Retail Hell (28 page)

Mortified and shocked, I looked down at the Devil Spawn attached to my leg.

It totally freaked the shit out of me.

But not before getting a million times worse.

While continuing to wail, the little beast squeezed as tight as he could and began humping my leg like a possessed poodle in heat.

I was standing in a suit in the middle of The Big Fancy Department Store trying to sell a woman some shitty-ass backpack, and her beastly little brat had decided to use my leg as a hobbyhorse.

I had reached a new low in Retail Hell.

Total damnation.

At the hands of Devil Spawn.

As the kid continued to undulate and ride my leg like it was a bull, I couldn’t move or speak. I looked to his mother for help. Nothing. No sign of shock or concern. It probably happens all day long. “I want a bigger backpack with more pockets,” was all she said, staying focused on the handbags, “Something with gold hardware.”

Even though I was stunned beyond belief by this spawn’s actions, I figured there was something medically wrong with this kid. Still, why was Spawn Mom allowing this to happen?

I tried to end the embarrassing scene by attempting to pull him off, but Thumper Humper locked his hands tighter, yelled louder, and used my foot as a chair.

Speechless, I stood there.

Continuing to turn a blind eye, Spawn Mom darted around a fixture and wandered away to another part of the jungle, leaving me alone with the clinging freak and his two demonic siblings, who were now playing catch over my head with a $3,000 Gucci satchel.

I tried to kick and shake the humper, but he only screamed louder, clutched harder, and humped my leg faster
.

Where the hell is Super Nanny when you need her?

I’d had enough of Devil Spawn babysitting. Something needed to be done fast, before I grabbed a nearby can of leather protector and sprayed the little wretch until he let go. So I limped after Spawn Mom, dragging her shrieking, humping brat with me, as if I had a broken leg.

I caught up to her and the fifteen-year old brutalizing a $900 Fendi backpack. Their looks of nonchalance at seeing the boy ride my leg freaked me out even more.

I had reached my limit and was about to kick the kid to kingdom come when, oddly enough, it was the teen who saw the mix of terror and anger in my eyes. She took pity and removed her evil, bouncing sibling from my leg.

As I smoothed out my now-wrinkled pants and tried to deal with what had happened, the Mother only looked at me and said, “I need a larger backpack and one that has lots of pockets. This Fendi is too expensive. Do you have anything cheaper?”

I stared at her, stunned, and contemplated calling Child Services.

Later I berated Cammie for leaving me, and all she could say was how pissed she was that her cell-phone camera shot of Humpy and me didn’t come out.

When I got home, I took off my pants and threw them away. No dry cleaning would wash out that Devil Spawn nightmare. Besides, they were kinda worn out anyway, and it gave me a perfectly good reason to go buy some new Ben Sherman slacks I’d been eyeing.

That night I drank heavily.

As I walked down the street, even before I got to the Employee Entrance door, I could hear the pulsating beat. Ten feet away.

That’s how loud it was.

And then when I pulled open the door, the musical blast hit me in the face.

“HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF. HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF.”

Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.”

“HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF. HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF.” Hot stuff in hell. How apropos.

A new kind of theme had taken over Mount Fancy.

They called it Disco Nights.

What was it with the dumb-ass stairwell themes?

“We do it because it’s festive and fun,” Suzy Davis-Johnson replied when asked why the stairwell had been transformed into the Barnum & Bailey Circus.

You’re
so right, Satan! Climbing eight flights of stairs is absolutely festive
and fun! Might as well throw in a circus. Maybe you should hire elephants to
carry us to the top!

The whole decorate-the-stairwell thing was aimed at inspiring us salespeople before we hit the selling floor of The Big Fancy, and Marsha told me the ones responsible for dreaming this shit up were Satan herself, Two-Tone Tammy, and Marcella, the Display Art manager — a fashionless, frumpy girl in her twenties who looked about as artistic as a tax auditor. Together the three of them concocted one nauseating theme after another, spending thousands of dollars a year on colorful paint and cheesy props hijacked from the nearby party store.

With all the money they flushed trying to lift our stair-climbing spirits with lame decorations, they could have made a down payment on an elevator or sky tram.

Or maybe built a complimentary juice bar and tropical fish tank.

Instead we were bombarded by one imbecilic theme after another. And while I had simply ignored the nauseating, cutesy propaganda of the other themes, Disco Nights sent my irritation to a whole new level.

The walls of Mount Fancy were painted yellow with rainbow swirls all over them, and the railings were doused in hot pink. Large decals of flowers and weird-looking creatures floated across the rainbow walls, making me feel as if I was trapped inside a psychedelic version of Alice’s rabbit hole. Shiny silver strips dangled everywhere.

Many Mount Fancy climbers had tried to use the strips as safety ropes while they plodded up the staircases, only to end up yanking them down onto the staircases, increasing the chances of slipperystrip accidents.

The pièce de résistance of Disco Nights was a rotating disco ball hanging under dimmed fluorescent lights a few feet from the entrance door. Little white spots swarmed around the darkened room, bringing back God-awful ’70s memories of roller-skating and proms.

Try coming down a sixteen-step staircase with disco ball spots blinding your eyes. It ain’t easy.

But it wasn’t the weird creature decals, spinning disco ball, or shiny silver strips that caused me to go mental on Big Fancy Disco Mountain. It was the goddamn motherfucking music.

Just inside the entrance doors, a few feet from the mirror ball, was a mini boom box sitting high up on a small shelf in the opposite corner. Blaring from its speakers were three dance songs on looped rotation: Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff,” the Village People’s “YMCA,” and Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” Three fucking songs. That’s it. There are thousands of disco songs and hundreds of CD compilations, but no, for some stupid reason Satan and her minions decided to use only those three songs.

Over and over and over and over they played.

“Hot Stuff,” “YMCA,” and “Celebrate” reverberated in my ears.

Twice a day. Five fucking days a week. Maybe more if I worked overtime.

And for some reason I’d always arrive at Mount Fancy’s disco right on cue: “HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF. HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF.”

I endured the Mount Fancy three-song disco for almost a month before I snapped. I just couldn’t take any more celebrating YMCA hot stuff. Disco Death Star had to be destroyed. I tried to reach the player, but the bastards had thought of everything. The shelf was just high enough so the volume slider and off-button couldn’t be reached.

Was that done on purpose? Did they know we would get irritated by this? I became even more irritated by the thought of their preparing for our irritation.

There had to be a way to stop this three-song disco — without bringing in a shotgun. After staring at the bellowing player for several moments, I saw a weakness in their system: The player’s power cord. Apparently, Display Manager Marcella had not covered all security aspects surrounding her automatic disco DJ.

Several inches of cord were sticking out from the player, snaking its way up to the nearby outlet. Just enough excess to grab hold of.

Feeling like Michael Jordan, I jumped up and yanked the cord from the wall socket.

Sweet silence prevailed. No more “HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF.”

Unfortunately, my silent happiness was short-lived.

No matter how many times I unplugged the player, the next day I’d walk in to “HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUFF.”

The fight was on. To the Death, “Hot Stuff ”!

Having no idea who my Cord-Plugging Opponent was, for days I continued to unplug the cord every chance I got, hoping the message would be delivered.

NO MORE “HOT STUFF!!”

My crusade to kill the Mount Fancy Disco was met with the wild approval of my fellow climbers. They cheered and clapped as I vaulted to unplug and snuff out Donna.

After several weeks of plug-pulling wars, I entered Mount Fancy early one morning around 8:00 and was instantly pummeled even more loudly than usual by “HOT, HOT, HOT . . . STUUUUUFF.”

What the hell?

I had unplugged the player when I’d left after my closing shift the night before. There should have been no disco music playing that early in the morning.

I quickly catapulted myself up and yanked the fucking cord out, stopping Donna from telling me what she needed once again. Silence commanded the stairwell.

Take that, you fucker, whoever you are.

As I reached the second flight of stairs and rounded the corner on platform three, I came face to face with my worst Big Fancy nightmare.

The Stephanator.

The pissed-off look on Store Secretary Stephanie’s plasticized face said it all. She’d obviously been lying in wait to ambush the person that turned out to be me.

“YOOOOU!” she wailed like she was the daughter of Darth Vader. “ALL THIS TIME IT WAS YOOOOU!!! YOU’RE THE ONE UNPLUGGING THE MUSIC!”

I stared at her.

Shit.
It’s
too early in the morning to face the Stephanator. What did she
want from me? A fucking confession? Yes, I did it! So what? Take away my
dance card. Call the Disco Police.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she shouted, her mechanical green eyes practically popping out of her head, “YOU ARE WAY OUT OF LINE, MISTER.”

Should I admit it? Should I fight? Should I spin a clever lie like Cammie would? It was just too fucking early. I hadn’t slept the night before, I’d had no coffee, and I felt like a raving bitch. So I did what any other raving, coffee-less bitch would do at 7:45 a.m.

I attacked back.

“IF I HAVE TO HEAR FUCKING ‘HOT STUFF’ ONE MORE FUCKING TIME, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL SOMEONE!”

In retrospect, spouting off the f-word like that probably wasn’t the smartest move to make in dealing with this half-woman, half- machine. I’ve seen enough scifi movies to know she could tear me apart with her manicured steel hands.

“I WILL NOT TOLERATE BEING SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!!!” The Stephanator roared.

If
I’m
going to take out the Stephanator,
we’re
looking at a red alert. All
hands on deck!

I shouted right back at her: “WELL, I WILL NOT TOLERATE HEARING ‘HOT STUFF’ A MILLION FUCKING TIMES! I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE!”

We stared each other down on platform three with all the inten-sity of two UFC fighters ready to engage in a no-rules iron-cage match. I knew my moves. If she took one lunge at me, the bitch was getting a choke slam right down flight two.

“I’m reporting this to Suzy the minute she comes in,” the Stephanator said sharply. She then did an about-face, dramatically whipped her hair around, and began marching up the third flight of stairs.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, following the stomping Stephanator.

Step after grueling step up Mount Fancy, our mouths tore at each other.

“I can’t believe you’ve been doing this,” Stephanie spat with labored breath.

“Someone had to do it,” I spat back with my own labored breath.

“I don’t know who you think you are.”

“I’m a human being sick to death of hearing loud, repetitive songs.”

“You obviously have team-player issues.”

“The only issues I have are with ‘YMCA,’ ‘Hot Stuff,’ and ‘Celebration.’”

The Stephanator halted on the middle of the fourth flight, and I nearly crashed into her.

“Do you have any idea what inconvenience you’ve put poor Marcella through?”

“Do you have any idea what kind of torment my psyche has been put through by poor Marcella? She deserves whatever she got. I can only hope it involved tar and feathers.”

Stephanie glowered at me, her circuits smoldering. “FREEMAN! I cannot believe you just said that. Very uncalled-for and mean-spirited. Every time you unplug the player, she has to haul a stepladder up and down these stairs. She has to climb up that ladder and plug the player back in. She’s had to do it almost EVERY DAY. ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!”

The thought of Marcella dragging a ladder up and down the mountain was music to my worn-out ears.

Thank the Retail Gods! At last, retribution.

“Is that supposed to make me feel bad?” I hammered back, trying not to laugh. “It serves her right. She was the one who decided to put the shelf up so high. Let her listen to ‘Hot Stuff ’ nine hundred fucking times and see how she likes it. Everyone hates it. I’ve actually been applauded by other employees for unplugging it.”