that area was almost as close-mouthed about his operation, due to what he called bad press in the past. He has been in virtually the same spot for years. Admitting that it pays the rent, he fiercely held on to one basic tenet— he had worked for lousy people and had to hold on to his self-respect. This college graduate—selling sterling silver chains—may have found the better way. Unlike the rest of us nine to fivers, he probably does not have any bills left at the end of his money. I have not seen him and his chains in the past few weeks. Almost out of some unspoken code of respect, his spot on Lexington Avenue remains unoccupied waiting for his return. I suspect he is vacationing at his villa in the south of France, previewing the next fall Parisian collection of haute couture.
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