Miracle on 81St Street: Designer Resale a Girl’S Dream

By Myrna Skoller

Myrna Skoller relates stories and vignettes of Designer Resale, her most beloved endeavor. It is a true and well-intentioned book which will delight the reader because of its candid and whimsical recounting of past events from her early childhood up to the present time. The story reveals heartwarming tales of her disappointments, accomplishments and a persistent determination to succeed under the most trying circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481719704

Myrna Skoller

Myrna Skoller was born and raised in New York and her home is in Boca Raton, Florida. Her memoir, Miracle on 81st Street is her first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.

—George Bernard Shaw

It’s a typical Saturday morning, and Designer Resale opens promptly at 10:00 a.m. The atmosphere becomes alive with activity as employees, customers, and consignors all converge simultaneously. An employee rushes to answer the phone, which is ringing even before the lights are turned on. Consignors and customers continually call for various reasons. Some are inquiring about bringing in items to sell while others call to ask about picking up their unsold merchandise. Others have questions relating to how the consignment process works. Some want to purchase a specific item over the phone. Often they are disappointed because it is no longer available, even though it was unsold the day before.

As soon as the store opens, the staff unlocks and opens the gates. They grab brooms, mops, paper towels, and Windex, and the daily process of straightening, dusting, and polishing begins. The bags, jewelry, shoes, belts, and scarves are out of order due to the bustle of the previous day’s activity and require immediate attention to prepare for the usual and predictable mayhem of a Saturday at Designer Resale. But who’s complaining?

I shop there as well, paying the same price as any customer. Because I am the owner, one might think I would be likely to be the first to seize something fabulous. But it makes no difference. Items are placed from the consignment-receiving area onto the selling floor at the speed of light, and if I’m too busy to act on it quickly, even I lose the opportunity to make a great procurement for my overstuffed closet.

The first day of each month is especially chaotic. That’s when the 20 percent to 50 percent reductions begin for the month on specific color-coded items. As a result, those first few days of the month are usually the busiest. At the same time, people are also interested in new arrivals, and as a result there are people coming and going continually to buy as well as to sell. What we receive in large daily quantities on consignment is astounding. Because I prefer to accept only currently styled items in the newest condition, many of the things brought in for resale are still showing in department stores such as Bergdorf, Bendel, and Saks, still bearing the original price tags. I find that people of every social level love the thrill of a treasure hunt. In fact, it has become a status symbol to say, I bought this great Chanel bag for only $500 in a resale shop. Actually that is precisely what happened recently. A Chanel bag was priced at $1,000. However, it hadn’t sold, and after sixty days it was up for grabs at a 50 percent reduction. Because Chanel has become so expensive and sought after, it was surprising that the bag remained unsold for so long. An average Chanel bag today costs upward of $2,000 retail, and they usually go very quickly.

Some of the items received every day on consignment consist of every designer brand imaginable. There are also hundreds of American and European designers we never hear about, but with the advent of the Internet it’s easy to locate and establish their value. Many of these obscure designer brands often turn out to be the most expensive. However, the secret of success in the world of resale is in the pricing, and savvy shoppers know just what to look for. Certain things should be priced at a fraction of the retail cost. Yet items geared toward the golden triangle, such as Chanel, Vuitton, and Hermes, can be priced much closer to the retail mark.

Designer Resale is on East 81st Street between First and Second Avenues and is situated on a pretty, tree-lined street surrounded by small brownstone buildings and townhouses. Each of the store’s outside entrances are equipped with charming white lampposts bending forward, and along with the townhouses this gives the street a European flair, almost unnatural in its side-street habitat. At night, the lamps light up the store’s beautifully decorated windows. The street is really quite quaint, and people are drawn to that tiny spot on the map from all over the world.

The inside of the store is an enclave of sheer delight where you can shop and browse for hours, walking through open doorways leading from one room to the other. In order to decipher one room from another, I’ve given them descriptive code names: The Bag Room, The Shoe Room, The Main Store, The High-end Room, and our latest addition, The Garden Room.

Although a dilemma may arise at any time, I’ve learned to handle the ones that require attention, laugh at the nonsense, and enjoy the rewards. Every assortment of designer brand is dropped off daily and the same question, twenty-three years in the making, is still unanswered: Who would give up such wonderful and exorbitantly expensive items and sell them at just a fraction of the valued price? The media has been speculating on this subject since the economy started its downward spiral and strongly suggests that the reason is that people in general are in need of money. But that isn’t entirely true. It is obvious to me that many people sell their clothes just to make room for more of the very latest fashions, even though they’ve spent fortunes on their wardrobes. Whatever the reason, it really doesn’t matter. The bottom line is the vast selection of beautiful, quality merchandise we receive daily, which I always look forward to receiving.

I sometimes view the path my life has taken through the woven art of a tapestry. The underside of a tapestry is nothing more than a disorganized cluster of clashing colors, knots, and threads, and it would appear to have no value whatsoever. However, once it is turned over, its beauty and warmth are recognized and we can then begin to appreciate it. In order to convey much that has happened throughout my lifetime, I should begin with the underside of that tapestry.

Chapter 2

Live out your imagination, not your history.

—Stephen Covey

My earliest memories begin at the age of 3 ½. I remember hordes of people coming over to our house one evening, many of whom I didn’t even know. I looked around bewildered, not comprehending why there were so many tearful people in our living room; I was the only dry-eyed person there. My mother and grandmother were hysterical. My mother was beside herself to the point where all that she could do was to cry out my father’s name: Ralph, Ralph, Ralph. Even at that age we understand a lot more than we’re given credit for. I couldn’t express myself, but I knew that Ralph was in deep trouble and so was I. Just a short while back, my dad was holding me in his arms and playing with me. But now he was nowhere to be seen, and everyone was tearfully reaching out for him.

What I remember next is a vivid memory and one that I will never forget because I learned early on what it was like to experience a devastating loss. After I was put to sleep that first night I awoke in the middle of the night and looked over at my parents’ bed. What I could see in the darkened room were two bodies lying together. Mommy, Mommy, I cried, Daddy’s home. The thrill of it overwhelmed me, because I thought everything was all right again. It looked as if my father and mother were back together as always. Just then a female voice, not my mother’s, answered, No, honey, it’s Aunt Nora. I’m sleeping over tonight. At that moment, a feeling of such deep and indescribable despair came over me. It was a feeling of loss so great that I sensed at the age of 3 1/2 that my father was never coming back. That was in February of 1944. When I was older I learned that a heavy piece of machinery had fallen on my father’s foot at his place of business. It caused a blood clot, and he died within two weeks of the accident. He was only thirty-eight years old.

My mother, who at first was unable to cope, summoned my grandmother, who came to live with us. However, in time my mother did grow stronger, and in order to continue supporting the family, she went to work at my father’s plant, which he had owned. Having the arduous job of learning to run a business of which she had no knowledge in addition to getting over her loss and leaving her children at home had a profound effect on her. To me her sadness was always apparent. Yet she had the courage to tough it out and was a wonderful role model.

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I was sent kicking and screaming each morning to a place called Parkside Nursery School in the borough of the Bronx, which is where I was also born and raised. In those days, nursery schools, or day care as they’re referred to nowadays, didn’t have to meet the requirements or standards they do today. We were left to play on our own and pretty much ignored by the teachers, who were stern and unapproachable. I was one of the lucky ones, because I was never spanked, as I had witnessed happening to some of the others. I played by myself much of the time and don’t remember ever being cuddled, held, nurtured, or comforted there. I also hated the food, because the hot lunches they served were not appealing to the tastes of a four-year-old. I remember pushing aside plates of soggy carrots, beets, peas, and whatever else had been part of the daily lunch menu. In hindsight, that was probably my ticket out of there.

My grandmother, seeing that I was rapidly losing my baby fat, took pity on me and decided to keep me at home with her. It had to have been tough on her; she was elderly and ailing, and believe me, I was not easy. From my very early stages I had a wanderlust and still do. She later revealed stories to me about some of the anxieties I put her through. I would sometimes manage to walk out the door without her knowledge and go downstairs and onto the street. She would then have to run outside looking for me, sometimes in tears. She would often find me in the building’s basement, with its maze-like structures leading from one place to another. There was a storage room housing bikes and carriages and a super’s work station with all kinds of tools and instruments hanging on walls and stacked on tables. There was a laundry room with only one washing machine, which was constantly in motion. My grandmother would carry the clothes from the basement, hang the wet wash onto a rack in our kitchen, and hoist it up to the ceiling with a cord where it would dry.

The rest of the basement had lots of twists and turns leading out to alleyways and back in again. It must have fascinated me, because that’s where she often found me. Sometimes I’d be around the corner visiting the superintendent’s little girl from the other building, where she lived, exploring and comparing her basement with mine.

In any event, Grandma had her hands full. First of all, she thought I was much too thin. She continually fed me Yankee Doodles, which I ate day and night. It’s a chocolate cupcake with a delectable cream filling in the center. There was always a healthy supply of Yankee Doolas on hand, which was how her foreign accent pronounced it. The European mentality in those days was to look plump and to appear amply well fed. It originated from the belief that if you were round and zaftig, it meant that you were a person of means, one who could afford to eat well. I notice that in all of her photos she shows off her double chin prominently and proudly. Anyway, despite her conviction that you needed to be plump in order to be hearty, it didn’t make one bit of difference. No matter how many cupcakes I ate, I remained skinny and frail throughout my childhood.

I whole-heartedly believe that our early experiences shape us in every way, and I learned something about myself during my stint as an inmate at Parkside School. Each morning when it was light, I was taken to the school, and each evening I was returned home. One evening when I was dropped off, an error was made and I was deposited at a neighboring building instead. In the darkness, I could see that it resembled my building, but I knew that it certainly was not. Perhaps because I was so young and afraid, I didn’t speak up to indicate that it was the wrong destination. However, what I learned about myself paved my way into the future and present time. Of course I couldn’t articulate it at the time, but what went through my mind was that I knew how to get home from there. I was familiar with the neighborhood because my mother had walked me through it many times. And although it meant my having to cross several streets in the dark, I knew I could find my way home. I probably would have been a prime target for abduction, but at that age we’re very trusting, and I visualized that I would make it home safe and sound.

Just as I was stepping off the bus, a little boy named Justin—I will never forget his name—started yelling, She doesn’t live here; this is not where she lives. The person in charge tried to quiet him, but Justin remained undaunted and wouldn’t give up. He then began to sob, This isn’t her house; she can’t go there. By some miraculous circumstance, at the last second, I was yanked back onto the bus and driven to where I lived. It wasn’t required that a parent or guardian be present at the bus stop. In those days child abduction was not as prevalent a concern as it is today. I would simply scoot off the bus, run upstairs to my first-floor apartment, and ring the doorbell, where I would be greeted with hugs and kisses, feeling soothed until the following morning when the