Hamptons Diary: Getting the Boot

A trip to the Shoe-Inn Warehouse Sale in Amagansett, a pair of designer bargains, and one very unexpected phone call made this a Hamptons shopping trip she would never forget.

Hamptons Diary: Getting the Boot

Every August, I look forward to events out East such as the East Hampton Library’s Authors Night, the Hampton Classic and, especially, the Shoe-Inn Warehouse Sale in Amagansett, where savvy shoppers like me search among thousands of designer pumps, flats, heels and sandals for discounts as high as 80%.

Bargain hunting at the Warehouse Sale is an annual tradition, attracting the hoi polloi and celebrities alike. I relish the thrill of the hunt, but there was a time when I couldn’t go to the sale without being haunted by unpleasant memories.

Twenty-five years ago, I went to the Shoe-Inn sale on Monday morning, after the weekend crowds had left. By noon, I was back at our share house, showing off my latest acquisitions.

“Look at these sandals — Robert Clergerie, only $50. And these Steve Madden flats, only $35. Total score!” I said proudly to my housemates.

The phone rang as I modeled my new footwear. “It’s for you,” my housemate Melanie said, handing me the receiver.

“Hello?” I asked quizzically. I’d given the house number to my admin, instructing her to call only in the unlikely case of an emergency; most of my advertising clients were away through Labor Day.

It was Susan, the president of the ad agency. Why is she calling, I wondered. Maybe to get together for a drink? Her McMansion was only 10 minutes away.

“Listen, we’ve had some account losses,” she began. This didn’t seem to be a social call. “We’ve had to have layoffs, including you. There’s no need to go back to the office except to pick up your things. I’m sorry to do this via phone, but it had to be done today.”

“Ummm … OK.” I was too stunned to say anything else.

“We still want you to moderate focus groups for us after Labor Day.”

“But … you just fired me.”

“It’s not because of your work. We had to right-size and reduce headcount and payroll. We love your work. There’s no reason you can’t consult for us.”

“Ummm … I have to think about it. I’ll let you know.”

I slowly hung up the phone. I felt sick to my stomach. “I was just laid off,” I said to Melanie.

“I’m so sorry.”

I began to process what had just transpired.

“I was laid off,” I said slowly, “from the place I’ve worked for 12 years. Over the phone. While I’m on vacation. By my boss. Who’s up the street.”

Melanie simply stared at me.

“She could have said, ‘Can you meet me at Babette’s for a coffee? There’s something I need to discuss with you.’ She does this over the phone?

I was livid. “

And then she has the nerve to ask me to consult for them?”

“That’s weird. What are you gonna do?” Melanie asked.

“I don’t know … I don’t know what to do. I have to find a job. I don’t even have a resume that’s current — I’ve been at the same place since 1989. I never bothered to keep it up to date. And if Susan had called just an hour earlier, I wouldn’t have gone to that stupid shoe sale.”

I was annoyed that, newly unemployed, I’d just spent $85 on two pairs of shoes.

“Look, it’s almost the end of August. No one’s hiring now,” Melanie said pragmatically. “Relax and enjoy the rest of the summer. You can start looking after Labor Day.”

“But I have to update my resume. I can put together a list of headhunters. I can start networking. I have to go back to the city.” I was starting to panic.

“No one’s in the city. Just relax.”

“I can’t. I need to tell some of my work buddies. They should hear the news from me.”

I went to my room and called my friend Lisa, who’d started in advertising as my admin. Recognizing her potential, I’d gone to bat for her with Susan. She was now a vice president, account supervisor.

“Susan just called and told me I’ve been laid off.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lisa said calmly.

“What do you mean, you know? I only just found out.”

“Susan told me last week. The whole agency knows by now.”

I suddenly remembered a voicemail message I’d retrieved the week before from one of my vendors.

“How are you doing?” he’d asked.

I’d thought it was odd for him to call simply to see how I was. I now realized he must have heard the news, too.

Indeed, I seemed to be the last one to learn about my own firing, termination, downsizing, right-sizing, whatever the euphemism du jour might have been

I did not moderate focus groups for the agency after Labor Day.

I did not consult for them.

I could never bring myself to wear the Robert Clergerie or Steve Madden shoes I’d bought that day. Merely looking at them brought back that queasy feeling.

After some career detours, I made my way back to advertising and stayed in the business for almost 20 more years, leaving on my own terms when retirement beckoned.

It was 10 years before I could return to the Shoe-Inn Warehouse Sale — the fear of a spending splurge followed by a phone call bearing bad news lingered for that long.

This year, I’m eagerly awaiting Aug. 11, the first day of the sale, when I might find myself perusing the merch alongside Joy Behar or Katie Couric.

Katherine Persky

Katherine Persky is a retired advertising executive who now resides in East Hampton. When she's not at the Shoe-Inn Warehouse Sale, you're likely to find her cycling on Hamptons back roads or swimming at Sammy's Beach.