You could hardly call it a store. Half the space of a tacky key-cutting mall concession. A dent in the wall. No sign. There are shutters: I can see the bottom rail as a bright blue strip in the recess above the doorway. A sign of the times perhaps, though why would any thug want to plunder this nondescript unit?
A narrow counter separates the traders from their prospects. Two empty stools on the outside: bar stools once - bolted to the polished terrazzo floor. But the seats! Leather, and I am only talking about full grain leather, hide that has not been split or stamped with a pattern. The leather of cowboy chaps and pioneer belts. The scuffs and patina in the deep red cushion carry a history of jean rivets and silk dresses. The shine reflects more than an image, it hoards the matter with which it has interacted, a palimpsest of careless abuse.
I am already being marked by one of the four men seated behind the counter. The three closet to the wall have their heads down, the last at the open end of the counter has seen me. He is discreet, barely a glance. He hasn’t even looked at Sarah who is infinitely easier on the eye. I notice him catch my shoes as he looks away.
I am wearing old Cleverley boots that have been resoled several times and patched once. They were pale tan once but are now burnished a deep chestnut. The is nothing flashy about the boots, only that the wear and care would have cost hundreds to falsify in a new pair.
He has looked away by now and is peering through a loupe at the detail of some small item in his thick-skinned hands. Behind the men and wrapping around the back wall of the space is an ‘L’ of cabinets, littered with arcane metal devices and a small glass display case. A polished Nespresso machine is plugged into an overloaded socket, the incongruous nod to this century flagging that there may have been a dispute between this concession and the coffee shop barely twenty feet opposite.
I have drifted closer without realising. The tide of shoppers has dragged us both towards the counter. I cannot resist putting a hand on the red seat to feel the burnished skin. Sarah shudders as she sees me touch a public surface with my bare hands.
“Can I help you, Sir?” Not “Help ya?”. The full phrase in a rolling Brooklyn accent. It is the same man: the ‘assessor of footwear’. I purse my lips ready to reply and am cut-off. “Cordovan.” His one word reply is an obvious test. If I ask what that implies, I may not be a worthy customer as I do not appreciate leatherwork. If I say “Ah, yes, Horse hide”, it implies knowledge but indicates that I need to reply to gain his approval. I do not. I rub my finger around the piping. “It’s beautiful work.” I am answered by the faintest of nods.
“Lobb?” He asks. I glance at my old boots. He has guessed at the priciest of the traditional Northampton English shoemaking firms. His one word question is designed to form a bridge to me without overfamiliarity. It is also designed to disarm. If I show surprise, he has won.
“Cleverley.” I reply. This gives too much away. A custom made Cleverley shoe, which these are not, would be in 4-figures. Worth it for walking on air but an extravagance beyond the reach of 99% of the population. “Factory store - a long time ago.” This is a lie. Not the long time ago bit. They don’t have a factory store. Nonetheless I was once again giving him the notion that I valued workmanship and beginning to let him know that I valued a good deal.
He has sized me up, he has little to go one but a few boxes have been ticked. At one point I was rich enough to spend a lot of money on a pair of boots, Tick. I care enough about leather and craft to admire the seat and repair my boots. Tick. I am a tourist. Tick - after all, a tourist must buy immediately. I catch him taking the quickest of looks at Sarah. I am with my partner/wife. Tick/cross. He is not sure of the relationship yet but he will guess ‘wife’ in a moment. There are too many similarities in our clothes and gestures. A stable relationship - Tick/cross.
If Sarah were a girlfriend I might be tempted to impress and make a large impulse purchase - Tick. But, wouldn’t I be doing that in a flashy store, something with brand name - Cross. If Sarah were my wife, would she discourage me from wasting money on an impulse purchase or support me to buy something in which I have shown an interest? On balance - Tick.
I look at the men along the bench. The spotter of my shoes sits taller than his companions, of indeterminate past-retirement age and has every working day of his life etched in his cheeks and around his eyes. His earlobes are unusually long and the bags under his eyes betray some circulatory issue. At his side is a shorter man of a similar vintage who has his head down. He has fat hands that are burnishing a small coin purse. The last two are clearly related, younger and swarthier. Brothers? The closest is stitching-up some small pouch or wallet. The item is held in a small vices on the counter and he is wielding a pair of needles through pre-made holes. His ‘brother’ is trimming a small sheet of fine green hide with a odd curved blade. All are focused on their work and ignore the conversation.
“So what type of thing do you make here?” I ask. The answer could be obvious - small leather goods. Nevertheless I ask to give the man a chance to sell his wares.
“Anything small and leather. Take a look in the cabinet. If you see it, we make it. If you don’t see it, maybe we can make it. Take that fine shoulder bag your wife” - he has decided and he is right - “is wearing. That’s too big for us but we could make a small purse or pocket-book. Begging your pardon Ma’am, that’s a handbag to you. You looking for anything in particular?”
“Maybe.” I murmur, trying to sound noncommittal. I peer in the cabinet. Arrayed on the shelved are coin purses, wallets - I will have to refer to the folding variety as bill-folds to make myself understood - and various key-holders, pencil cases and small draw-string pouches. At the end of the cabinet, almost obscured by a leaning valet-tray are 3 small pouches, one zipped and the other two held closed with poppers. Tobacco pouches. I lean in for a closer look. My every eye-moment is being monitored by the man behind the counter. Without being asked he scoots his stool over to the cabinet, slides open the door and pulls out the three pouches.
“So whaddya think?” He places the items on the counter in front of me. I pick up the first. It is half the size and thickness of a small paperback book. The leather is faintly dimpled yet smooth and creamy to the touch, a deep navy blue, darker on the seams and edges: obviously hand-coloured. I unpop the flap and look inside. It is lined with a thin rubbery film to prevent moisture from escaping. The stitching is extremely fine but just uneven enough to betray the handiwork. I sniff the leather and for the first time the man has a faint smile on his face.
The second pouch is similar to the first but made of a smooth unmarked hide. I pick up the third. It is the same shape but has a zipper along one edge rather than a flap with two poppers. It bears the follicle holes of hogskin. I recognise it from a pair of gloves I had bought the previous winter. The leather is so soft it yields under the finger tips, making it hard to feel unless one presses down on the the skin. At the same time, because it is so stretchy, it has enormous strength. I can hardly bear to put the pouch back on the counter.
“Not very popular these days,” he sighs. Some folks use them for their usb cables and mouses.” He does not say ‘mice’. The man looks wistful. He makes to say something then stops himself, pursing his lips. I think he was going to ask me if I smoke but thought better of it.
“I smoke a pipe.” I say. “I could use a new pouch.” The tacit contract negotiations have started. He has explained what he can do. I have outlined my need. Now it is a case of keeping the fish - me - firmly on the hook while he reels in the catch. I have already decided to buy a pouch from him but I cannot tell him. That would be no fun.
I grew up in a culture where everything was negotiable from a bag of lemons to a haircut and if you felt the trader was having a hard day and you felt that he had had to agree to too low a price, well, you might leave a generous tip to restore the balance, make the trade enjoyable and repeatable. "One must be willing to walk away" they say. True, but only to a point. An “I’ve only got fifty rupees with me, can you squeeze a haircut in that?” can work just as well. That was probably the day I found a few more in my pocket or I might have handed-over the rest of my cigarettes.
“Please Ma’am, won’t you take a seat?” He asks Sarah.
“No thanks.” She replies with a smile. “I might go and get a coffee.”
“I could make a coffee.” The man says.
His shorter associate looks up and speaks for the first time. “That’s not coffee”. It comes out as ‘caw-fee’.
“Ignore him.” Our man says. “I can make an expresso. That’s all we got. “You’d like an expresso?” He looks at both Sarah and I.
Sarah shakes her head. “No thanks. I’ll get something milky. I am sure Peter would like one.”
“That would be great.” I reply. The man looks at his colleagues. One of the ‘brothers’ has his hand in the air, my new host says “Gotya” and the raised hand is lowered. I take a seat unbidden and Sarah turns and walks the few paces to the hipster caffeine haven.
The man has gone over to the counter running along the wall and has selected a few small Illy cups from a plastic drying rack beside a tiny steel sink.
“Why do you have a coffee machine? Those Nespresso things aren’t cheap and you have a shop right opposite?”
“That’s the question!” Declares the shorter man. “Why do we have a coffee machine. It’s coz Bernie opened his mouth about the mister or missus Barista over there. Who the hell knows which but Bernie wants to know and won’t except ‘neither’ as an answer. We got ourselves a “they” over there and Bernie won’t be havin’ it. So now I have to drink this crap. Make me one Bernie.”
I snort with laughter and make myself more comfortable on the stool. After a minute or two, the man I now know as ‘Bernie’ puts a tiny espresso on front of me and sips his own.
“A pouch. How does this size feel?” Bernie taps one of those on the counter.
“As good as.” I reply.
“Try it out.” He says, “put it in your pocket.” He watches me as I try the pouch in both my front and back jeans pocket. It is a perfect fit, 50 grammes of tobacco would disappear without a bulge.
“How d’ya wanna close it?” He asks.
“Zip.” I note the the zipped model has a nylon zip. I hate nylon. I always fear that the zip will fail. An irrational dislike born from the bitter experience that suitcases with nylon zips can be opened by thieves with a spoon in less than a second.
“Can you fit a metal zip?”
“Sure - we could.” He replies sounding unconvinced. “What’s wrong with nylon.”
“I don’t know. I think that they are weaker.”
“Maybe.” He replies. “But hear me out.” As we speak he pulls out a handful of different zips from the below the counter on his side.
“When you are down to your last tobacco you wanna be able to bend the zip into a spout to get the last grains into your pipe.”
He picks up the zipped pouch and folds the open zip onto itself. “You can’t use the end of the pouch because you gather the tobacco from the ends into the centre, see. And look a this.” He picks up the metal zip and folds it. It does fold but it deforms unevenly. He points at the bend. “As the zip folds it puts more stress on the stitching. It’s gonna break, you don’t want that.”
“But won’t the zip last longer? I feel Sarah’s hand on my shoulder as she lets me know that she has returned.
“Could be. How old are you? God knows you look young.” To a woman the would be an insult, to a young man, patronising. Between older men, he is making a point.
“Sixty-two.” I admit.
“A kid. Even so, here’s what I’ll do. You don’t want a metal zip. It’s gonna tear up your pockets and scratch your hands. I’ve got these Japanese water-tight zips. They never break and if one ever did - here’s what I’ll do” He repeats himself. “If it ever breaks in your lifetime, you just call me and I’ll send you, free of charge, a whole new pouch. That’s a lifetime warranty right there.”
His technique is flawless. He identified a surmountable objection I had to the sale but did not solve it by simply giving way. He solved it by convincing me of his product knowledge. Knowledge for which I will no doubt pay dearly. Then he promised something invaluable. He and I both know that the zip probably won’t break. He knows that the leather won’t wear out and the stitching won’t give, thus the product is effectively immortal. But the lifetime guarantee achieves so much more. It personalises the item to my lifetime. It puts my mind at ease and builds further value into the product - further value that will appear in the price. We both know that should the zip fail in twenty years time anything could have happened: I could be dead, he could be dead, I might have lost his contact details. The chances of my redeeming the warranty in the far future are non-existent.
“One of those Japanese zips then.” I say.
“You thought about the lining?” He asks.
“Rubber?” I suggest.
“Nah. They’re not rubber anymore. Rubber crumbles after a while. I can do waxed cotton or vinyl. Lifetime on both is good. Cotton is going to last forever but you gotta re-wax it every now and then and the wax has a smell. The vinyl never splits because it’s never exposed to light. It never cooks. I would go vinyl. That’s the stuff in this pouch.” He taps on the one I had assumed had a rubber lining.
“Vinyl it is.”
“Any thoughts about leather and colour?” He asks. I do but I don’t want to constrain my options yet. After all, choosing the leather is the best part of commissioning anything like this.
“Something interesting. What do you suggest?” I reply. Bernie smiles broadly. I think that he may be enjoying this.
“Ernie, you wanna do this bit?” Bernie prods his partner.
“Hang-on, Bernie and Ernie? You have to be kidding me.” I say.
“Nope. That’s what he’s called. ‘Cept his real name is Alfred. ‘Ernie’ started as a joke. You know how it is.” Bernie gives Ernie the lightest of punches on his shoulder. Ernie stands up, reaches below the counter and brings out a thick sample book and a few extra pieces of leather attached to a small chain. He slides his stool around so that we are both perched over the end of the counter.
“I got something for ya!” He reveals a swatch of leather with a flourish. It is deeply contoured. I has been tanned in shades of light blue, the valleys pale and the hills darker and polished. “Whaddya think?”
I pick up and peer at the piece of leather. It has been split, a process of removing the rear of the skin from the front, halving its thickness but it is still thick and flexible, a rare combination. Almost suited to a belt.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Have a guess.” Suggests Ernie. I see the purpose in this. There is no doubt that this is Ernie’s ‘turn’, his showman tour de force. Judging by the smile and the light in his eyes he is enjoying every second but the interaction is achieving something else. It is deliberately making my buying experience more memorable, for me. There is no way that this thick cyan leather was suitable for my pouch. Ernie was adding more value to the experience, more value for which I would, unconsciously, pay.
“It’s hard. Some kind of Elephant - no it’s not Elephant. Hippo?”
“Ha. Good guess. Best I’ve heard. Nope, this is good American hide. A predator.”
“They had Hippos in the US once. They imported them to ranch. Good meat, solid hide.” I reply.
“I think I heard that.” Ernie says.
“Mountain lion?” I ask, trawling my brain for American predators.
“Nope…”
“Coyote?” I try.
“Not even close. Think Yogi.” Ernie is in the flow.
“It’s a bear! Grizzly? No that’s more Canadian. Brown Bear?”
“You got it! Now what part?”
“I have no idea.” I really didn’t, I know my leathers and this one was new on me.
I had made Ernie’s day. “See these scars? That on the face - Bear Maw. The only piece we have ever seen. Not sure its gonna work on the pouch though. A bit thick. But I have something else!” Ernie stashes the blue hide in his folder and pulls out his next piece. A thin leather, tanned black. He hands it to me. It has an odd texture, it is as fine as eel and kid yet has a slight bobbly, scaly even grain across the whole piece. It is the some of the supplest leather I have ever felt. I try to stretch it. It gives just the right amount for the pouch to hold its shape and the stitching.
“This is amazing. I want it. What is it? I demand. Ernie has by now reeled in the fish and it is dangling on the end of the rod ready to be pulled into the basket and he knows it. I know it too and reflect on the ongoing genius of the sales technique.
“Do you wanna guess?” He asks.
“No, just tell me.”
“This was common once. Now it is very rare. Did you know that we used to tan a whole lot of leather in New York? When we got here the hillsides were covered in hemlock trees. Tannin you see. That’s where it came from. All over New York and Virginia. Then we used them all up. There’s chemicals these days and it’s all done in factories most-like. It’s the smell. You can still smell leather that’s been done the old fashioned way. Smell it.”
I raise the piece to my nose and behind the leather smell is a tiny sharp tone. Nothing that would prevent its use.
“That’s natural tanning that is. This here is from the Catskill Mountains. It’s Otter. You can’t get it, they’re protected I guess but a few die or get killed by accident. Time was, this was a fine leather for ladies shoes or gloves.”
It’s beautiful.” I say, caressing the A4 sized piece in my hands.
“That’s the only piece we got. Are we going to make you the finest tobacco pouch you have ever held?” Ernie was looking in my eyes. Bernie pretended to be fussing with some paperwork. There it was. Perfectly timed, a pre-emptive close. They had not spoken about price and they knew they had me wriggling above the basket.
“It depends on the price.” I reply. It’s true. None of their display pieces were priced. The brothers were in production so their prices worked for someone. It was not a luxury pricing situation where the higher the price, the greater the demand. It was just a negotiation.
Bernie took over the conversation. “We used to have a factory, you know. Well - It weren’t much of a factory, more like a workshop. Then came the internet and folks started buying from China and Pakistan and Turkey where these two boys are from.”
Ernie cut-in with a smirk. “Hell, you had a wife before the internet.” Then his half-smile fell away and he blushed as he saw Sarah’s face. “Sorry Ma’am.”
Sarah laughed. “Don’t worry. What happened?”
Bernie shook his head. “Bumble or Tinder or some such. Like as not it was called Cinder if was based on the life in our marriage.”
Sarah laughed out loud. “Cinder… very good. I’m sorry.”
“Old times. Anyway we price our stuff based on how long it takes us to make times our wages plus materials and 50 percent extra to cover our costs and these boys.”
“So what do you pay yourselves?” I ask.
Bernie’s eyes twinkle. “What do you think we should pay ourselves. Give me number.”
I loved the ruse. It was pure class. If I compared Sarah’s fees of $400 an hour and multiplied it by the say 6 hours it might take to make a pouch I would be looking at a $4,500 plus dollar item. They knew that I would overestimate any hourly rate and might agree in an instant. All I did was laugh and wag a finger at Bernie.
“Bernie, I like you already. Now tell me what it is going to cost.”
“Give me a minute.” He said and scratched a few numbers on a piece of paper. He passed it to Ernie who made some corrections and gave it back. Bernie flipped over the sheet and wrote a number on the back and was just about to give me the piece of paper when Sarah reached out and took it from his hand. She did not look at the number.
“Let me get this for you my love. You never like anything and your birthday is coming up so…” She put her hand on my arm. I looked up at her smiled and blew a tiny kiss. She snuck a glance at the piece of paper, blinked once and gulped.
I winked at Bernie.
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