Retail Hell (17 page)

She’d gaze upon her loot like she was looking at it for the first time. Then the shopping would start all over again, with Lorraine covering every inch of the entire store. Hard-core.

Looking for
more
bargains. Looking for
more
stuff to buy.

Several hours later, after the Shoposaurus had plundered, all of her treasures had to be rung up. By me.

And ringing up Lorraine during the sale was always a confusing, exhausting mess. Prices were wrong. Tags missing. Loose threads found. Stains discovered. Lorraine also demanded that every single item be boxed in Big Fancy gift boxes and wrapped in tissue, and the clothing put neatly in plastic garment covers.

“I’m spending two grand, I want the fucking works!”

I came to know more about Lorraine than possibly any other person on earth, including her doctors. I knew every size she wore: 12 wide in shoes; 12–14 long in slacks; L or XL in blouses; 42B in bras; 9 in panties; and L in gloves. She hated dresses, cheap fabric, and tight fits. She wasn’t big on fine jewelry but preferred gold to silver. I knew the details of all the cosmetic products she used from six different lines. Lorraine’s handbags had to be roomy with handles, and she rarely bought shoulder styles (unless one was an It Bag of the moment). Wallets had to be checkbook-style. Her favorite colors were green, blue, and RED! Lots and lots of red. Lorraine loved scarves and blouses in bright colors with loud, unique designs and bold prints. She had a fetish for ultra-soft bath towels, 1,000-thread-count sheets that don’t wrinkle, and the newest kitchen gadget, though she rarely cooked. And the woman would buy anything with a French poodle on it because it reminded her of Mitzy.

With the bounty of goods I sold to Lorraine Goldberg day in and day out, I did wonder how one single woman could buy so much stuff.

Where did it all go?

She couldn’t possibly wear or use everything she bought.

Lorraine once told me there was a room in her condo for all of “Freeman’s Things.” This is what she called everything I sold her. Freeman’s Things.

Yes, that creeps me out.

Because she bought more than she needed and it was impossible for her to actually wear or use everything, it all ended up in this so-called special room. I never saw the Freeman’s Things room, but she used to tell me it was piled high with gift boxes and bags of stuff I’ve sold her. It often made me nervous to think that one day, she could just flip out and decide that it all needed to go back to The Big Fancy.

Back up the U-Haul truck, Lorraine Goldberg is returning
Freeman’s
Things.
Somebody call an ambulance! 441064 is going into cardiac arrest.

Although she spent tens of thousands of dollars with me and had a room overflowing with Ferragamo shoes and Fendi handbags, the most dramatic thing Shoposaurus Carnotaurus ever did for me at the Store had nothing to do with her need for designer feed.

It had to do with a Nasty-Ass Thief — my term for the scummy, no-good, shoplifting fraudulent customers who streamed into The Big Fancy on a daily basis.

One afternoon, while Lorraine was in the throes of seeing a new group of Ferragamo bags, a short, skinny, young druggie girl so strung out that she was shaking stumbled up to the Corral.

The Druggie Nasty spoke incoherently, wanting to return a $900 Burberry tote that she had no receipt for. The Burberry bag wasn’t from our store, and the style wasn’t in any of the recent catalogues or the Store’s POS system. It had to be fake, jacked from another store, or stolen from someone’s closet.

After telling Nasty several times there was nothing I could do, she turned ugly and screamed:

“I’m not going anywhere until I get help . . . here at this store . . . with this bare-berry purse . . . you have to do it . . . NOW!” she said, swaying like a willow.

I felt the heat of Lorraine’s stare, as she watched Nasty and me argue about her not being able to return the bag.

When Nasty got bitchy and said I didn’t know my merchandise, Shoposaurus moved in.

And stood in front of her.

“Miss, he SAID, he can’t fuckin’ help you any further,” Lorraine said looking down at her. “You can fuckin’ leave now. I’m next in line and I need him to help me.”

The Nasty-Ass Druggie Thief sighed and looked up to the heavens. The several-foot difference between them did not seem to bother her in the least.

“Was I talkin’ to you, grandma? Stay out of it, you wrinkled old saggy BITCH.”

Believe it or not, at least twenty seconds passed before the Shoposaurus Carnotaurus began to roar. In those twenty seconds, I watched Lorraine’s pale skin turn a heated pink while the lids over her brown eyes began to flutter. Her orange lips snarled, and her hands tightened around her Fendi. Then she unleashed on Nasty like a meteorite hitting the Earth:

“LOOK, YOU DIRTY LITTLE COCKSUCKING WHORE, DON’T EVEN TRY FUCKING WITH ME, SHITBAG! I HAVE THE MOTHERFUCKING MALL POLICE ON SPEED DIAL, AND I’LL TAKEYOUR BITCH ASS OUT FASTER THAN YOU CAN GET YOUR FUCKING PIECE-OF-SHIT CAR STARTED, YOU SKINNY LITTLE FUCKING CUNT!”

Nasty-Ass Druggie Thief was stunned. Speechless.

And maybe a little scared.

Lorraine had to be at least three of her. She would have squashed Nasty flat into the carpet with her size-12-wide Ferragamo-clad foot.

Lorraine glared at Nasty, breathing hard, “I SUGGEST YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE I REALLY GET FUCKING PISSED OFF!”

Shaking like an A-bomb about to detonate, Lorraine quickly opened her Fendi and began digging for what I guessed was her cell, while unloading one swear word after another.

Nasty-Ass Druggie Thief swayed a few times and then stuffed the Burberry back in her tattered shopping bag. She zigzagged away without a single exit word.

“Lorraine,” I said, “I really appreciate you coming to my defense, but you have to be careful with some of these people. You never know what they’ll do.”

She rolled her eyes, let out a Shoposaurus cackle, and replied, “Fuck that little gang-banging crack whore. I’ve got a fucking can of pepper spray in here and a forty-five in the glove compartment of my car. I’ll blow her scrawny ass to kingdom come. Fucking asshole cocksucker, she can suck my motherfucking dick.”

Still bubbling with adrenaline, seconds later my badass Shoposaurus Carnotaurus found what she was digging for in her satchel.

“HERE IT IS!” Lorraine yelled out, holding up a little can of pepper spray like it was air freshener. “I’m fully licensed and trained. I know how to bring anyone down to their fucking knees, shoot it right in their cocksucking motherfucking eyeballs!”

“Lorraine, you continue to shock the shit out of me!”

“C’mon,” she said, dropping the pepper spray back into her Fendi, “Let’s go get a latte, I’m buyin’. And I need a goddamn cigarette.”

Like handbags, Nasty-Ass Thieves come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. There are men, women, teenagers, children, white, Black, Asian, Latino, Russian, Middle Eastern, European, and yes, even Alien. They are fat, skinny, young, old, gay, straight, ritzy, trashy, pretty, ugly, poor, and yes, even Warren Buffet rich.

The faces of Nasty-Ass Thieves are many. There’s no discrimina-tion on their wretched bus bound for Retail Hell’s sinful abyss.

In fact, this melting pot of evildoers could easily form their own worldwide coalition and call it United Nasty-Ass Nations. They would hold “conventions” next door to malls and Big Fancy Stores, and offer in-store training seminars on how to pilfer like a pro.

Monique Jonesworthy was a member of the United Nasty-Ass Nations. A black woman in her thirties with a gap between her two front teeth, Monique Jonesworthy was a potpourri of bogusness, deemed one of Big Fancy’s Most Wanted Nasty-Ass Thieves by many throughout the store. If she wasn’t shoplifting, she was buying with stolen credit cards or bad checks. And all of her returns were problematic, with no receipts, wrong receipts, missing receipts, tampered receipts, or torn price tags.

“I want to return this purse,” Monique always said, not knowing or caring that a thirteen-hundred-dollar Fendi satchel is not a purse, it’s a fucking handbag.

What she’d say after that depended on the “character” she’d adopted for the day.

Monique Jonesworthy had completely eluded The Big Fancy security team by cleverly changing her look every time she showed up at the store. Using hats, wigs, sunglasses, and clothes, she had more disguises than Jennifer Garner in
Alias
.

When she came up to the counter, at first we almost never recognized her.

One time I saw her approach Judy as Church-Going Monique, dressed in her Sunday best. A big pink frilly hat sat atop her head while a revolting green-and-purple striped dress wrapped around her fat body. She looked like a walking Easter egg — a rotten one.

“I want to return this purse,” said Church-Going Monique to Judy, “I just came from church and
Lawd
, what a service, God bless. I am filled with the love of Jesus! And I got me this Kate Spade purse to go with my dress, but you can see it ain’t a good match. I lost my receipts, but I’m sure you can take care of me. What a beautiful Sunday. I am sorry you have to work on a beautiful day like today.”

Judy did not look like she was having a Jesus kind of day as she did Monique’s bogus return.

Another time I waited on Monique after she had disguised herself as a movie producer. Wearing sleek black sunglasses, short black hair, and a black pinstriped suit, she ambled up to the counter holding a phone and talking into a headset loudly enough that I would hear every word before she had any contact with me.

“I’m at the store right now returning the purse we don’t need for the movie,” said Movie-Producer Monique into her mouthpiece, “Should be back on the set in about twenty. Yeah girl, I know what you’re talkin’ about. Hell no! He said that? Girl, that Marlon is the shit. Hey, I’m at the counter now. Hold on.”

Movie-Producer Monique put a shopping bag on the counter and said, “I want to return this purse and I’m in a hurry. I have to be back on the set. I’m one of the producers for the new Wayans Brothers movie and we bought this purse to use in the movie and we ain’t using it, so I’m bringing it back.”

I almost burst out laughing right in her face.

Even before I realized it was Monique behind the sunglasses and headset, I knew something was up with that story, so I played along.

“How cool! I love the Wayans brothers. What’s their new movie about?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” said Movie-Producer Monique, “It’s top secret. I’m not allowed to talk about any of that. There are contracts and shit. Hold on . . .” said Movie-Producer Monique, raising a finger and then pretending to go back to a call that I was quickly beginning to think didn’t exist. “What’d you say, girl? I’m at the counter returning the purse. Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. They just gonna have to git it right. Yeah. What? Marlon wants to talk to me? Put sweet lips on. Hey, Baby, what’s up? Yeah, I’m almost done here. Doin’ the purse return. What’s that? Yeah, they takin’ care of it right now. I’ll tell ’em to hurry, I know you got a scene to shoot, Baby.”

Movie-Producer Monique was not one of her better roles.

“No problem, tell Marlon I said, hey, and I suppose you’ll be needing cash for this return?” I asked her, unable to resist the sarcasm.

Monique didn’t even tell her star to hold. My question got priority. “Hell yeah, the movie studio paid cash and they want cash back, I’m sure.”

Movie-Producer Monique got her cash for Marlon.

Another memorable disguise of Monique’s was Trailer-Park Monique. She sported a bright green scarf around her head like a pirate and wore square white sunglasses and an oversized T-shirt displaying a map of all the subway stops in New York City, and said, “I want to return this purse. My man got it for me and it’s ugly as sin. He ain’t got no taste. I told him he shouldn’t be buyin’ me no purses. Women git their own purses.”

But, whatever clever persona Monique attempted to conjure up, it always wore thin when she revealed some problem with the transaction: She didn’t have all her receipts, they never put a proof of purchase sticker on the tag, or the tag was torn when she bought it.

And then she’d smile, exposing the gap between her two front teeth.

The gig was up. We all knew who it was.

If Monique Jonesworthy didn’t get her money back, she’d start to scream as if she was being physically assaulted. “I GOT MY DAMN RECEIPT. WHAT’S Y’ALL PROBLEM HERE? HUH? IS IT CUZ I’M BLACK?” Regardless of her disguise, if Monique was refused, the first card she played was always the race card. She tried this with Tiffany, who calmly replied, “I’m sorry, but have you not noticed the color of my skin?” Monique stared at her unfazed and then said, “Yeah, well, you sound like a cracka, might as well be one, givin’ a sista a hard time.” Tiffany was pissed. Monique had to get her refund in Customer Service that day.

If Monique got denied by everyone in the store, it was well known that she was not afraid to call Big Fancy CEO Mr. Michael. Somewhere along her lengthy list of bogus returns, she must have called him to complain and gotten her way. And against our pleas not to, more often than not, he approved many Nasty-Ass Thief returns. All in the name of customer service. I’m convinced Mr. Michael would probably let Monique return everything in her closet if she wanted to. Even her nasty-ass underwear.