Boston men call it the "snake pit." To their wives and daughters, it is the "fabulous FABB." By any name, Filene's Automatic Bargain Basement is the town's most riotous mob scene since the Boston Massacre.
Filene's has been in business for 61 years, and is testament to the curious fever that infects bargain hunters. Driven by the notion that they are saving while spending, they not only buy more than they need but, as Basement General Merchandise Manager James Gormley says, "they end up spending more money than they would normally." Each day throngs of shoppers—as many as 200,000 at Christmas time—surge through the store's three dungeon-like underground levels, fighting for everything from name-brand nylon panties at 39¢ a pair to a Russian sable worth $8,500 and a positive steal at $3,000. As the outlet for surplus stock from such fashionable stores as Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman-Marcus and I. Magnin, the basement has become the happy hunting ground for Beacon Hill dowagers and Charlestown secretaries—all trading hip blocks with shoppers who regularly fly in from New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and as far west as Chicago.
No newcomer, though, is any match for the Boston supershoppers. Money pinned to their bras, they spend part of every business day prowling the basement's depths while TV cameras and store detectives with walkie-talkies watch. Though some supershoppers resell their bargains at a profit, the most sophisticated brave the basement for the thrill of the hunt. Such is Mrs. Josephine Conroy of Needham, Mass., an attractive, smartly attired (all in Filene's bargains) grandmother.
Hooked on Filene's, she spends at least one hour each day in the basement "poking around." She explains, "It's a challenge to see how well you know your merchandise, your materials, your designers. You have to leave your courtesy at home and get there and mix it up like a longshoreman. But the joy of finding a really good bargain is worth it." One typical joyful day during last week's pre-Christmas crush:
8:55 A.M. Mrs. Conroy and her two daughters, Terry, 27, a Spanish teacher at the State College at Boston, and Mariann, 23, a housewife, meet at Colstone's Restaurant in The Hub. Huddled conspiratorily over their coffee, they plot the day's assault. "Terry," says Mrs. Conroy, "you hit the $6.95 dress sale. Mariann, you head directly for that special on pants suits. I'll case the men's department."
9:05. Manager Gormley leaves his office to make last-minute checks with some of 800 employees. Eying crowds jammed behind restraining ropes at 13 entrances, he makes certain that nearby telephones are removed from their cradles. On more than one occasion, tense shoppers have stampeded when they mistook a phone ring for the gong announcing basement's opening.
9:30. Opening gong sounds. Conroys, now at front of crowd, fan out through basement. Other women come running and dodging like halfbacks from all directions, swiveling past pyramids of shoes ($4.95), bins full of records ($1.25), and piles of antique copper lanterns ($25). "As you're running," explains Mrs. Conroy later, "you have to keep one eye up to spot the sizes and one eye down to make sure someone isn't trying to trip you."