Retail Hell (32 page)

Judy grabbed a roll of paper towels we use to clean glass with. “Here. Use this.”

“Are you serious?” I said, “That thing will take my hand off!”

More screaming.

More people crowding around the Corral.

The Big Fancy Handbag Sideshow was in full swing. I looked around for something to smash the scary bug with.

The stapler?

Not big enough.

The register procedure book?

It’s
only a tiny book! Still not big enough.

The Marc Jacobs Venetia?

Judy would kill me.

Then I eyed the gift box holding the Kenneth Cole bag Raelene wanted to return. Piggy did not look the least bit concerned or frightened. She was trying not to look involved.

Or maybe
she’s
used to oriental cockroaches. Maybe she breeds them. God,
she’s
gross.

I grabbed the box and followed the roach down the counter.

I waited for it to crawl out into open counter space.

“It’s so disgusting!” said Jules.

After a moment, Athletic Roach decided he’d had enough of the Kate and crawled back down it, pranced to the glass counter’s center, and stopped. Perhaps he sensed I was stalking him.

Please God, I hope Athletic Roach
doesn’t
have flying powers.

I took the closed box with the Kenneth Cole bag still inside and slammed it down. The girls screamed collectively. Then silence. Less the store’s speakers echoing “Dancing Queen.”

“Is it dead?” asked Cammie.

I shrugged and lifted up the box. The big bug didn’t move. Everyone gazed upon it.

Was it dead? Or just paralyzed?

Athletic Roach answered our observation by springing to life and bolting toward a purple suede Coach. A choir of screaming girls once again filled the air.

Jules grabbed the Coach before Athletic Roach could use it for shelter. Judy quickly moved a rack of wallets and scooped up three more Coach bags that also lay directly in its path. Marsha snatched up three Burberry bags.

There was now nothing but wide-open glass counter space. Athletic Roach ran for his life.

“YOU’RE CLEAR!” yelled Jules, “KILL IT!”

“DIE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I shouted, bringing the box down hard.

Again silence. The girls ended their over-the-top screaming.

“It’s not dead. I know it’s not dead,” said Cammie, reminding me of a hundred horror movies.

If
it’s
not, it will be. Sorry, Athletic Roach. The monster always dies in
my movies.

I removed the lid of the gift box and took out the Kenneth Cole bag. Using the palm of my hand, I pressed hard on the box’s bottom.

There was an awful popping, crunch sound.

“It is now,” I said, “My work here is done.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Athletic Roach had been destroyed.

“I’m glad that’s over,” said Jules.

“My hero!” Cammie said, her hand on her heaving chest.

“Great job, hon,” Marsha said.

I turned to Judy and said, “I killed it, but I sure as hell am not cleaning it up.”

“I’ll get Housekeeping,” she replied, jumping toward the phone.

I took the Kenneth Cole bag back to the register area, where Raelene was still standing.

She feigned ignorance during the entire drama, acting like she had nothing to do with Athletic Roach’s reign of terror.

“Yah, looks like you all have a roach problem in this store,” Raelene said with a smile.

“Looks like we do,” I replied, staring her down.

Don’t
try and get out of this one Raelene,
you’re
the biggest roach of them
all!

“Before I open this bag, Raelene, is there anything you want to tell me?”

If another Athletic Roach popped out I was going to fling it right at her.

Raelene ignored me like she usually does, took a sip from her Big Gulp nonchalantly, and said, “Yah, I think I’ll get one of these Juicy cosmetic bags. You can credit the difference of the Kenneth Cole on my card.”

You bet, little piggy. Happy to be of service.

From that point on, whenever any of us saw Piggy Shopper, Raelene Reynolds, rolling into our department, we always made sure there was plenty of glass cleaner and antibacterial soap handy.

A can of floral scented Raid was also on standby.

Purchased by yours truly.

I knew something was amiss when I walked in at 1:00 p.m. to start my closing shift and Jules didn’t even say, “Hi gorgeous,” like she usually does. On this day it was: “Full-moon freaks all morning! Judy’s been in a meeting since 10:00. It’s total hell, I hope you brought drugs,” and then she ran off to lunch, leaving me with the phone ringing and a woman at the counter wanting to know if we had a wallet that had thirteen credit-card slots.

Full moon? I
didn’t
know it was a full moon. Should I be concerned about
its being a full moon?

I quickly found out, I should be very concerned about a full moon.

There’s a whole army of lab-coated geeks out there in scientific-study land who say that full moons have no effect on human beings whatsoever. All I have to say to them is,“Come work at The Big Fancy under a full moon and you will be rewriting your findings — while you’re running for the street.”

After I dealt with the woman who wanted exactly thirteen credit-card slots by counting every wallet’s slot, only to find out none of them had thirteen, I was hit by a wave of full-moon craziness.

A woman on the phone wanting to know if I’d give her 50% off all the Gucci bags because there’s a website that does it. “Go online and check it out for yourself,” she said.

This tween girl wanted to return her Juicy Couture bowler because her girlfriend had spilled Coke all over it and she seemed to think that it would be no problem for us to give her a new one — and the bag was two seasons old!

An absolute nut-job Picky Bitch of a customer claimed that all three red Monsac totes we had in stock were lopsided. I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, but she kept crouching down in front of the counter, eyeballing them like a human carpenter’s level, and saying, “They are all off just slightly. Lopsided. I’m really surprised you can’t see it.”

Then I saw Judy get off the escalator and march toward the department. I could tell by her reddened face she was on the retail warpath.

I wanted to jump inside of the Marc Jacobs Venetia Satchel, zip myself up, and hide.

But there was no hiding from the General in the Handbag Jungle.

“FREE-MAN!” she yelled the minute she got to the Corral, ignoring the lurking customers, “I need a word with you.”

Oh shit. Here it comes. I think I knew what this was all about.

My sales were way down for the previous several months. It was a slow time. February and March always suck in retail. There’s little merchandise, everyone is freaked out about their taxes, and people aren’t quite ready for that $400 Coach raffia straw satchel yet.

So, I had broken The Big Fancy’s cardinal rule (which is
not
mentioned in the Employee Handbook) and had done the unthinkable — I misfired.

Misfiring was when a sales associate didn’t sell enough to make their imposed goal and The Big Fancy reimbursed them by paying an hourly rate instead of commission. When I was hired, Two-Tone made it sound like they were the nicest company ever, having a cushion plan and watching my back to make sure I had a decent guaranteed hourly should I hit some slow cycles during the year.

Total fucking bullshit.

Turns out, anyone who misfired three times in a row was subject to being terminated. The Big Fancy felt that if you’d had a month and a half of poor sales (even in February and March), you were not the magical sales associate (SHARK) they were looking to have in their “family” (OF SHARKS), and you were then told perhaps it’s time to seek out other options for yourself. Basically, your ass was fired.

“You need to have a meeting with Suzy, right now,” said the General, “She is having one-on-one chats with everyone in the store who misfired during this last cycle. Yours is
right
now
.”

“But Jules is at lunch,” I protested, trying to stave off the inevitable confrontation with Satan.

“I will work on the floor, and Marci should be here within the hour.
Go!
”

The General had spoken. I went to meet my fate.

Suzy Davis-Johnson’s spacious office with massive windows over-looked the Hollywood Hills. When I entered she was seated in an elevated throne-like antique chair made from cherry wood and purple velvet behind an imposing wooden desk the size of a Cadillac.

“HANDBAG DUDE!! HOW ARE YA TODAY?”

God, please kill me now. Lightning bolt. Exploding fluorescent light bulb.
Sniper. Anything! Just take me out!

“Hi, Suzy. Doing good, thanks,” I said.

Except the moon is full and there are freaks everywhere.

“Well, have a seat and join the party!”

WTF? My misfire admonishing is a party? In that case,
I’d
like a beer
and some Cheetos.

I sat down in one of the shrunken chairs in front of her monumental desk. Suzy Satan looked like she was about to swoop down on me. I felt small and insignificant. Like a worm. She had on a blinding black and white zebra-print jacket over a floral pink beaded camisole, and a silk scarf loosely rolled around her neck, attached with a gold flower pin. Her face was painted with deep bronze eye shadow, hollowed-looking cheeks, and orangey lipstick that made her look like a scarecrow.

I immediately noticed we weren’t alone.

The Stephanator and Two-Tone were seated behind me in the back corner of the room. Her head bent, in deep concentration, Stephanie took notes like a court stenographer while Two-Tone Tammy sat with a stack of reports, ready to judge my Big Fancy performance.

Yay! Two of my favorite people. Maybe I should ask the Stephanator if
she wants to dance?

“SOOOOO,” said Satan,“Do you know why you’re meeting with me today?”

“Umm . . . because I misfired?” I said.

“You got it, dude! For the last month, misfire in this store has been out of control, and I’m aiming to get a handle on it. This meeting is to see how I can help and how we can stop it from happening.”

“Freeman has misfired two times consecutively in Handbags,”Tammy announced coldly, as if I was not in the room.

Satan was not happy; her clown makeup looked like it was starting to crack.

“Oh nooooo. We can’t let that happen. I have such great expectations of you always.”

Suzy Davis-Johnson then winked at me wickedly and grabbed her calculator.

For the next several minutes she rattled off a bunch of numbers, tapped away on the calculator, added this number to that number, then subtracted another number from some other number, then divided a different number by one of the other numbers.

I went into a complete numerical coma.

My glossed-over eyes focused on her calculator and scratch pad as she wrote a bunch of numbers down. I nodded my head in agreement every time she asked me if I understood what she was doing.

“You see that, Freeman! If you had only sold five dollars more per hour, you would have made your goal!”

“I did make my goal, but I had 10,000 dollars in returns. That’s what killed me.”

“Returns are no excuse for not selling enough, Freeman. You need to sell more to compensate for your returns. Five dollars is a pair of socks.”

“But Suzy, I sell handbags.”

“And you are twenty feet away from the sock department. If you had suggested a pair of socks to your customers, you’d have made your goal. We have a whole store full of merchandise, and socks are included in that.”

Are you kidding me right now? Sell socks with handbags? How about I shove
a pair of socks down your throat and beat you with the fucking calculator?

“Umm . . . okay. Yes. I’ll try to sell some socks.”

“It’s all about rockin’ your multiple sales, Freeman! That’s how you make your goals!”

“Yes, Suzy. I’m going to give it 100% to make sure I don’t misfire any more.”

“I am so pleased to hear that, Freeman,” she said softly, then becoming serious, “because I have to tell ya, this meeting is about making it perfectly clear misfire is completely unacceptable. It is grounds for termination. Three strikes, you’re out. Freeman, you are on your second strike. Corporate is not happy with the performance of sales-people in this store. Everyone has to pull their weight. I am counting on you not to misfire during the next pay cycle. If you do not make it, I’m afraid we will be having a very, very serious discussion. I don’t want to lose you. You are a tremendous asset to this store.”

What the fuck? Is she for real?
I’m
a tremendous asset to the store, yet
I could be fired?

“I really do mean that, dude,” crooned Suzy Davis-Satan, “I need you to put your game face on and make some touchdowns by getting those sales up!”