mannequins

I have been reading the stories about Kingston and, as good as they may be, it struck me that there was something missing.  There are no "funny' stories.  

Surely to God Kingstonians have a sense of humour.  That's what's missing.  In the midst of all the drama and sobriety (Sir John A. excluded) there must be room for a laugh or two.  To that end I submit the following, with the assurance that this a true story. (at this juncture I should add that I have several more, ready to go to illustrate the we know how to laugh.

Garth Scott

MANNEQUINS

I ask you. How many people can say they carried not one but two naked women up Princess Street in the middle of winter? That’s right, two naked women.  Not many I bet. 

Well I have!

After leaving school I went to work at Kresges, store number 1007, in Kingston. During my pre-employment interview the manager stressed that this was a great opportunity to really go places in the world of retail. He said that one day I could be a manager. The other thing he stressed with me was service to the customer. 

Starting in the stockroom I was low person on the roster and as such was expected to do just about everything there was to do, from receiving freight to garbage removal to sidewalk clearing. That’s right, sidewalk clearing. You see, in those days merchants up and down Princess Street cleared the sidewalks in front of their premises winter and summer. In winter the sidewalk had to be shovelled clear and in summer swept clean.  As well, in the winter, I had to go up on the roof and knock down icicles before they fell and hurt a passer-by.  

One Saturday afternoon in early December, Mr. Pehlman, the manager, sent for me and tasked me with returning two mannequins that had been borrowed from Woolworth’s, a block up the street. It seems they wanted to set up a special Christmas display and needed the mannequins.

Times were different in those days and when displays required female mannequins, and their clothes needed changing, they were discretely covered with paper garments to prevent passers-by being offended by the sight of naked female figures.  

One time, Steacy’s, a fashionable department store on Princess Street, neglected to cover their mannequins and several letters to the editor of the Whig Standard expressed disgust and anger at this blatant attack on public morality.

Back to my task at hand. I should have expected something when I saw the manager and assistant manager standing together, smiling, as I headed to the ladies-wear department. Gordie Parsons one of two sales-ladies in the department asked if she could help. I replied that she could tell me where the mannequins were kept.  

She answered with a grin like a Cheshire cat, “They’re in that storage room at the back of ladies wear. Help yourself, but be careful how you handle them.” Personally I didn’t quite see anything funny.  It was, after all no big deal.  Deliver the mannequins to Woolworths just up the street. 

No problem. I opened the storage room door and went in.

There they stood. Two of them. Not a stitch on.  Naked as jay birds. And obviously female. I could hear the girls outside the door laughing uproariously. 

One of them stuck her head in the door and said, “Mr. Fisher says Woolworths just called to say they need their mannequins as soon as possible. Better get a move on.”

What in Hell was I gonna do? I mean I wasn’t even allowed to carry brassieres from the stockroom to the salesfloor. Ladies unmentionables were the exclusive domain of the female staff. Here I was with two in-the-buff females.

I couldn’t refuse. I’d just have to bite the bullet and carry these naked females across the main floor, out the front door, up the street through the crowds of Christmas shoppers, to Woolworths. 

Right then an idea struck me, a eureka moment.

Grabbing a nearby roll of brown paper I managed to wrap some around the ladies, enough to cover the important parts. I’d show those laughers, and prove to Mr. Pehlman that I could be resourceful.

I wrapped my arms around the two mannequins at the waist and, lifting them up, I backed out the door and set them down while I put on my coat. Not a word from the onlookers. Not a snicker as I hoisted the ladies and carried them across the main floor and out the front door. Out onto cold, snowy and windy Princess Street, where I headed for my destination, threading through the crowd of shoppers. Several cars blew their horns. Heads turned and a few smart remarks were made, at my expense.

What I didn’t know at the time was that the store manager and assistant manager were following behind, enjoying my discomfiture. Seems this was standard practice for new stock boys.

I soldiered on and got to the corner of Bagot and Princess where I had to stop for a red light. There I stood, two naked females draped in flimsy paper, clutched tightly in my arms. 

Just then a city bus made a turn in front of me, close in front of me. Startled, I stepped back into a sequence of events. I started to fall into a snowbank. A strong gust of wind came roaring around the corner behind the bus, tearing the paper off one of my mannequins which escaped my grasp and fell face up into the snowbank. I twisted to break my fall and put out my arms, my hands landing precisely where the most prominent features proclaiming the mannequin’s femininity were located. I panicked and reached for the other “lady” to move her before she got run over. She too had lost her paper garment in the excitement. 

There I lay, at the corner of Princess and Bagot Streets, in a snowbank, clutching one naked female by the bosom and the other by the crotch. Two or three elderly lady Christmas shoppers glaring down at me, tut-tutting and remarking that they wondered what the younger generation was coming to.

“Disgusting!” one lady proclaimed. The others nodded their heads. 

One of them turned to whom I assumed was her husband and said, “Alfred! Turn away!” she said to her grinning companion, “Men!”

I managed to gain my footing and, retrieving my “girls”, both bereft of any modesty-saving covering, and holding one under each arm, continued on my way. I arrived at Woolworths without further incident to find Woolworth’s manager holding the door open for me.

“What can we do for you today? Now, um, what’s with the mannequins?”

I explained, “I was told to return your mannequins, that you wanted to use them in a Christmas display. And here they are.”

“They aren’t ours. I’m afraid you’ll have to take them back.”

Back to Kresges I went, through the snow and cold.  In the front door, across the main floor, through the crowds of shoppers, “Excuse us, pardon us, coming through, excuse us please!” Up the elevator to the second floor. Then to the manager's office, where I stood the mannequins on the floor at each end of his desk.

I returned to the stock room and went back to work.  When the manager came to see me he asked, with a smile on his face a yard wide, “Well, how’d it go?”

“Fine. No problem.” I answered, “No problem at all sir!”

He hadn’t seen where I left the mannequins and I didn’t tell him. He could find out for himself.