Either way, survive I did, and thanks to Mom’s suggestion of a trip home, that year I got to have Christmas twice: once with my family, and then again when the mailman started delivering my storage-unit bounty. I had spent nearly an entire day in that dusty storage room, handpicking my most prized possessions. All in all, I shipped twenty-seven boxes. If nothing else, at least now my home looked as though I was gainfully employed. All those years in the advertising industry taught me nothing if not the importance of appearances. Surrounded by my collection of modern first editions and Macintosh stereo equipment, I was able to convince myself (however temporarily) I was doing okay.
But the bills kept rolling in. One day, as I was rearranging my sweaters for the eight hundredth time, I realized I was staring at a herd of cashmere I never wore anymore. I was deep in the throes of a Barcelona winter, and temperatures had plummeted to nearly fifty degrees, not exactly snowsuit-and-mittens weather. It was time to thin the herd. My eyes fell upon a luxurious Polo Ralph Lauren plaid cashmere scarf I had purchased a year ago and worn only once. My first thought was to find a local consignment shop. But hello, if I didn’t need it to brave the elements here, then probably no one else did either. Then I thought of eBay. I’d always been a buyer, never a seller, but how hard could it be? I already owned a great digital camera. Snap a couple of pictures, write a couple of lines…I figured if Velma Vinklemeyer from Vinalhaven, Vermont, could make a killing with her hand-crocheted scripture-inspired tea cozies, then I had a somewhat decent shot of selling a designer scarf (although our client base was probably not the same). What did I have to lose?
5
Career Chop Suey
You know how when you try to master a new skill it takes a while to get good at it? That’s the exact opposite of my very first foray into the world of the eBay entrepreneurship. My scarf, originally $99 at a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet in Connecticut, sparked a passionate rivalry among online bidders, and sold inexplicably for $430 to some guy in the Midwest. I guess he really liked plaid (or maybe he was just cold). After this rather surprising success, I began to look at my possessions in a whole different light. Now, I wasn’t close to starving—thankfully, as a cofounder of TEAM, I was pretty much guaranteed $2,000 a month in company revenues. I knew, however, that it sure wasn’t going to cut it for me long-term, so it was time to triage. At first it was only clothes that went on the chopping block, but eventually I started scrutinizing other items. I mean, how many times can you read the same book? And honestly, there’s always the library. I soon listed a number of my books on eBay, some of them first editions.
Okay, if I’m to tell the whole truth, I wasn’t quite as blasé about selling my books as I wanted to be. I loved clothes, sure, but clothes are…clothes. And books…well, they’re more like friends. I had two favorite writers, Lillian Hellman and Truman Capote, and I owned a number of first editions of both. Pentimento was, and is, my single favorite book of all time, and I reread it at least once a year, marveling each time at the dry wit of the author. Something about Lillian Hellman’s brash, superbright, somehow courageous style struck a serious chord in me. And Capote always amazed me—how his acerbic humor and understated emotion formed a perfect counterpoint to his highly charged subject matter. How many writers can write a true crime book about a tragic family massacre and still pull off a couple of one-liners in the process? Obviously, the common bond was that sense of humor that peeked out from their plotlines in often surprising ways. Humor is the ultimate survival skill, and when I read these guys, I knew I was learning from the masters. Ironically, it was the recognition of this fact that made it easy for me to decide to sell off my copies of their works. I had already learned what I needed—I had taken their lessons of humor, courage, and creativity to heart. What better way to emulate my teachers than to use them to launch what was fast becoming both my funniest and bravest episode to date? (I kept one copy of Pentimento, however—you never know when you’ll need a refresher course.)
I quickly realized it had been neither my amazing business acumen nor my acute sense of style that had snared me that first sizeable profit. In reality, there just wasn’t that much you had to know about eBay in order to use it successfully. I would set an opening bid for the item, and also a reserve (the lowest price I was willing to sell for). I was partial to either a seven-or ten-day auction, timed to end on Sunday evening, when most people would be at home. (I based these calculations on “eBay time,” aka Pacific Standard Time, since the greatest number of eBay users are in the USA.) Then I’d sit back and wait. The exciting part would usually come in the final few minutes. That was when a “bidding war” could break out. I was always riveted by the last sixty seconds of an auction, hitting the refresh button on my computer’s browser repeatedly as the bids (I hoped) soared.
My first edition of Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s (autographed and in mint condition) fetched nearly a grand. I was on a roll. I found that the sting of sacrifice lessened with every dollar I made. Another trip to the storage unit in Boston beefed up my “inventory” nicely (and took yet another chunk out of my TEAM-accrued frequent-flier miles). I sold off whole closets’ worth of designer winter clothes and a veritable library of books. My new “career” was proving quite lucrative.
In those early days of my eBay adventures, I’m pretty sure everyone involved in my personal life thought I was certifiable. I’m positive my parents cringed every time one of their neighbors asked them what their son did for a living. In Florida retirement communities, “eBay guru” doesn’t have the same cachet as doctor or lawyer. But Mom still sent me monthly care packages, so I guess they weren’t that fazed. My friends back in the States were never surprised by anything anymore, especially after my emigration to Barcelona. However, I sensed from their lackluster responses to my stories of auction success that they believed this was just another one of my passing fancies. After all, I really didn’t have a business plan or a mission statement. My 401(k) prospects weren’t that hot either. But what everyone seemed to overlook was that I spent my days in my pajamas and still got a paycheck. Now to me, that trumped any Fortune 500 benefits package.
I hit some serious pay dirt when I listed a pristine copy of Bruce Weber’s O Rio de Janeiro. It went into a major bidding war, eventually selling for about $500, and prompted a number of e-mails begging me for more Weber books. His newest—Chop Suey Club—had barely hit the shelves and was already completely sold out in the States. I hot-footed it to a local bookstore and found a treasure trove of about a dozen copies. Hesitant to overinvest, I bought one and listed it. Bingo! The book sold for $245…not bad for a short-term $65 investment. Nobody’s fool, I hustled back and bought the rest. I didn’t get to keep even one. Maybe I did have a business plan after all.
After this success, I made a final trip to Boston. It seemed a little silly to be paying storage rent in Boston when I could be paying apartment rent in Barcelona. The contents of those boxes, with any luck at all, were going to take me from storage vault to bank vault. Since I knew that storage unit had been my last tie to the Boston area, I figured it was a good time to jaunt down to my old stamping grounds and pay Kate a visit. Spring was beginning to poke its green nose out from under the frozen ground, and I knew everyone would be in a positive frame of mind.
At my former front door, I was greeted with a shriek and a huge hug. Kate was more than eager to hear all the details of my new venture, and I wanted all the newest gossip, of course. It felt strange, though—in a few short months, my life had radically changed, but hers was precisely the same. Driving the long, gray highway down, I had wondered if I would feel regretful when I saw everyone and everything I had left behind. Instead, although I still loved the house, and Kate, and Ptown, it was definitely a love that felt more like a reminiscing than a rekindling. Even if I had to sell the shirt off my back to stay in Spain (not just a cliché, in my particular case), I knew there was no future for me here. Home was Barcelona—I knew it for sure right then, and e
ven more so a few days later. Nothing convinces you so thoroughly that you truly belong to a place as when your heart beats faster at the thought of being back on its familiar ground once more. And on that day, when my plane touched down on the tarmac in my chosen city, mine was thumping like a jackrabbit’s.
On an afternoon not long after, I was sorting through the last remaining piles of clothes and books when I spotted a box I hadn’t seen in years. As soon as I saw the orange, I remembered the Hermès scarf housed within. I had bought it almost a decade ago in New York, to wear to a black-tie New Year’s Eve party at La Caravelle. I hadn’t touched it since. I pulled it out of the box and recalled immediately why I had bought it—100 percent heavy silk twill with an intricate, striking black-and-gold design of spurs and ribbons, it was the height of understated elegance. My current mind-set being what it was, however, it looked more like dollar signs than anything else. Either way, it was beautiful.
6
Horseshoes and Handkerchiefs
I had long taken the Julius Caesar/Gaul view of life; I saw it divided into three parts—home, work, and social. But either way, my life in Spain was definitely two for three at this point. I had an intriguing new job (it was paying the bills; ergo, it was a job) and my apartment had finally reached a level approaching stylish. As I am an unapologetic homebody (blame it on astrology: I’m a Cancer), my apartments were never really done; they were a nest I would forever be feathering. But by now, my current nest was certainly more than tolerable, if the neighborly compliments I got in the elevator after my housewarming party were any indication. This, of course, left just one missing member of my guiding triumvirate—my social life.
With my time clock–free work front, I was having no problem devoting a more than average amount of energy to socializing. However, it wasn’t panning out quite as easily as the other arenas. While I had made a bunch of party pals, I hadn’t come close to finding anyone who was as indispensable as any one of my close friends back in the States. The people I’d met so far in Spain were the kind of friends you put in your address book in pencil (especially if their last names started with one of the more popular letters). And, of course, there was always that pesky “quest for a soul mate” thing. Even with my considerable prowess in the area of bullshitting, I couldn’t convince myself that I was content spending the rest of my life single. So I persevered with the nightlife—not that I found it that arduous to go out drinking when mixed drinks in Barcelona were so cheap. In fact, at two bucks for an Absolut and tonic, I felt guilty not going out. I was trying to be a social animal, that’s for sure. Alas, after four months in Barcelona, my little life stool was still leaning to the side, but I knew I would find something good to prop it up with eventually.
Until then, I had other things to focus my OCD on—like scarves, say. All week I had watched in amazement as the number of “hits” on my Hermès scarf auction increased to well over three hundred (nearly double any of my previous listings). More important, there was aggressive bidding within moments of the scarf’s debut on eBay. By the time the auction hit “prime time” (those final sixty seconds I loved), the price of the scarf was already up to $300. In that one minute, I watched the fierce bidding drive the price up over a dollar a second, as eighteen people aggressively vied for my ten-year-old scarf.
I had barely stopped gloating over my $400 victory when my inbox started to fill up. It was all the “losers” from the auction imploring me to help with their Hermès “wish lists.” It was obvious these people were serious collectors, and I didn’t let my ignorance get in the way of my avarice. I intimated that this was “only the tip of the iceberg.” Well, I’ve always been a strong believer in the power of positive thinking—I really wanted it to be only the tip of the iceberg.
I was on a mission: find more scarves. I whipped out the phone book. Hermele, Hermenegildo, Hermens, there it was…Hermès…Oh, cool, it was relatively close; I could take a cab. Ten minutes later I was already in front of the store, smack-dab in the middle of Barcelona’s richest residential neighborhood. I approached the plate-glass storefront with no small measure of curiosity. What was it about this brand that was causing such neediness in my eBay bidders? It was a corner location, bigger than I had expected, and I strolled around the building, taking in the visual. Their windows were full of luxurious leather goods, couture clothing, and equestrian-inspired jewelry and scarves. I stood outside for a moment, perusing. Although I sensed real marketing genius in their whimsically alluring displays, I gradually realized something surprising. Personally, I just wasn’t allured—however opulent this merchandise, I didn’t see a single thing that I wanted. I’d never really been the horsey type, I guess. If I hadn’t been on my mission, I would have headed to the Louis Vuitton store across the street. On the bright side, temptation wouldn’t be an issue.
I sensed the doorman’s silent appraisal as I walked in. I ignored it. I couldn’t let anything distract me from my desire to find more of these magical scarves—I was determined to incite another eBay feeding frenzy. Armed with the wish lists of my potential “clients,” for once I actually wanted help shopping. I glanced around, but only spotted one saleswoman, and she certainly had her hands full. The customer she was dealing with was probably in her sixties, dressed like a publicity still of Jackie O having high tea at the Ritz. “Jackie O”’s demeanor, however, was more Imelda Marcos—she was loudly carrying on about some pink leather shoes that the poor beleaguered saleswoman couldn’t find in her size. I gave them a wide berth and pretended to browse.
I started in menswear—who knew, maybe if I looked hard enough, I would unearth some items that didn’t scream polo match. What with all my auctioning, the armoires had started to get downright barren (by barren, I mean I could open them now and nothing fell out). After a few minutes of thumbing through largely uninspiring racks of cotton and silk, I saw a shirt that didn’t look half bad. The design was black and blue geometric H’s on a pale gray background—nary a horseshoe in sight. I could dig it. But then, for possibly the first time in my life, I felt the blood drain from my face when I looked at a price tag: $690—for a cotton shirt? Was that a misprint? And it’s not as if I generally shopped at Kmart—I was used to paying designer prices. But…come on! It was a shirt, for crissakes. I half seriously checked the sleeves for diamond cuff links and slowly backed away. Then my hand brushed across a jacket, the leather soft as butter…I fished around for the price tag. Oh…my…God…$4,770. I already owned what I considered an “investment-quality” Prada leather jacket. This item of mine had, thus far, performed all its myriad jacket duties—keeping me warm, say, and sometimes providing me someplace to put my hands—with admirable reliability and unfailing competency. (And it was pretty damn stylish-looking too.) At a good $3,000 more, what could this one do? Take out my fucking trash for me? Shine my shoes? Maybe it doubled as a parachute.
Then it dawned on me. I was in a whole new league. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop obsessively pricing everything in the store. Men’s cotton boxers? Only $295 each. My Ralph Lauren underwear became about as designer as Fruit of the Loom. The cheapest thing I could find in menswear was the $110 handkerchiefs. I tried my luck in housewares. A brightly colored cotton beach towel with an elephant motif caught my eye: $450. I think I’ll just drip-dry, thanks. I stopped at a small table set up with a brandy snifter, playing cards, and an ashtray…total price tag for a night of Hermès hold ’em? $700 (without the brandy or cigars). I liked the looks of the cute little stuffed horses. Mama horse? $830. Baby horse, maybe? $340. Whoa, Nelly. I decided to be more practical. How ’bout a blanket? $940. Where were they getting their wool, from caviar-fed sheep? Must be from the same dude rancher who raises the cotton for their handkerchiefs.
I probably would have dazedly wandered the store all afternoon, playing The Price Is (Can’t Be) Right, but fortunately a salesman materialized at my elbow. Before he could try to sell me a horse, I handed him the list. He read it, brow furrowed, although whether in concent
ration or confusion I wasn’t initially sure. Probably confusion, I guessed, when he awkwardly excused himself after a minute and went over to the saleswoman (who had finally extricated herself from Customer of the Day, Imelda). I sure hoped that she would know what was going on—somebody around here had to, and I knew it wasn’t me. I edged closer and overheard the phrases “older designs” and “check the back stock.” He disappeared into the back. When he returned, he was holding two scarves of the dozen or so on the list. My heart sank a little—but all, as it turned out, was not lost.
“Sir, we may have more of these in another stockroom, but I can’t get in there without my manager, who I am sorry to say is not here right now. Can I get your name and number, or perhaps you can come back in a couple of days? Whatever is best for you.” He was almost excessively polite, but I never minded that quality in a salesman.
“I can come back, not a problem, I live locally—I’ll take these two for now.”
I rang out (feeling like a cheapskate for only dropping $450) and breezed out of there. I floated down the street, swinging the signature bright orange shopping bag. Wouldn’t be the last time.
7
Silk Serendipity
After a victory dinner, I listed my two hard-won treasures on eBay and retired to bed soon after. I’m sure my dreams were of scarves, not sugarplums, but either way, the following morning I awoke refreshed. Happy to be able to keep my pajamas on for a day of work at home, I puttered around the kitchen while my computer booted up. I had several e-mails, but one in particular piqued my interest.
From: [email protected]
Subject: eBay Item/Question For Seller: HERMÈS Silk Scarf PEONIES mint/new
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 3