Retail Hell (13 page)

That was the first night.

Every night after that she continued to call, wanting to know what was new and wanting me to describe the bags I had on hold for her over and over. I tried to get her to come in or buy them over the phone, but Polly told me she didn’t have a car or credit card and she liked to pay only in cash. I thought this was strange because Polly also told me she was a nurse at a big hospital in downtown L.A. Nurses make fairly good money, way better than Retail Slaves, and she was telling me she was a nurse without a car or credit card? Something wasn’t right.

I smell a bored bloodsucker with Mr. Freeman as her evening entertainment.

POLLY:
“Mr. Freeman, are yooou there?”

ME:
“Yes, Polly, I’m here.”

POLLY:
“Do you still have my five Fendi bags on hold?”

ME:
“Yes, Polly, they are all on my hold shelf, and I’ve extended it until Saturday.”

POLLY:
“Wonderful, Mr. Freeman. Could yooou go and get them; I have some questions.”

Me:
“Polly, when can you come into the store? I’ve had them on hold for two weeks now.”

POLLY:
“I’m not sure. It’s very difficult for me.”

Every time Polly called, I wanted to fucking scream. Right into the phone! But I didn’t. Giving Excellent Customer Service is our priority. When Judy bitched at me for holding the Fendis for so long, I told her the situation, and she snapped, “You need to get her in here to buy, or I’m putting the bags back, and I better not get any calls from Suzy about this woman being upset. This is your customer and I want you to take care of it. Got it?”

Yes, General. I got it.

ME:
“My manager keeps asking me when you’re coming in, Polly.”

POLLY:
“My hours at the hospital are long, and I don’t drive, and I live in downtown Los Angeles. I told yooou last week I don’t drive, Mr. Freeman. Now please go get my bags. I’m not sure about the pockets. I’d like yooou to measure each pocket, tell me their dimen-sions, and describe what they are made out of, whether or not it’s the Fendi material or tan leather. After that I’d like yooou to tell me the story again about the Fendi sisters. Did they have any children or pets? Find that out for me please, Mr. Freeman.”

I’M
GONNA FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE AND GET A
COURT ORDER TO HAVE YOU COMMITTED, YOU FUCKING
CRAZY BITCH!!!

ME:
“Yes, Polly.”

As I put her on hold, I saw Douche ringing up a $1,700 Burberry, Marci selling a $435 Signature Coach, and Tiffany showing a $600 Isabella Fiore with a matching $200 wallet. For the next hour I would be talking to a ghost over the phone. No sales for me.

The best I could do was pray that a track light fell out of the ceiling and knocked me out.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

CALLER:
“Hi, Mr. Freeman, how are yooou?”

Polly had called so many times, I was afraid to answer the fucking phone.

ME:
“Hi Polly. I’m fine.”

POLLY:
“Did you get anything new in today?”

ME:
“No, I’m sorry, Polly, we didn’t.” (I lied.)

POLLY:
“Do yooou still have my Fendi bags?”

ME:
“Yes, Polly. When are yooou coming into the store?”

POLLY:
“I don’t know, Mr. Freeman. I’m working on it, like I told yooou, it’s hard for me to get to your store. Perhaps I can catch a cab or something.”

I wanted to scream. The crazy phone-calling loon had told me over and over again she was going to come into the store.

Judy went on the warpath and yelled at me for ten minutes because I wasn’t able to push Polly into buying the Fendi bags crowding my hold shelf for the last month. “I WANT THEM GONE, FREEMAN! GOT IT?”

Tiffany suggested that I talk to Security to see if they could do anything about my phone stalker. They said unless she’d made violent threats, the only thing I could do was continue answering the phone.

I asked the Customer Service manager how I should handle Polly, and he said, “I’m not touching that one with a twenty-foot Fendi! Ha-ha!”

I don’t know what was so funny.

Jules suggested I go to the head honcho for advice. Suzy Satan smiled like she related to my plight as I bitched about holding everything and losing sales. But when I asked her how I could nicely get rid of Polly, she cast me a worried look and said, “We don’t get rid of any potential customers here at The Big Fancy. We are all about giving the best customer service possible. Sometimes you have to give to the community without expecting anything back. Just go with the flow. I’m sure this lady will get bored and stop calling eventually.”

After my powwow with Suzy, Cammie said, “Why the fuck did you go to her? She makes us wait on homeless people! What you need to do is to tell the bloodsucker to leave you the fuck alone or you’re going to burn down her motherfucking house.” As usual, Cammie had the best advice, but the question was how could I tell Polly to get lost without her complaining to Suzy Davis-Johnson that I had burned down her house?

POLLY:
“Mr. Freeman? Are yooou there?”

ME:
“Yes, Polly, I’m here.”

POLLY:
“Great! I want to talk about wallets. What kind of wallets do you carry? I’ll need to know exactly how many pockets each wal-let has. Does Fendi have matching wallets? Anything new? What kind of wallets do yooou like, Mr. Freeman?”

ME:
“Yes, Polly, we have matching Fendi wallets.”

I felt a smack on the back of my head.

Compliments of Cammie.

Even though The Big Fancy had me by the neck with a leather shoulder strap, I knew that if I wanted out of Retail Hell, I’d better get my ass in gear and write that Million-Dollar Screenplay. Writers are supposed to write.

That’s easier said than done when you work retail.

Every week my schedule felt like a vomit-inducing thrill ride at Magic Mountain amusement park, except that I was anything but amused. I’d open, then close, then open, then work a mid-shift (11-8), then open, then close. Which shifts and days I worked would change at the drop of a handbag, based on whatever drama was going down in the department. More times than I could count, Judy begged me to stay late and come in early, and then demanded I attend all meetings and seminars on my days off. Just like during my days in Reno, the Store was taking over my life.

One afternoon, my good Retail Droid behavior paid off. Judy said I could leave at 4:00. The plan was to go directly home — as fast as I could — and channel the writing genius of Stephen King.

Unfortunately, my plan and The Big Fancy’s plan rarely matched up.

At 3:55 I found myself all alone while chaos ensued. Tiffany was still at lunch. The phone rang nonstop. Customers were everywhere. A woman demanded to have her old Coach handbag repaired. A young girl wanted to return a Burberry tote that I’d never seen before. (Of course she had no receipts.) And an elderly lady insisted I call Big Fancy stores to locate five identical $38 evening bags because she needed them for a wedding in two days. The firestorm of handbag hell consumed me.

Until 6:30.

Although I was pissed off at not being able to leave early and cursing the fact that I had to stay late, as I descended Mount Fancy’s fifth flight, I made a vow not to give up.

“I’m still going to write,” I shouted down the hollow stairwell of Mount Fancy.

“I’m still going to write,” I mumbled to myself repeatedly as I got into my car.

“I’m still going to write,” I said out loud as I hit a road closure for a movie premiere at Hollywood and Highland and was trapped in traffic for an hour.

“I’m still going to write,” I bitched through clenched teeth as it took twenty-five minutes for me to get my dinner at a Jack in the Box drive-through because the car in front of me was an SUV holding twelve people.

“I’M STILL GOING TO WRITE, YOU FUCKERS!” I yelled out my car window while circling my apartment building for fifteen minutes trying to find a parking space.

By the time I opened my front door, it was 8:30. I could have screamed.

But instead, I calmly said, “I’m still going to write!”

A half-hour later, after gobbling down my Ultimate Cheeseburger and checking e-mail, I opened the screenwriting program.

All ready to write
.

It was three hours later than planned, but hey, I had faced retail adversity in the eye!

Ha ha, Big Fancy. You did not get
all
of my energy.

“I’m still going to write!” I said out loud and proud.

Within seconds my script appeared on the screen, awaiting my creative brilliance.

But it never showed up.

Twenty minutes later, I slumped in my desk chair almost to the point of falling out. There was not a single word or vision in my brain. It had been deep-fried by The Big Fancy, and I couldn’t find the backup generator.

Maybe I just need a break
.
A short, little break.
I’m
not giving up.
I’m
still going to write!

To relieve my writer’s block, I listened to Green Day and played AstroPop on my computer, mindlessly blasting bricks to make points. After reaching 70,000, I figured I’d better write. But then I had the munchies. After eating half a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and watching several episodes of
Scrubs
, it was after midnight. Time was quickly slipping away.

But I held firm to my dream.

I decided at that late hour,
I was still going to write, dammit
, even though I was getting sleepy. I took a deep breath and forced my fingers into typing position on the keyboard. My eyes focused on the white screen, and I told myself to write.

So I did.

I finally wrote:

EXT. ARAGONNE FOREST CAVES — NIGHT

No clue what comes next.

Where is the monster? Where is Captain Oswald? What the fuck does
the nest look like?

So many unanswered questions swirled in my head. Then the mind wandering started.

I wonder which movie premiere was happening that closed the streets on
my way home. I should call Cammie and see how her video shoot went.
She’s
probably hanging out with the band getting drunk. I wonder if I should buy
that new Ben Sherman shirt I saw in
Men’s
Trend. Sales were bad today.
I
can’t
afford any shirts. My paycheck is going to suck. I wonder what that
customer was so upset about that had to talk to Judy. And there was that other
customer who wanted me to call all The Big Fancy stores to find five matching
cheap evening bags for her stupid
wedding —
FUCK —
I forgot to call, she is
going to be pissed!

Too many thoughts. Too many words and images. All blurring together.

My eyelids drooped. Everything went black. Then white.

A blank page appeared. Black words in Courier font magically typed across it.

A script!