Naked Mannequins

"I'm tired of fighting the economy. I'd like to walk out of here a winner."

by Mike Newall

All that remains now is the flashy red-white-and-blue-painted façade. Inside, once-heaping piles of golden-green and lavender-colored French cuff shirts have been picked clean, only the odd fuchsia or cognac silk tie remaining. The suit racks, a bountiful spectrum of peaches, purples and creams just weeks ago, are barren. Naked mannequins huddle along the back wall as if waiting for a bus.

Shirt Corner Plus, the venerable Old City men's haberdashery offering reasonably priced fanciful menswear since 1960, locked its doors for good last Tuesday evening.

"Damn, they tore this store apart," exclaimed one of the final customers to wander in, way too late to the party — or funeral, perhaps — to take advantage of the bargain-basement prices.

With the looming façade that dominates the intersection of Third and Market, Shirt Corner was, to some, a place to meet before a night of Old City bar-hopping. But to others, it's been the family closet for generations. A mecca of brightly colored Easter or prom duds, daring Zoot suits and, in keeping with more recent fashions, Steve Harvey-style pinstripe three-quarters with vents, slits and flaring lapels, all the store's suits were priced from $98 to $199.

"This would cost $300 uptown," said Lisa Baylor, two days before closing, cradling a $50 pinstripe Eddie Domani under her arm. "I still can't believe they're leaving us. I'm heartbroken." 

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

Indeed, with Shirt Corner gone, Philadelphia has lost a stitch of its retail fabric, a place with uniquely personalized service where working men could indulge their sense of fashion without breaking the family bank.

But a faltering economy and advancing age caught up with owner Marvin Ginsberg. Marvin, 77, is an unwaveringly polite man with a sing-song voice, who punctuates his sentences with a smile and the word "OK."

"It's time, OK," he said, manning the register a day before closing for good. "I'm tired of fighting the economy. I'd like to walk out of here a winner, OK."

Marvin does not show his age. He is lean, with a full head of gray hair. He was the first to arrive every morning, at 8 a.m., to clean the glass and straighten the racks, andthe last to leave, at 6 p.m., when he and his wife, Davida, who's worked the register every Saturday since meeting Marvin 38 years ago, would take in a nice dinner somewhere.

"That's the way I liked it, OK," said Marvin. "This store is my life. I tell people there isn't mortar in the bricks here, it's my blood."

The foundation started to crumble last year, when sales reports began to reflect the spiraling economy.

"I have a working-class customer, OK," said Marvin. "The minute they get laid off, they stop buying accessories. I sell fashion."

By September, Marvin had laid off half of his 15-person staff.

"It was the hardest thing I had to do in my entire life," he said, losing his smile for the first time.

Most of his employees had been with him for more than two decades. In many cases, the binds of friendship tied together like family. Marvin assembled a colorful bunch to sell his colorful clothing.

"It helps to be a little crazy around here," Marvin liked to say.

There was Handsome Jimmy, Big Mouth Terry, Warren the ex-Marine, Southern Donald, Rome, Barry the Moneymaker and Old Sol Hartman, who'd been with Marvin for 32 years.

Carlos was one of Marvin's youngest sales associates.

"When my wife and I got married three years ago, Marvin and Davida sat at the family table," Carlos said. "They were both crying."

Many of the laid-off workers came back to help out during the going-out-of-business sale. (Unlike many such sales, Marvin went right down to bargain-basement prices.)

Davida provided gentle nudges toward retirement, Marvin said with a wink.

A potential developer has already testified before the Historical Commission, requesting to tear down the familiar building.

Last Monday, some customers picked through the thinning racks, while others hugged Marvin and Davida with tears in their eyes. "What are we going to do without you?" they asked.

Marvin handed out free ties and shirts.

"I'm too blessed to be stressed, OK," he said.

After the crowds thinned, he sat down on his stool for the first time all day.

"I'm tired," he said with a smile, as Davida placed a hand on his shoulder.

Dispatch is filed from all corners of Philadelphia. E-mail mike.newall@citypaper.net.