Retail Hell (3 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t see anything,” says Greasy.

“You don’t see those brown stains?”

“It’s from the paper.”

While checking out the lining, I feel a lump in the zipper pocket. I unzip it and pull out two tampons, a paper clip, and a penny.

“I think you left these behind,” I say, handing them to her.

This happens all the time when women return bags they’ve used. Tampons, lipstick, coins, Tic Tacs, and condoms are the top things found.

Greasy sighs loudly as if I were the problem, rather than all the personal garbage she’s left in the bag. “I was just trying my things in it. I really don’t see what the problem is here. It’s none of your business what I keep in my handbag.”

It
is
when my
commission’s
at stake!
I’m
not your Designer Handbag
Rental Service! My name is not Bag Borrow or Steal.com!

After finding those incriminating items, I keep going. I unzip every freakin’ pocket. And there are a lot of them on this Ferragamo tote. The last one I check, the one with a long zipper compartment on the outside, holds the smoking gun. I reach in and immediately feel something made of a soft, silky-like fabric. It’s a bra! Greasy left her bra in a $2,000 Ferragamo! I yank it out — almost as dramatic as a magician making a rabbit appear.
“
Voilà!”
I so want to say,
“
Madam, you are a filthy
liar!”

But instead I say, “You also left your bra.”

Or maybe it belongs to your
“
sister’s”
husband?

I hold it up like evidence in a murder trial. But then I get a closer look. The bra is old and ratty, all shredded and discolored. And to my horror, all over the cups are tiny white flakes that begin to flutter around, dusting the counter like a light snowfall. Are these flakes dandruff? Or dead skin?

I drop the bra to the counter while yelping, “OH MY GOD!”

This is one of those moments in which you don’t know whether to run away screaming or to call a Hazmat team. I’m overcome with visions of contracting piggy flu or lice or some other nasty disease. I need an antibacterial bath, STAT.

Greasy snatches the bra and dismisses its grossness. “You’re overreacting. That’s just my workout bra. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“It proves you were using the bag, which is why I can’t return it. Especially now that your flaky bra was inside it.”

“EXCUSE ME? What did you just say? How insulting and rude. I have never been treated this way at a Big Fancy Store. There is nothing wrong with my bra.”

“Ma’am,” I say, as cool as a Gucci bag, “It’s all over the counter.”

“Those are just dust particles from the bag,” Greasy snaps.

“Bags that have never been used don’t have dust particles. They also don’t have tampons, dirty bras, and makeup stains inside.”

Greasy’s face turns so red, I begin to think she is going to rise up off the aisle and release enough hellfire to turn my ass into ashes.

“THIS IS NOT THE BIG FANCY WAY! I WANT TO SEE YOUR MANAGER!” she screams, flailing her arms around as if she’s an air-traffic controller at Hobbiton International Airport.

I remain calm. “We’re closing, and my manager is off right now.”

“THEN I DEMAND YOU GET THE STORE MANAGER!”

“The store manager isn’t here now either.”

“WELL SOMEONE MUST BE RUNNING THIS STORE! I AM A PAYING CUSTOMER HERE! I DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH YOUR RUDE BEHAVIOR!”

And so it comes to this. Like countless other times when customers threw fits after we denied them the right to return their old, used, disgusting handbags. I pick up the phone and page the night manager.

Since neither my manager nor the store manager is around, The Big Fancy assigns the duty of temporary leadership to another department manager. When Sierra, the children’s shoe manager, answers, I know I’m screwed. Besides having a spine like a stick of chewing gum, she is a total Big Fancy Rah-Rah Bitch. I leave Greasy to smolder while I continue the closing duties of straightening hundreds of handbags. As soon as Sierra shows up, Greasy erupts like a volcano, spewing about my poor customer service skills and how awful I am. After Greasy’s ten-minute tirade winds down, the night manager approaches me and says, “I’m going to go ahead and authorize the return as a customer service issue. She’s pretty upset about the way you handled it and I think it’s the best direction for us to take.”

I want to strangle Sierra with the DKNY in my hand. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Did you see the bag?” I counter, “It’s beat to shit and her DIRTY BRA was inside it! We can’t even resell it, and now I’m in the hole.”

“I realize you’re upset, but please don’t use that language with me. I’m here to take care of the customer. If she goes to Suzy tomorrow or calls Corporate, they’ll take it back anyway. Just save yourself some drama, return it, and move on to the next sale.”

What next sale? Hello. We are closing! It is the last day of the pay period and Greasy’s $2,000 return is about to make my sales a negative number for the day.

I feel like a hooker who gave a ten-hour blow job and was beat up and robbed by the john, just to have the police officer who witnessed it all say, “Oh well, better luck on the next blow job.”

It’s
times like this at The Big Fancy when I could just freak out!

I’M
DONE, PEOPLE! DONE WITH ALL OF YOU!
I’M
OUTTA HERE!

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where I finally snap and jump the counter
and start to handbag-whip the greasy fucking bitch.
I’m
like a crazy man.
People have to pull me off her and take the Ferragamo away from me. I end
up all over the news while I sit in the Los Angeles County Jail. The headlines
read,
“
An Innocent Customer Receives Ferragamo Beating Instead of Service!
What Kind of World Is
This?”

But before the cops show up, I rip off my tie and walk out the mall entrance
slowly, possibly stopping to get a vanilla latte at the Coffee Bar. Goodbye, Big
Fancy. Outside the mall in the parking lot,
it’s
raining. Pouring. My arms cinematically
outstretched, I walk out from the sliding glass mall doors, welcoming
the cleansing water, letting it wash away the heinous remnants of the store. The
soundtrack to my dramatic exit is very John Williams and rises to a crescendo
as I walk across the parking lot and never look back. The perfect ending. An
Oscar-winning ending.

But not my ending.

I return Greasy’s destroyed Ferragamo — she of course wants cash and holds up the store closing because she has to go to customer service to get it. On her way out, as I’m catching up on the department straightening I had to delay because of her return drama, she has the nerve to walk by and say, “You really should learn to give better customer service. You won’t last here if you don’t.” I give her one of my famous shit-eating retail smiles and turn my back. The alternative is to cannonball a Dooney & Bourke barrel bag at her and hope its hardware knocks out her front teeth.

All the customers are finally gone, and the lights start to automatically shut off. It is almost 10:00. My feet feel like molten lava, I’m sweaty and disheveled, and I realize I forgot to set my DVR for
Dancing with
the Stars
. Fuck. No mindless reality game shows for me. I have six bucks in my wallet for a Taco Bell dinner and twelve bucks in my checking account, which isn’t enough for anything. I need gas to get home, all six of my credit cards are maxed out, I have a phone bill that’s a week late, my rent is due in two days, and the new Adam Sandler movie opens on Friday. Even if I want to quit, I can’t. I need some kind of paycheck. No matter how small. The almighty dollar and the need for food and entertainment are keeping me engulfed in flames.

I should be on location somewhere rewriting lines for Julia Roberts and having drinks with George Clooney. But instead, I’m selling handbags at The Big Fancy.

Although I don’t really have any proof, I’m gonna stick my pitchfork in a galleria parking space and make the claim that I was the first man to sell handbags in Los Angeles. A friend once said I should try and get it in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
(Personally, I’d rather shoot for the record of eating the most Nacho Cheese Doritos in one sitting. Now there’s a record to savor!)

Whenever I was forced to talk about what I did for a living, I often got strange looks from people. You’d have thought I told them I sold body bags, barf bags, or bags of pot. Regardless of how I defended myself to those who couldn’t wrap their mind around the idea of a guy selling purses, it always hit me hardest when I was out at a bar trying to score and the conversation got personal:

Handbag emasculation complete.

My balls had shrunk to my neck, where they proceeded to choke me.

(Handbags are not a topic of interest to a crowd of muscle men at a leather bar.)

Technically, I should have been telling everyone I was a screenwriter — and I did many times — but what always went down after that was, “Have you been produced?” followed by me saying, “Not yet, ” which usually led to the question, “What do you do for your day job?” And that would bring me back to dialogue that ended in handbag emasculation and ball shredding.

If I was drunk, horny, and wanted a fast hookup, I would completely lie; the job questions usually ended after I proclaimed myself a software developer, accountant, or veterinarian.

Early on at The Big Fancy, I also received my share of skepticism from women customers:

CUSTOMER:
“I suppose you’re right.” (Of course I am. The customer is
never
right.)

Thankfully, society has moved past the shock of men selling handbags, just as they have with women being allowed to tackle and Taser some asshole on the run. Thousands of my brethren are out there right now helping women find trendy totes big enough to hold their Chihuahuas in. Handbags have become status symbols and fashion statements, and because of the truckload of techie gizmos we carry around on a daily basis, guys are also dragging them around. Those are called
manbags
.

But when I moved to Los Angeles, way back when, men weren’t selling handbags. I didn’t own a handbag — I mean manbag — and the word was no more a part of my vocabulary than the word menopause. I thought I was going to be selling screenplays. Not handbags.

Knowing only a few friends who were nice enough to let me sleep on their couches, I landed in the mid-Wilshire district just miles from Hollywood. Unfortunately, none of my friends were related to Steven Spielberg or knew Ron Howard.

Having a limited amount of money to start my new screenwriting life, I needed a Pay-the-Bills Job. Delirious for a new L.A. wardrobe, I didn’t think twice about where to go first: a store where I could buy cool clothes, measure the inseams of hot men, and make loads of money.

The buzz around town was The Big Fancy. A large, upscale department store famous for customer service, The Big Fancy carried the trendiest brands and paid their salespeople commissions. The idea of getting commissions played out in my head like a scene out of
Indecent
Proposal
, with me rolling around naked in a pile of money.

How amazing would it be to write my Million-Dollar Screenplay while
driving my limited-edition Mercedes and living in Beverly Hills?