By the summer of ’69, I was broke. Despite working every conceivable, worthless dead-end job, from counting ball bearings to baking “surprise-filled” doughnuts for the First Baptist Church of Van Nuys, I had absolutely nothing to show for my efforts. I was twenty years old, fresh out of the Navy, and ready to start my college education at Los Angeles Valley College in the fall. I was desperate for any job that would take me. Any job.
My best friend Tom was working at a local shoe store called Thom McAn’s. He told me they just had an opening. Would I like to apply? He’d worked there for four years and seemed to like it, so I took that as a recommendation. Unlike my previous career as a Hollywood stuntman, I’d get to wear a dress shirt, tie, slacks, and leather dress shoes, so it couldn’t be that bad. After all, I wasn’t in any position to be choosy.
Part of a large chain of family shoe stores, Thom Mcan store #1131 was strategically perched on the corner of Sherman Way and Sepulveda—two main arteries that bisected the San Fernando Valley during the 1960s. Because it was in the same mall as Pier One, Piggly Wiggly, and Pep Boys, it drew a constant flow of foot traffic from people who needed everything from track shoes to gold glitter stilettos. Even people who weren’t in the market for a new pair of shoes would kill time by wandering through the store.
The manager of the store was a tall, button-down guy in his mid-twenties named Bill McAvoy. Bill was a rising star in the retail shoe industry whose singular goal in life was to be promoted to district manager before he turned thirty. It was the duty of Tom, Missy, Bruce, Brent, Lou, and myself to make sure that happened. To say that he ran a tight ship was like saying Attila the Hun was a respected leader. Nevertheless, I interviewed and got the job.
There were three main rules that Bill drilled into his sales staff:
“Everyone who walks through the door of our store wants to buy something. It’s up to you to help them find it. If they walk out of our store without buying anything, it’s your fault. You missed the opportunity to make them happy.”
“Never let a new customer think they’re being ignored. No matter how busy you are, find a way to stop what you’re doing, introduce yourself to them, letting them know you’ll be back in a moment to help them.”
“If you feel like you’re not able to make the sale, pause and ask one of the other available salespeople to come over. Explain to them what the customer wants and ask if they can help.”
The term for it was a TURN OVER, as opposed to a hostile TAKE OVER that happens when another salesperson sees you drowning and takes mercy on you, saving the day. If the second salesperson wasn’t able to make the sale, they were supposed to request a third salesperson to come over and attempt to make the sale. Remember, according to Bill, “If the customer walks out of our store without buying something it’s your fault. You missed the opportunity to make them happy.” In other words, you were in deep doo-doo.
Behind the attractive showroom floor was the stock room—a massive warehouse, with row after row of shelves that reached to the sky. For the life of me, I can’t remember how they were organized. Maybe they weren’t. But, remembering where a certain model of shoe was (and the sizes in stock) was the key to success. The faster you could locate what the customer wanted, get them to the cash register and out the door, the faster you could move on to the next customer who was invariably milling around about to leave. Bill called it the “move ’em in and move ’em out” approach.
Selling shoes at Thom McAn was a classic case of on-the-job training. Beyond accepting the importance of the turn over, there really wasn’t much to learn when it came to selling shoes, other than making sure you had the right shoe on the right foot and vice versa. The hardest part was remembering where they were located and letting Bill know when we were out of stock for a particular shoe.
There was always a predictable ebb and flow of customers in the store, depending on the time of day and night of the week. Weekends and evenings were brutal, with throngs of people milling about, picking up shoes, opening packages of socks, and interrupting salespeople who were already working with three other customers. Weekdays were another thing. But, no matter what time of the day, anytime Bill was standing up front behind the cash register, we had to be on our toes, constantly trolling the store for new customers, straightening shoe displays, and dusting the racks. When he was gone, the fun began.
One of the ways we entertained ourselves was coming up with “enhancements” to our sales techniques. The most popular with the staff was, ahem, “peeking where the sun doesn’t shine” with attractive young girls who strolled into the store wearing short skirts. I reserved one seat on the sales floor that was opposite two, strategically positioned mirrors. Each of the mirrors was already slanted at a perfect 45-degree angle, so by carefully aiming them toward the special chair, we could enjoy an R-rated show while she tried on shoes. Sometimes, even X-rated. Regardless of what they came in for, I’d usually draw out the sale for as long as I could get away with it.
There were also a number of sales techniques I had to master in order to survive and stay out of the clutches of Bill. One was the age-old approach of “the customer is always right.” On a relatively slow afternoon while Bill was hovering around the sales floor, 
a heavyset woman sat down and said, “I’m looking for a black pump. You don’t have to measure me. I already know that I’m a size 6.” Regardless of what women tell you, they will always under-state their shoe size. It’s sort of like confessing how much they weigh—they never tell you the truth and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll never ask. Always assume that it’s way more than what they tell you.
“Just let me double-check that for you,” I said. Reluctantly, she allowed me to place her foot on a Brannock Device—which is the technical term for “one of those foot-measuring doohickies with the sliders and lines on it.” She measured a size 11.
I went back to the stock room, and brought out a size 11.
“Hmmm. Nice. What size are these?” I confessed they were size 11.
“What?!?! You moron! I told you I wear a size 6, you idiot! These are WAY too big. I’m swimming in them. Go back and get me a pair in size 6 or I’m out of here.”
I could feel Bill’s stare from across the room. So, I went back to the storeroom and brought out a pair of size 6. “Here you are, ma’am. A size 6. Let’s see how these work for you.” It took three of us, a crowbar, four shoehorns, and an entire jar of Vaseline to get her feet into the shoes. Even then her “pinkies” popped out of the tops, to make room for her other four toes. “Is this a size 6?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am. This is a size 6.” “Ah, they feel much better.” I watched her slowly limp around the sales floor in front of a mirror. “I’ll take them.”
Another day, remembering Bill’s motto, “Everyone who walks through the door of our store wants to buy something. It’s up to you to help them find it,” a sexy young girl walked into the store on a hot summer day, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a thong. It was obvious that she just came from the beach and had no place to carry a purse, money, or credit cards. Nothing. My heart sank as I passed by Bill and asked her, “Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?” “Oh no. I’m just browsing.” Ding, ding. Two more demerits for me.
After I’d been at the store for a month, I was challenged with the ultimate test of my sales skills; which barely existed to begin with. During the spring of 1970, the entire state of California was hit with a massive trucking strike. Nothing moved on or off the roads for over a month. That meant no goods went in or out of stores. It was particularly dire in Thom McAn’s case as our supply and variety of shoes in the stock room dwindled to absolutely nothing. Ninety percent of the time, we didn’t have what customers were looking for.
One day, an attractive woman walked into the store. “I’d like to buy a pair of black patent leather pumps for a formal affair I’m attending tonight.” Gulp. I could feel Bill’s stare, just waiting for me to slip up.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Just let me measure your foot and I’ll bring a pair right out.” At that point, I knew it didn’t matter what size she wore. Chances were nil I’d have patent leather pumps for Kareem Abdul Jabbar, let alone her.
Feeling the blood drain out of my head, I wandered back into the stock room and took in the view: miles and miles of empty shelves. As far as the eye could see. Desperate to bring her something, I finally settled on a pair of black Chuck Taylor Converse high-top basketball shoes. It was literally, the closest thing we had to what she wanted. At least they were black. I started to hyperventilate, anticipating the verbal flogging I was going to get after I got back on the sales floor.
I thought about taking the easy way out: crawling through the back door of the stockroom and continuing on to Tijuana where I would write to Bill later that year with my two-weeks notice. Nevertheless, I followed the mature path and brought out the basketball shoes for the customer attending a formal ball.
“Well, I wasn’t able to find a pair of black patent leather pumps for you, but I did find these lovely and very functional Chuck Taylor high-top Converse basketball shoes. They’re perfect for dancing and they’ll go nicely with your gown. And they do come in black.”
What blood that was remaining in my head, suddenly dropped to my feet as I looked into her eyes, and began to pass out.
“What??? @#$%^ you moron! Do I look like an idiot? Are you serious, you nitwit?” Within seconds, one of the other salespeople heard the commotion and helped me back onto my feet.
“Brent,” I said. “I wonder if you can help us out. This lady is looking for a pair of black patent leather pumps for a formal affair tonight. She’s a size 7 and we don’t have anything in her size. The closest thing I could find is this pair of high-top Converse basketball shoes. Can you help us?”
Brent’s eyes rolled back into his eye sockets, aware that Bill’s stare was now focused on both of us.
“Of course, Allen. I’d be happy to help.”
I limped away into the storeroom where I made my way to the restroom to throw up. After my dry heaves subsided and I changed out of my sweat-soaked shirt, I wandered back onto the sales floor. By that time, Missy had taken over for Brent. Bruce had taken over for Missy and the customer was being sweet-talked by Bill while he stroked her hand. Fortunately, my shift had ended. I never heard a thing from Bill or any of the other salespeople.
To counteract the stress of working under Bill’s uneven temperment, we invented a number of pranks to pull on each other and selected customers. One slow afternoon when Bill mistakenly put too many of us on the clock, a lethal combination of boredom and creativity ensued. While several of us were chewing the fat on the floor of the children’s department, Lou came out of the stock room holding a shoebox down in front of his pants. “Hey Missy,” Lou called out. “Take a look at what just came in during the last shipment. When Missy peeled back the cover of the shoebox, there lied Lou’s flaccid Mr. Happy on a bed of tissue paper emanating through a hole he bored at the end of the box. The rest is history.
Unlike Tom, I only managed to get through one year at Thom McAn’s. The combination of regimentation and micro-management was just too much for me. After all, that’s why I left the Navy—and they had a much better dental plan.
