Retail Hell (22 page)

“Why do you carry a teddy bear, Virginia?”

She brought the gross thing up to her cheeks and cuddled it.

“He’s my Buggle Bear.”

I wanted to puke.

“Buggle Bear?”

“That’s his name. I don’t go anywhere without him.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be carrying a teddy bear, Virginia?”

“HA! That’s what you think! You don’t know Buggle Bear!”

Then she plopped the filthy, matted thing on the counter. (I made a mental note to disinfect the counter after she left.) Crazy Virginia turned gnarly old Buggle Bear over. A zipper ran down his back. She unzipped it, revealing a large pocket. Inside was a conglomeration of handbag junk: Cell phone, wallet, keys, candy, discarded paper. Completely normal handbag junk.

Oh. My. God. Crazy
Virginia’s
Buggle Bear is her fucking handbag!

The only response I could give her was one that would hopefully get me a sale.

“Virginia, you really need a new handbag! We just got in some new Juicy Couture bags that would look great on you.”

“Oh NO,” she replied, “I love Buggle Bear. He’s a cutie and the Good Lord says I need to take care of him. He carries everything I need, he loves me. Looks out for me, you know.”

I’m
sure he does. With his good eye. You might want to get him a patch,
though.

I decided not to tell anyone Teddy Bear Lady was actually carrying a handbag named Buggle. It was more fun to watch her shock people as she stormed down the aisles of Big Fancy dragging Buggle Bear by a paw.

Unlike Jabbermouth Virginia, who yammered away even after I’d ended a conversation, Crazy Virginia would leave quickly if I had to wait on someone or answer the phone. The only problem with her was that she’d reappear minutes later, when I was free. Squinting and twitching. Waiting to suck me into her nonsensical world. It was a Big Fancy handicap I’d accepted. After all, I was the one who had approached
her
. This is what I got for befriending wild crazies off the hard aisle.

One morning I saw Teddy Bear Lady eating her muffin and drinking coffee at a table by the Coffee Bar. After that she was talking to one of the guys in Women’s Shoes, and then I saw her on the phone by the elevator, and then I saw her talking to a Cosmetics girl who was trying to get her to buy lipstick. As she bolted down the aisle like a busy woman on the run, her frizzy hair flopping all over, I realized Crazy Virginia was just lonely.

Bored with her life, she came into The Big Fancy every day to use it as a stage where she could pretend to be someone important to a few ears that were forced to listen.

Like Jabbermouth Virginia, Crazy Virginia had made The Big Fancy Department Store her home away from home.

On some days I talked to one Virginia right after the other.

I’d turn around and Crazy Virginia would be there, clutching her teddy.

“My boyfriend is going with me to meet the Van Nuys police chief, but I says to him, ‘You know, I don’t think it’s such a good idea. I’m the lawyer. I do the talking. You keep quiet. The Good Lord says this to be true.’”

I’d leave her, and Jabbermouth Virginia would show up.

“My sister-in-law still wants me to come and visit her in Arizona, but I just don’t want to get on the plane. Too much hassle. I told her to get her own butt on a plane.”

Then I’d leave her, and Crazy Virginia would appear.

“Do you believe in Angels? I saw one in the ladies’ lounge just now.”

I’d leave her, and Jabbermouth Virginia would arrive.

“You wouldn’t even believe the mess I just saw in the ladies’ lounge just now!”

Day in and day out, The Two Virginias blanketed the store with their babble. Though most of the Retail Slaves were severely annoyed with their unremitting presence, I couldn’t help but be fascinated. They were so similar yet so different.

What is up with these two?

Then one day fate played a card.

The Two Virginias arrived at the handbag counter simultaneously.

I couldn’t believe my eyes! The Good Lord must have been involved. Teddy Bear Lady and Jabbermouth stood right next to one another. Marsha crept up behind them and put her right hand up to her right ear, making a phone call gesture and mouthing, “Do you want me to call you?”

Calling each other on the phone was a secret weapon the Angels and I used to save each other from Crazy Customers. We’d run in the back and call or sometimes just use the department extension out on the floor and stay on the line as long as necessary, until the bloodsucking customer left. Jabbermouth caused constant deployment of this weapon. Since I am the only one who talked to Teddy Bear Lady in our department, it wasn’t used often on her, though Judy did call me once and say, “I’m not paying you to chat with homeless people who aren’t going to buy anything. End it.”

It was slow the day the Two Virginias stood side by side at the counter, and I was intrigued by their coincidental clash, so I gave Marsha a slight head sway to mean no. She rolled her eyes and walked on. Having both Virginias there at the same time was so bizarre I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see what would happen.

Crazy Virginia had arrived first with a lot to tell me.

Her harassment problems with the California Highway Patrol were escalating, as they always do, and she was being forced to take action against them, as she always does.

“The Good Lord said I will be vindicated. If it has to go to trial, so be it. The police captain is meeting me, and he said there is no excuse for their behavior. Today is not the day for it and I’m not putting up with it.”

“You’re absolutely right, Virginia,” I said.

Jabbermouth Virginia completely ignored Crazy Virginia just a few feet away and instantly began telling me about how a gold button had just fallen off of her St. Joe knit suit. “I just bought this damn thing last week. I’m taking it back upstairs and Martha’d better get it fixed or I’m returning it. I’m hungry too. Haven’t eaten all day. It’s already three and I’ve missed lunch.”

“You’d better eat something, Virginia,” I said.

“I told the captain I wanted the CHP investigated or tomorrow I’m filing a lawsuit,” said Crazy Virginia.

“Got the button right here. Seamstresses better be good,” said Jabbermouth Virginia.

The Two Virginias were talking to me at once. Un-fucking-believable.

Then a silly idea occurred to me.

Introduce them! Maybe Jabbermouth Virginia could help Crazy Virginia
find some new clothes. They could shop together! Have makeovers together.
Come to the sales together. Drink coffee together. Go to the movies together.
Maybe
they’ll
become best girlfriends!

“Virginia, meet Virginia!” I said excitedly, motioning them to look at one another. “Isn’t that great? You both have the same name! And you’re both here at The Big Fancy every day.”

They eyed each other disapprovingly.

Not exactly the love connection I’d hoped for.

“Maybe you two Virginias should have lunch in the restaurant or something? I’m sure I could get Suzy Davis-Johnson to comp you both.”

Jabbermouth Virginia looked at me like I had suggested she jump off the Hollywood sign.

Crazy Virginia squinted and twitched her fingers.

Neither one of them said anything to each other.

“So anyway,” said Jabbermouth Virginia, focusing back at me, “I got that jerk new manager in the restaurant to bring back the clam chowder. Guess I wasn’t the only one complainin’. Of course it’s not great clam chowder, kinda watery, but at least it’s there when I want it. I can’t believe the price of gasoline. I’m glad I’m not drivin’ anywhere long-distance. I’d go broke!”

“Yeah, gas is really high,” I said.

Crazy Virginia didn’t even look at Jabbermouth Virginia.

“The Good Lord works in wondrous ways,” she mumbled.

“He sure does,” I said.

Jabbermouth Virginia ignored Crazy Virginia completely.

“I woke up this morning with a rash the size of Hawaii on my stomach,” she said. “Don’t know where it came from. Now I have to go to the damn dermatologist, and I don’t like that guy. Somethin’ not right about him.”

Crazy Virginia could have cared less about Jabbermouth Virginia’s rash.

She took off, power-walking down the aisle, probably headed to make a fake phone call.

Jabbermouth Virginia kept right on talking.

“I didn’t sleep last night. Damn owl right outside my window, hoo-hooing all night!”

I don’t know what I was thinking, attempting to pair up the Two Virginias. It was like trying to make a Republican and Democrat have a bake sale together. Not going to happen.

I had been caught up in the serendipitous moment of their synchronized arrival and the fantasy of being a matchmaker!

Teddy Bear Lady and Jabbermouth would never be BFFs.

But one thing was for sure. Come rain or shine, tomorrow the Two Virginias would be roaming the aisles of The Big Fancy.

They just wouldn’t be doing it together.

Search and destroy. This is the motto of Piggy Shoppers everywhere. They stampede through stores like barbaric animals. Eating and drinking. Breaking and ruining. Tossing and dropping. When a Piggy hurricane crash-lands, Retail Slaves turn into maids, and not the merry kind.

Raelene Reynolds was one of my regular Piggy Shoppers.

In fact, she could be Miss Piggy’s white-trash second cousin once removed. The one who doesn’t wear makeup or take showers.

Besides
looking
like a pig, with her plump, porky body, and a snout-shaped nose, Raelene didn’t give a shit about her image or hygiene, sweating so profusely you’d have thought she’d just spent two hours on the treadmill. Her grayish black hair was always pulled tight into a stubby ponytail that stuck out of her head like wild grass, and she usually wore frumpy, oversized colorful V-neck tees and black tights that were always covered in animal hair and stains. Raelene’s number-one choice of shoes were flip-flops — for summer
and
winter. Whenever she got too close, the smell of stale corn chips assaulted my nose, and I’d have to hold back the urge to vomit.

Every time Piggy Raelene blew into Handbags like a wayward piece of garbage, I wished I’d had a fire hose full of Lysol so I could have blasted her scuzzy butt right back out into the mall.

She was a human wart hog if ever I saw one.

Although Raelene felt no need for a salon or decent clothes, for some reason she loved her designer handbags from The Big Fancy. And since all of the women in the department avoided her like the plague, she usually had to summon me for help. Which, unfortunately, put me on a first-name basis with the Fritos-fragrant Raelene Reynolds.

Although I was disgusted by helping Piggy Raelene, and I needed a bulldozer to clean up the mess she’d make after searching for — and destroying — a new bag, she almost always bought something.

It was a small consolation for the price my nose paid.

While helping Raelene replace any of her mutilated handbags, I had an up-close and personal view of what she had annihilated. Every one of her bags looked as if it had been mauled by a pack of hyenas, and the insides were even worse, resembling mini-landfills. Most of Raelene’s handbag contents were trash and half-eaten food. I tried not to think about how it all got there. I just took a big customer-service breath and jumped into the septic world of Raelene.

I don’t know what she did or where she went every day, but I know every handbag that left The Big Fancy with her was on a suicide mission.

Along with her lack of hygiene, Piggy Raelene seemed to be missing the ability to communicate.

When Raelene hunted for a new bag, she said very little while decimating the department like she was leveling a rain forest. sometimes she would ask a question, but I was the one who usually did all the talking. To almost everything I said, Raelene would respond with a single word: “Yah.” And she always said “Yah” like she was Somewhere else and didn’t care.

“You should look at the new LeSportsac print we just got in, they’re indestructible,” I’d say.

“Yah,” she’d say, while molesting a white DKNY hobo made of buttery calfskin.

“Hey, Raelene, the Dooney & Bourke all-weather leather doesn’t stain,” I’d say.

“Yah,” she’d reply, while mauling a pink suede Kooba shoulder satchel.

“How about a sturdy Italian backpack with brass hardware, it will really take a beating.”

“Yah,” she would say, tearing the stuffing out of it and flinging it aside like a cigarette butt.

Sometimes I would just ramble on nonsensically, bullshitting about one bag after another.

And Raelene would respond in her own nonsensical, bullshit way:

“Yah . . . yah . . . yah . . . yah.”

The first time I was subjected to Raelene’s “yahs,” I thought perhaps it was her way of saying she didn’t want a salesperson hovering over her and she wanted to be left alone. So I left her alone. Gladly. I tried to get as far away from the corn-chip aroma as possible. But within minutes, she called me over, “Yah, are you going to help me or not?”