By now, I hope, it’s clear I’m no fan of Barney’s, a store that decades ago may have been as welcoming as Barney the dinosaur. During my first shopping experience with the retailer six years ago, I discovered a store dear was a stark symbol of consumer class division–open to all, but welcoming only to the rich or people who look that way. Since Barney’s woes last week, I’ve further discovered a similar feeling among many customers, including my co-workers. But enough venom, folks. Here’s my story:

My descent into consumer hell began in the spring of 1990. I wanted to celebrate winning a business-journalism award. So I set out on a shopping spree at the famed Seventh Avenue emporium founded by Barney Pressman in the 1920s as a discount outlet. Wow! What a showplace it had become under his grandsons, Gene and Bob. A zillion pricey shirts and ties seemed to cover the first floor. Upstairs, Barney’s was international chic, with sleek minimalist display space for its seemingly thousands of Italian suits. Then there were the salesclerks–fashion-model look-alikes in monochromatic frocks. Barney’s was retailing as showbiz. A horror movie, as it turned out.

I had a queasy feeling about Barney’s from the start. The store felt off-limits. The model/clerks were coolly aloof, and the doorman tilted his nose skyward. I felt like everyone was paying special attention to me–not as a customer, but as an intruder. I quickly picked a Hugo Boss suit (on sale for $600), met the tailor for alterations and high-tailed it out of there. I returned for my suit two weeks later. With the bag in hand, I shopped for a shirt and tie. There in a locked case, like a piece of jewelry, was the Armani tie for me. The salesclerk handed it to me. I quickly handed it back, after seeing the $85 price tag, and headed for the exit. But a security guard met me as I approached the door. “Come with me,” he said. I didn’t realize he was addressing me, so I kept walking. “Come with me,” he said again. “You stole a tie.” Of course, I hadn’t, and told him to ask the tie clerk. He refused. Suddenly it dawned on me: just as many African-American men have long suspected about ritzy retailers, Barney’s had targeted me as a shoplifter because I’m black.

My accuser, meanwhile, called for backup, and soon the two guards forced me to a backroom. They frisked my new suit and, finding nothing, threw it to the floor. They searched me against my will and came up empty. Without a word of apology, they ordered me to get out. I demanded to see the store manager. I was stunned. He refused to apologize. I sought out the chain’s executives, but my requests for an apology were met with raw arrogance. Barney’s admitted it made a mistake but insisted, without explanation, that I had been acting like a thief. I thought I could shame Barney’s by publicizing the incident. Wrong. An item about it in New York Magazine left Barney’s unfazed. Finally, I wrote to the Press-mans. Surely they were unaware of my problem and would quickly apologize. Wrong again. Weeks later I received a lawyerly letter from one of the brothers: a mistake was made, but you caused it. I pondered a lawsuit, but life was too short. I began my boycott.

I’ve since concluded that race was only part of the story. Barney’s is really about elitism. Skin color was only one of its ways of sorting out the regular Joes and Janes from the hip crowd that passes through its doors. Meanwhile, little has changed since 1990–it’s still blaming others. Barney’s is claiming the Chapter 11 move is a response to a dispute with a partner, not weak finances. It’s their fault. As for me, I’d like to end my boycott. If all falls apart for Barney’s, see you at the Going Out of Business sale.