Cyndi, Pauper
Not many people know this, but Cyndi Lauper worked as a shop girl at a small vintage boutique in Manhattan called Screaming Mimi’s before breaking into the music business. Long after she released all of her albums of note, of which there aren’t many, I was doing the same thing.
I worked at Screaming Mimi’s during my senior year of high school earning $7 an hour making sure people were not stealing clothes. Mimi’s is owned by a woman named Laura Wills, not necessarily known for her warmth and compassion. The legend at the store was that she tried to negotiate to buy her partner’s share of the store from his family after his wake. He died of AIDS.
I digress. I was charged with keeping things in order, and keeping my eye on anyone who went up to the lofted space as it was easy to shoplift the small household items on display. At the end of the day I would vacuum, organize the racks and shoes and pull down the window gate. One time Laura made me button every button on every single coat in the store during the first frigid week of winter. Ok sorry, I digress again. Laura was my first tyrannical boss. I’m still scarred.
So after Cyndi found stardom she enlisted Laura to style her various tours. They’re close and Cyndi would often visit the boutique. On one such visit, they strolled into the store after a long lunch and began chatting with Angel, the flamboyant Puerto Rican store manager and my favorite co-worker. Laura inquires about a vintage fur hat that was on display. “Did it sell?” she asked, looking around for it.
Angel confirmed that it hadn’t. Laura turned to me and demanded I look for it. I went searching through the cramped store. It turned up on a rack of hats in the back. I returned it to the center display and notified Laura that I found it.
“I wasn’t sure what happened to it, but it ended up on a hat rack in the back,” I said.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WEREN’T SURE?” boomed Cyndi.
A bit frazzled at the sight of Cyndi Lauper yelling at me, I mumbled something under my breathe and returned to my post assisting customers. Laura and Cyndi made their way to her office in the back room. I made my way to the stereo. I sifted through the CDs laying around. I knew exactly what I wanted: the Immaculate Collection.
As Madonna’s “Holiday” came blaring out of the store’s speakers, Laura came running up to the register where I was standing.
“TURN THAT OFF IMMEDIATELY,” she screamed. “Cyndi does NOT want to hear MADONNA.”
I giggled a bit and hit stop. Angel hit my hand and demanded to know what I was doing.
About a month later Laura asked me not to come in to work anymore. “There’s simply no room for you on the schedule,” she squawked over the phone.
And that, kids, is the story of how I came to hate Cyndi Lauper.
