Dreams of fur - chapter 1

"Fur You - Coats and accessories Banks and son Established 1934"

The sign over the small Pasadena shop says it all. Putting aside its potential vulgar twist, the name of the shop is terrible. A Fur shop is supposed to inspire opulence, luxury, warmth, superficiality... I don't know, anything but "a gift". A Fur coat is an investment not a God damn souvenir. But well what can I say, we, the Banks, are not really good at business and when we make it work it's usually more due to luck rather than talent.

My great grandfather, Samuel Banks Senior, for instance, came to the west coast after losing everything in the 1929 crack and opened a fur shop in a region where the average temperature oscillates between fifty and eighty degree.

It should have been an epic failure worthy of the building of the town of Pompeii on the skirts of that funny smoking mountain if it hadn't been for the movie industry.

The movie industry and the fur business have a very profitable relationship. Every movie star has to have a fur coat; every year or so the pool of movie stars is renewed; so every year or so there's a new batch of potential clients for my uncle, Samuel Banks the third.

My name is Erin Banks; I'm a nineteen years old redhead. I fucked up my final exams last month and I've been working here, with my uncle, for the last two weeks. The idea is to raise some money to do something with my life... maybe. I'm a bit lost at the moment.

I push the door and enter in the excessively air-conditioned realm of my uncle. I'm in charge of the shop until eleven, not that my uncle trusts me to meet the high standards of his select clientele but honestly who buys a fur coat at eight thirty on a Tuesday morning?

The shop is cozy, precious wood on the walls, thick furry carpet, luxurious dressing rooms with big leather couches for rich old man to admire the twenty or thirty grand they will spend to decorate a trophy wife purchased the previous week.

I flip the sign, put on my most commercial smile and get ready for a long morning of boredom and nothingness, alone in my uncle’s freezing palace.

At first working here excited me, first proper job, the opportunity to meet the rich and the famous, luxury, glamour and all that.

But well what can I say, standing behind a counter for hours waiting for someone to come in and when eventually someone does come in, staying behind the same damn counter because, it's either my uncle, his wife Sandy or their daughter Mindy who gets to drive the client through the selection of magnificent pelts, coats and other accessories, is clearly not how I had pictured this job.

What about the glamorous rich and the luxurious celebrities you will ask. Well, Tom Cruise is a dwarf, Megan Fox a pretentious ass, Channing Tatum a retarded poser and Mel Gibson a misogynistic pig... Enough said... It's always better not to meet the artist when you love the art.

Lost in my thoughts, I nearly miss the tall man who enters the shop carrying a large bag with our logo on it.

"Good morning sir," I say despite the fact that, judging by the general aspect of the man, his morning must have been anything but good. "How can I help you on this beautiful day?"

The man is in his mid forties, athletic, wearing a three pieces suit and tanned to a crisp like your average Angelino. That's pretty much all the positive you can say about his aspect. The rest is, as a matter of fact, a wreck. The shadows under his eyes are the size of a weather balloon, the look he gives me must have originated somewhere in a graveyard, the trembling lip, the three day beard... A wreck I tell you.

"Yes..." he says, "yes, there's something you can do! You have to take this back!"

He takes a beautiful fur coat out of the bag. I recognize it because we received it last week. It's a large woman's coat made from a very rare Carpathian Wolf pelt. I remember it clearly because the piece is magnificent and also because I have something with wolves and the Carpathians, but if need be I'll tell you all about it later.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, but it's against house policy to take back merchandise that has been worn, if you want I can direct you towards a reseller that will most certainly give you a fair price for it," I say.

"I don't care about the money all I want is to get rid of it. If you don't want it I'll throw it."

"I'm sorry sir but I really can't take it back." I say, "I can't pay you back."

"Oh fuck it," he says storming out of the shop leaving me with the pelt.