Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  “Nothing surprises me with you, Michael, you know that. So where are you? You aren’t in Barcelona, I assume?” Kate’s voice was dry, but I could hear her smile through the phone line.

  “Nope. I’m in South America—Santiago, Chile, to be exact, buying Birkins.”

  “Wow, that’s a long flight for a handbag purchase. I can’t believe you’re making a living with that Hermès thing, it’s too funny.” Kate and I talked on the phone once a month or so, and when we did, it was usually for at least an hour. But since she had never owned a computer, it was difficult for me to explain my eBay venture to her—especially the part about how it had snowballed and become my career. Although I had told her about my Birkin business success, I think she still assumed it was something of a lark. And I secretly suspected she found it all kind of boring. She had never even owned a purse, preferring to carry her cash and license tucked in her coat pocket. So we chatted about other things: Juan, some of my recent travels, Kate’s new job at a flower shop, the newest exploits of the old Ptown gang. We were starting to wrap things up when she remembered why she had called in the first place.

  “Oh, that reminds me, Michael…I was actually calling to tell you that Ward phoned me yesterday, looking for your new cell phone number. I gave it to him, I hope that’s fine.” That was a blast from the past—Ward was my erstwhile almost–business partner, who had planned to set me up as a jewelry guy in Barcelona and then dropped the idea. There were definitely no hard feelings, and I’d e-mailed with him a few times, but we hadn’t spoken in ages.

  “Absolutely, of course. I’d love to hear from him. Well, this is costing you a fortune…talk soon?” Kate and I said our good-byes, but I had barely hung up before the phone rang again. It was, in a remarkable feat of timing, none other than Ward. That wasn’t even the weird part, though, because it turned out that Ward had a really good friend who lived in Santiago, mere blocks from where I now stood. She was a young woman named Pime, and he insisted on calling her on my behalf.

  That night I was unexpectedly treated to a home-cooked Chilean feast, courtesy of the hospitable and lovely Pime, who became immediately fascinated by my Hermès adventures. She also proposed us going into the Birkin business together: an arrangement similar to what I had with Luc. She said she would buy for me in both Santiago and Buenos Aires, as long as I took care of the initial travel arrangements and paid a suitable commission. Oh, boy, a South American connection for the “designer drug.” What could be better? Ward really hooked it up for me, however accidentally.

  Off to Buenos Aires, two bags in tow. (I had snagged the other one that morning, as planned.) But as I juggled them on my way down the plane aisle, I decided I needed to find a better way. I wasn’t willing to go to the three-Birkin mark and risk the wrath of the flight attendants, nor was a $7,000-plus handbag check-in material. There had to be a solution. I could ship them back to my house in Barcelona, of course, but then they were traveling over the ocean twice (since most of my Birkin buyers were from the States). I also didn’t want to take a chance on nobody being home when they arrived at the house—it wasn’t like Juan sat around in the kitchen drinking tea all day, like yours truly. As I sat in the cab on the way to Caesar Park, my hotel in Buenos Aires, the criteria for a middleman were clear-cut enough, if somewhat peculiar. Who did I know who didn’t have a real work schedule, lived in the States, had my implicit trust to the tune of thousands, and was nice enough to make multiple trips to Mailboxes Etc. for me, with little or no recompense for her trouble?

  “Hi, Mom, it’s Michael…I wanted to ask a favor…” I began.

  Thankfully, my mother agreed to help me. I think she somehow thought it would be exciting, although why, I wasn’t sure. The travel part was a little exciting, yes, but the purses themselves were boring to me now, about as exciting as a Whopper to a BK franchiser. But whatever made her happy was fine by me, and this would make my life a ton easier. Those Birkins were a lot heavier than they looked, and the orange was too conspicuous for my taste. Sure, the Hermès logo got a lot of innocent gawking at the check-in counter, and envious looks at the gates, but it also got some speculative looks, and I wasn’t about to hire a bodyguard. Not just yet.

  Buenos Aires was way bigger than I thought it would be, making Santiago appear provincial. It simultaneously looked nothing like I had expected, and exactly the way a South American city should look. It had a stylish, fashionable vibe, like Paris, but the salsa beats and passionate personality of the Latino culture. I also loved the Hermès store, seeing how I was able to use the “formula” to get three bags in two days. Similar to the store in Santiago, they had me spread out the purchases timewise, because of possible “detection” from the Hermès headquarters. I still found it very odd that a store couldn’t freely sell merchandise as they saw fit, to customers willing to pay for it. I didn’t know why the home office wouldn’t be thrilled they had sold such extravagantly priced merchandise, period. It wasn’t like I planned on undercutting their prices, that’s for sure.

  It was time to head out of South America, although I wasn’t sure I had drunk my lion’s share of the Malbec yet (Malbec was a wonderful local red wine that was like an excellent cabernet sauvignon crossed with one of my beloved Catalan Rioja wines). I found out that even if you could find Malbec out of the region, it wasn’t going to be of an older vintage. Much like the Spanish, the South Americans hoarded all the best of their libations for their natives. Curses to such hedonistic nationalism—curses, I say. But they didn’t care what I said, and I was stuck buying a case with the rest of the tourists. I also called and warned my mother to be on the lookout for incoming purses, and FedExed all five of the Birkins bye-bye. My flight back to Barcelona was via Paris, with a six-hour layover. I found out that they didn’t always give you the best flights when your ticket was free, a fact I would be reminded of again and again in the upcoming years. But I decided to make the most of it. Going back to the Faubourg so soon was out of the question, but there was George-V and the Hilton Hermès store, and I thought I might as well give it a try.

  I ended up juggling two Birkins down that plane aisle after all, plus the bag of “ingredients” I had used to conjure up the two purses. I had hit a new record—seven Birkins in five days. I wasn’t looking for a mention in the Guinness Book, but it was certainly a far cry from where I had started. Which reminded me, what about all those waiting lists in the south of France—why hadn’t I heard back yet? Oh, silly me, that’s right—it takes two years to get a Birkin, and I had been on those lists for only one year. As I sipped my Champagne in first class (having decided that seven purses = upgrade), I figured it was just as well. I mean, everyone needs something to look forward to…

  22

  Blueberries and BlackBerries

  I sent out a killer e-mail the next day to Sarah, wondering what she would say to a laundry list of seven bags. Certainly she wouldn’t want all seven. Nobody would buy seven Birkins all at once. Her response to my e-mail was short and sweet.

  From: “Sarah”

  To: “Michael”

  Michael,

  I think we should talk on the phone…do you want to call me or send me your number and I will call you? It’s up to you.

  From: “michael”

  To: “Sarah”

  Sarah,

  it’s fine, I will give you my number if that’s ok, spain has a phone monopoly and it is outrageous to call from here. it’s xxx-xxx-xxxx. talk to you soon. mt

  So I guess Sarah had different feelings about phone time than Grace. That wasn’t the only difference between them, as I would soon find out. The phone rang not five minutes after I sent her the number.

  “Hi, this is Michael.” I wanted to put her at ease. People could be weird with overseas calls—they always thought they might have screwed up the number somehow.

  “Michael, hi, it’s Sarah.”

&nb
sp; “Hi, Sarah, it’s great to actually talk with you finally.” I barely got the words out of my mouth when she started spouting rapid-fire:

  “Yeah, it’s great to talk to you too…Michael, how the fuck did you get seven Birkins? I know you went to South America, but seven? That’s fucking outrageous. I’m sorry, I know I have the biggest potty mouth, but I cannot fucking believe you got seven bags!” Her voice sounded husky but young, and with definite class lurking underneath the crass. I pictured some beautiful thirtysomething, lounging by a pool, smoking a cigarette, and impatiently waiting till noon to have her first martini. The effect was charming, and I immediately liked her.

  “Well, I went to Paris too…” I felt oddly flattered by her reaction. Although why anyone should feel proud about his ability to walk in a store and buy a handbag—well, that was another story for another day, I guess.

  “Yeah, whatever…but seven bags is totally outrageous, never mind that two of them are fucking croc! That’s so over the top. Where have you been all my life?”

  “Well, um, thanks, I guess. What one, or ones, do you want?” I had two repeats on the leather ones, meaning I’d gotten the same exact bag twice, so the most she could possibly want was five.

  “I want five. One of each of the different ones…” She acted like I should have assumed as much. She was right, I suppose. But I guess I had thought spending over seventy grand in one week for handbags was out of the question. How plebeian of me.

  “All right, sounds great. Two will be coming from here, and…” Once again I was taken down midsentence.

  “Why aren’t they all coming from there? And you still haven’t told me how you get them…” She laughed as she said this, but there was an edge there, albeit a friendly one.

  “Oh, because my mom is doing some of the shipping for me, since lugging them around in airports is a drag. I ship ’em to her in Florida instead, makes life easier. Sarah, I have a deal for you…” I paused dramatically.

  “Yeah, what?” I could tell from Sarah’s voice she had no clue what was coming.

  “If you tell me what you do with all these bags, I will tell you how I get them!”

  By the sound of her laughter—she had one of those great, full-throttle, I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-thinks laughs—I could tell I hadn’t offended her.

  “All right, all right…I was just curious but okay…I’ll let you keep your trade secrets. I guess as long as you can get them I shouldn’t complain, right?” She went on without waiting for an answer. “But I have a favor to ask. I know you must know some of those salespeople pretty well, like in Barcelona?”

  “Well, yeah, the ones in Barcelona, definitely…” I wondered where this was going.

  “Do they like you? I mean, really like you a lot?” Her voice was insistent again. This was not a woman to be jerked around.

  “I don’t really think about it that way…but, yeah, they like me.” It wasn’t as if I’d taken a survey, but I thought they did. Especially since I had brought them my homemade “Grandma Johnson’s recipe” banana bread last Christmas, back in my scarf heyday. That had gone over pretty big. I make a kick-ass banana bread.

  “Okay, there’s a bag I really want, but the problem is, it doesn’t exist.”

  “That might be hard even if they do like me, Sarah.” I wasn’t getting this at all. But again, I got to hear that great laugh of hers.

  “You’re a riot, oh my God, too funny. Yeah, but Michael, my point is, what kind of money have you dropped there? A shitload, right?” That was a good question. I didn’t even have a guess, except I knew it was in the tens of thousands. I figured that probably equaled a shitload.

  “Well, yeah, a lot of money, I guess.”

  “Okay, so they aren’t going to want to say no to you? Right?” Another question I knew the answer to.

  “No, I guess not.” I had heard of custom-ordering bags before, but I didn’t really have too much interest. I could get bags tomorrow, so why would I bother ordering them? It also seemed like something that would garner unnecessary attention from the powers that be. The last thing I needed was the name exposure at the home office. But Sarah was, well, she was Sarah, and she was dropping that proverbial shitload with me. So rather than explain how impossible this idea was, I decided to look at Sarah’s request as a step in a new direction—custom-buying. I couldn’t do it a lot, certainly, but I might as well try and keep her happy. (I did end up growing bolder about ordering as time went on—but overall the slow turnaround was less than appealing.)

  “Guess not? Michael, they aren’t going to fuck with one of their best customers. I really, really think you can do this, and I know I can’t get it without ordering it. And I know they won’t order for me at the store here, they have to know you, like superwell, and I just get my bags from you, you know. So anyway, my point: there is this perfect shade of pink that I totally need to have a Birkin in.”

  “Well, I’ve seen pink bags before…” I don’t know why I said that.

  “Michael, no shit, but not this fucking color pink, trust me, not the color I want. I went on Wikipedia today and looked at the ‘Pink’ page, okay, like I knew what I wanted but not what to call it. And the color I want is French Rose. French Rose—isn’t that fucking perfect? And that is the exact pink I want, okay? In crocodile, you know, of course.” That was a given. I knew that she always preferred the crocodile bags, although she “settled” for the leather ones. I preferred crocodile too, since I generally used a percentage markup to calculate my profit. It was like the difference between selling scarves and selling Birkins—I got a lot more money for my effort if I got a croc bag instead of a leather one. Hence, I was currently trying to figure out how to get crocodile bags more often. Hey, if you aren’t growing your business, you might as well assume it’s going to fail.

  “Okay, Sarah, let me see what I can do. I’ll get the color info and then it’s up to my salesperson, I guess. No harm in asking.” I wasn’t making any promises.

  “Please please please! I really want this fucking bag, it would be so over-the-top to have a one-of-a-kind Birkin, I have this killer dress that color and I can carry a black Birkin with it, but that’s so, you know, boring, and this would be so so amazing, I will love you if you can get this for me. I know it’s going to take for fucking ever, like a goddamn year or something, whatever, good things come to those who wait, right?”

  Yeah, like a chance for me to get a word in edgewise. She was hilarious. I really would do my best to get her this bag. It would be worth it just to get to watch her reaction.

  “Okay, I promise to do my best.” There, I came up with something I could promise. “So I have to get going, but you want those others, right? Send them? When should I look for the money so I can get them shipped and everything?” My poor mother. See how exciting it is, Mom? Yeah, FedEx offices are riveting, let me tell ya.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of the payment stuff later today. And tell me as soon as you know if you can get the bag ordered. And, Michael—one last thing?”

  “Yes?” I hoped she could hear the smile in my voice.

  “However you are fucking getting these bags, keep ’em coming!” And with that, she hung up, still laughing.

  I should have known I wouldn’t have the last word. And what had I agreed to? To order a bag in a color that Hermès doesn’t even make? Time to bust out Grandma Johnson’s recipe again—maybe I would bring some muffins too. Blueberry ones—with fresh blueberries. I couldn’t believe I was going to use baked goods in order to bribe an Hermès salesperson to allow me to order a bag that would cost more than a car. I decided next week sounded like a good time to deal with all that. I had other business to attend to—plus, it takes a week to get the bananas ripe anyway.

  I sent out an e-mail to my other “clients” who might be interested in the remaining two purses. I now had many people I considered “Birkin” people. These women weren’t buying bags at the Sarah rate, but they had bought one (or more) from me a
lready. I had started keeping a list of who wanted what so that if given a choice in the store, I could go with a preferred color that someone had requested. But I was realizing that no matter what “flavor” I got, these handbags didn’t have a long shelf life. And once again, less than two days later, I was Birkinless.

  Like last time, I kicked around the house for a little while, but now when I was at home I felt like I should be on the road. Then, when I was on the road, I was worrying about monitoring my auctions and feedback and e-mails, not to mention Juan. (My cell phone bills were going through the roof again.) I still had a pretty steady sideline going with the scarves and Hermès miscellany, and an e-mail I failed to respond to promptly could result in bad feedback (an eBay PowerSeller’s worst nightmare). I had a laptop, but there were times you couldn’t just whip out a computer: “Hey, can I move the salt and pepper shakers for a second? Grab your wineglass too; I don’t want it getting tangled in the cord…” I decided it was time to go to the next level—take the plunge—bite the bullet—and get a BlackBerry. I had told everyone I abhorred them (“Come on, who needs to be that available all the time?”), but I had lied. I wanted one. I like new toys. The bananas were ready too, so I guessed today was the day for heading over to the Hermès store and trying my luck in ordering that bag. From baking muffins to mastering cutting-edge technology—I was fast realizing that if I wanted to be the “It boy” of the “It bag,” I sure as hell needed to be well-rounded.

  23

  A Roster of Reservations

  I got that pink handbag ordered for Sarah (“No problem, Mr. Tonello”) and had my requisite downtime at home, and I was ready to hit the road again. My job was lucrative, yes, but also had a lot of expenses involved, and some of those bills didn’t roll in until after you had kind of forgotten about them. I probably maybe also occasionally had been known to be a tiny bit self-indulgent in matters relating to food/drink/clothing/lodging…And as much as Juan loved having me home, he knew as long as I was home, I wasn’t really working. Plus, he had raised his eyebrows at the BlackBerry purchase, so I felt I had better start using it ASAP.