The Boston Supershoppers

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-c- 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."

9:34. Racks for sale dresses are stripped clean. Two women tugging on a Dior dress tear its seams. Caught in crush, one elderly lady faints and is hurried off to first aid. Survivors scurry off to corners, sort through dresses, throwing rejects on floor. They swap sizes with one another and exchange telephone numbers for later bartering. Mrs. Conroy: "You've got to hold your dresses tightly; otherwise some of those old squaws will sneak up behind you and snitch a few of them."

9:50. Conroys regroup, look over each other's finds, finger material, check labels, and return unwanted items. Mrs. Conroy, who spends upwards of $500 each month (most of it for friends, who reimburse her), says: "It's easy to get carried away. So as a check we always ask each other: 'Do you really need this?' "

10:00. Shoppers crowd before mirrors trying on clothes. One woman removes her raincoat, turns seconds later to find another woman trying it on. Since there are no dressing rooms, shoppers pull on three, four dresses, one over the other. Others unashamedly strip to bra and panties. "A few years ago," says Manager Gormley, "so many men were spending lunch hours staring down at the women from the stairwell that we had to build partitions."

11:00. Stockboys wheel out new racks of dresses and are immediately mobbed. Mrs. Conroy: "We sort of crunch those poor boys up against the wall, grab what we can and then, resuming our ladylike dignity, trip off."

11:15. Conroys emerge from basement with day's take: last week's haul included eight place settings of gold-plated flatware for $39.95 (original price: $110), a man's fake suede car coat for $6 (originally $25), four pairs of lined, imported gloves at $5 each (originally $16), and a framed painting of a Spanish warrior for $14.95 (once close to $50). "A good shopper needs only one to two hours to case the place," says Mrs. Conroy. "Longer than that and you begin to get headaches."

9:30 P.M. Basement closes. Stockboys begin job of cleaning up mounds of hangers and dresses on floor. Gormley checks day's receipts (close to $300,000): "All in all, a fairly routine day."

THAT NIGHT. At home in Needham Mrs. Conroy and Terry sort through day's buys, setting some aside to be wrapped for Christmas, others for storage in a special closet they had built in their basement for the surplus. As they hold up each item, they ask: "Do we really need this?" And each time, giggling like schoolgirls, they answer: "Oh yes! Yes!"

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.