In the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, I went to Dallas frequently on business. Whenever in town, I would try to catch up with my friend Eileen Harrell. We’d met through work, she was a fabulous PR person (yes, there are some) and she also happened to be a lot of fun, terrific company and knew were all the good restaurants and shops were located. One evening she took me to the biggest boot store I’d ever seen, it was the size of a football field.
I was overwhelmed by what I saw, it was an assemblage of footwear that even Emelda Marcos could not have imagined. After an hour of examining every size 10 I could find, I came upon this dandy pair of brown snakeskin beauties. The one thing I had noticed in the store was an entire lack of service. There were plenty of employees, and they were all running about, but no one paid any attention to Eileen and me.
When I finally took my selection to the register, I realized why. There on the counter was a stack of boot boxes five feet (clarification: in this case I mean 60 inches, no pun intended) high. Feeling insignificant, I put my lone pair on the counter. The harried saleswoman looked up from attending to the stack of boxes and took my credit card.
“Quite a pile of boots,” I commented as she rung up my card.
Yes,” she said smiling. She then reached over and extended her hand to me. In it was a credit card, which read “Mrs. Willie Nelson.” She pointed at the stack.
“Wow,” I replied, wondering how many other women had had a credit card just like that one (at least three, I later learned). I then signed the sales slip, she handed it to me and off we went.
As Eileen drove the tollway into the night, she said to me, “Hey, let’s check out those fancy boots.” As I pulled them from the box, the receipt came flying out. It was then that I noticed: the saleswoman had forgotten to keep her copy. (I should inject, this took place during the pre-digital era when credit cards were run through a manual device.) She had no record of the sale. The boots were free! When I began to think that perhaps we should turn back, Eileen said, “Well, I guess this is your lucky day!” And any further thoughts of turning back disappeared as she turned our attention to dinner.
I lost track of Eileen over the years, but every time I dust off those boots, I still think of her fondly—and give a tip of the hat to ol’ Willie, and wish I’d gone for the pricey ostrich pair!
I was overwhelmed by what I saw, it was an assemblage of footwear that even Emelda Marcos could not have imagined. After an hour of examining every size 10 I could find, I came upon this dandy pair of brown snakeskin beauties. The one thing I had noticed in the store was an entire lack of service. There were plenty of employees, and they were all running about, but no one paid any attention to Eileen and me.
When I finally took my selection to the register, I realized why. There on the counter was a stack of boot boxes five feet (clarification: in this case I mean 60 inches, no pun intended) high. Feeling insignificant, I put my lone pair on the counter. The harried saleswoman looked up from attending to the stack of boxes and took my credit card.
“Quite a pile of boots,” I commented as she rung up my card.
Yes,” she said smiling. She then reached over and extended her hand to me. In it was a credit card, which read “Mrs. Willie Nelson.” She pointed at the stack.
“Wow,” I replied, wondering how many other women had had a credit card just like that one (at least three, I later learned). I then signed the sales slip, she handed it to me and off we went.
As Eileen drove the tollway into the night, she said to me, “Hey, let’s check out those fancy boots.” As I pulled them from the box, the receipt came flying out. It was then that I noticed: the saleswoman had forgotten to keep her copy. (I should inject, this took place during the pre-digital era when credit cards were run through a manual device.) She had no record of the sale. The boots were free! When I began to think that perhaps we should turn back, Eileen said, “Well, I guess this is your lucky day!” And any further thoughts of turning back disappeared as she turned our attention to dinner.
I lost track of Eileen over the years, but every time I dust off those boots, I still think of her fondly—and give a tip of the hat to ol’ Willie, and wish I’d gone for the pricey ostrich pair!
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