Retail Hell (8 page)

“FREE-MAN! I’VE HAD IT! YOU’D BETTER START SAYING HANDBAG.”

“FREE-MAN! IT’S HAND-BAG. NOW, REPEAT AFTER ME FIVE TIMES!”

Finally one morning she flipped out.

“FREE-MAN, IF YOU DON’T STOP USING THE P-WORD, I’M GOING TO WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH LEATHER LOTION!”

I think
I’d
rather pay ten dollars, thank you very much.

I distinctly remember the moment I thought I was going to get attacked with a bottle of leather lotion by the General: I was ringing up a $250 Kenneth Cole and told the customer, “Let me just wrap your purse in tissue for you, ma’am.”

Judy stood just inches away from me as I committed the verbal crime.

I winced, expecting a nuclear explosion.

Surprisingly, Judy said nothing, although I did feel her laser stare as I finished up with the customer. Trying to backtrack and save my ass, I awkwardly asked the woman if she’d like a wallet to go with her new Kenneth Cole HANDBAG? She didn’t, and left.

I waited for the outburst, but it never came. The General was thinking.

A few seconds passed and then she said softly, “Okay, Free-man. I’ll make you a deal. If you NEVER say the p-word again, I’ll let you work here without wearing the suit jacket. But only when the buyers and executives aren’t visiting. Then you won’t sweat so much either.”

What? No pizza party? No cash fees? How lucky am I?
I’d
better not
screw this one up. You have yourself A DEAL, Judy!
I’m
hitting the red button
and slamming down the cover.
I’m
taking the
Banker’s
offer.
I’m
done! The
sweatsuit is coming off! Hurray!

Like magic, handbag became my best friend. I thought of it as an air conditioner.

I never said the p-word again.

EXT. ARGONNE FOREST — MILITARY TRENCH — DAY

My World War I Million-Dollar Screenplay adventure thriller, where
All’s
Quiet on the Western Front
meets
Jurassic Park
, had been infiltrated by the cast of saleswomen at The Big Fancy’s handbag department, and I could not get them out of my head.

Women’s
voices coming out of
soldiers’
mouths. I am so seriously screwed
right now.

The weeks following my training were a blur as I moved from my friend’s couch to a studio apartment in an area called Beverly Hills Adjacent (a friend of mine used to call it Scratching to Get into Beverly Hills). My new home next door to BH was considered furnished, consisting of a single bed, desk, and a kitchen table. Not pretty, but clean, and my landlords were wonderful people, a rabbi and his wife. The compact size of the studio didn’t matter; all I needed was a place for my computer, TV, and PlayStation. After settling into my room, I quickly fell into the mindless day-To-day go-to-work grind of climbing Mount Fancy as 441064 and selling handbags, not purses.

On this day of my character soldiers suddenly talking like catfighting saleswomen, I desperately needed to be touched by the screenwriting gods, but they were nowhere to be found.

And this was due largely in part to events that happened earlier in the day — much earlier, in fact.

Like 6:45 in the fuckin’ morning early.

This was the time I had to attend my first department meeting.

On my day off.

As anyone who works in retail will tell you, your days off are not your own, and they are not immune to ruin by boring meetings. For anyone attempting to pursue another career and claw their way out of Retail Hell, these store demands do
not
work in your favor.

When I tried to get out of Judy’s big department meeting, she jumped down my throat: “The Department Meeting is mandatory. If you are going to be a part of this team, the expectation is that you attend. There will be many other times when you have to come in on your day off. It’s part of being committed to the success of this company. Got it?”

Oh, I got it, all right.

I got pissed about having to drag my ass out of bed in the middle of the fuckin’ night at 5:00 a.m. to get to The Big Fancy on time. Why can’t we have night meetings in retail? Why do they always have to be at an hour reserved for paperboys and crack addicts? Screenwriters don’t get up before the sun rises. We like sleep. And lots of it.

Besides General Judy, there were six other women selling with me at The Big Fancy handbag department. They also had to get their asses up early.

I had met all these women on my first day in the jungle. Shortly after Judy had deserted me, I found myself in the presence of an Americanized Armenian woman in her forties with beady black eyes. She had outdated feathered black hair and wore a conservative white pantsuit. She reminded me of John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
. When she told me her long, unusual first name, I couldn’t make it out — something, something “oush” at the end. But that doesn’t matter here, as I’ve decided to call her Douche. Because that’s what she was. A giant, horrible douchebag. You see, Douche was the Shark — a salesperson who steals sales. She wasted no time in proving that to me during my first moments with her. Douche took three of my first big sales: a Gucci, a Burberry, and a Ferragamo, claiming I wasn’t yet ready to ring them (even though I’d been through Brandi’s annoying register training). I may have been a newbie, but I wasn’t an idiot. The fucking douche was stealing my sales, and when I brought it up to her, she’d do her signature, “Aagh . . . ” phlegm-like grunt, followed by a wave of her hand saying she had no time for confrontation.

Things got even worse when a young woman named Tiffany arrived. Tiffany was a chubby black girl in her late twenties with a model’s face, a pig’s mannerisms, and a blind person’s wardrobe. Sounding as crisp as a newscaster, she wasted no time in telling me that the General considered her “the Assistant” and she was in charge when Judy wasn’t around. Drunk with her “I am the Manager” power, Tiffany immediately pulled me off the sales floor and assigned me all the department shit jobs: answering the phone, cleaning, taking empty boxes to the trash, getting supplies, taking transfers, and sending packages to the store’s receiving area. I did all this while Tiffany and Douche hogged all the sales for themselves.

An hour later, a petite Italian-looking woman with bobbed black hair and a huge nose, was in my ear talking a mile a minute. Another handbag seller. Her name was Marci, and she unleashed a torrent of mind-numbing chatter. For fifteen minutes, Marci yapped about her plans to make a chili-cheese casserole recipe she saw on the Food Network. She then scrutinized my every movement as I cleaned the glass shelves. “You’re wiping in the wrong direction,” she said, “Dust is flying everywhere. You need to wipe front to back, left to right.” I wanted to stuff the cleaning rag in her mouth and beat her with the Windex bottle.

If ever there was a Demon Squad, I was surrounded by it.

Feeling like Kirsten Dunst at the end of
Spiderman 3
when she’s dangling by a finger high above New York City, I actually considered quitting. There was no way I could work with these bitches. The General was bad enough, but to be thrown into a retail lifeboat with a bossy droid, a lying shark, and a whiny talker was more than I could take. I’d rather jump out and start swimming. I would take my chances with hypothermia and becoming fish food.

Lucky for me, however, the closers soon arrived.

Charlie had his Angels fighting bad guys, and I quickly discovered I had mine.

The Handbag Angels.

Defenders against demon saleswomen.

Suddenly the shroud of darkness in the Handbag Jungle lifted, and my job-hunting thoughts did as well. The first one I met was Cammie, a sexy-hot Orange County blond in her mid-twenties with a hip fashion style I related to. Cammie’s infectious, fun-loving personality could make a room full of depressives want to get up and dance. Her potty mouth, love of music, and dream to become an actress bonded us instantly. That night we were out drinking, and I vowed to write a script for her. We’ve been buds ever since. The blond Will and Grace.

When I met Jules, she was so easy to talk to I knew instantly that I’d like her. A Seattle transplant in her mid-forties with amber hair, an hourglass figure, and classic style, Jules instantly got my respect when she told me she was married to a jewelry salesman, they had two little girls together, and she juggled her family and The Big Fancy while studying to get a real estate license. I was blown away. I couldn’t imagine attempting to be a screenwriter while being married with kids. What I could imagine was Jules selling ten-million-dollar homes. The woman had the ability to sell someone a wad of chewing gum she had pulled off the sidewalk.

My third Handbag Angel was Marsha, a young-at-heart native Angelino in her late fifties. She was well known for her crazy laugh, spicy outbursts, and use of the endearment “Hon.” Marsha had big brown hair, oversized lavender glasses, and a penchant for colorful, funky fashion. Having slaved at the store for more than twenty-six years, Marsha was gossip @ Big Fancy. com! She held the lowdown on everyone. She had been divorced three times and had no kids, and the loves of her life were four cats: Mr. Butters, Tire Track, Putz, and Shania Twain. They were bizarre cat names, but Marsha’s left-of-center approach was what I loved most about her. Having worked at The Big Fancy for so many years, Marsha dreamt of her retirement day and moving to Hawaii with her cats.

After our casual introductions, my Handbag Angels grilled me about how the morning had gone. Not holding back, I truthfully exposed the antics of the Demon Squad. The Angels weren’t surprised by the treatment. Seconds later, they burst into the stockroom and had it out with the General. I don’t know what was said, but when I got back from lunch, Tiffany had backed off, Douche was no longer taking my sales, and Marci wasn’t talking to me, which was fine by me.

The lines had been drawn in the Handbag Jungle.

And even though I love wearing black, listening to alternative music, collecting skull art, and watching horror movies, I quickly decided it was time to hang with the angels.

When I arrived for my first Big Fancy department meeting, it was so early the track lights had not yet come on. Spotty fluorescent lighting made the store look dim and shadowy. It made me want to go back to sleep. Inside the Handbag Jungle, several fixtures had been moved aside to create a clearing for a small scattering of chairs. Angels Cammie, Jules, and Marsha huddled together in one group while Demon Marci was a few feet away, and to the far right, a body-length’s space away, sat her evil counterparts, Douche and Tiffany.

I moved my chair next to the Angels. Would I sit anywhere else?

“Is there any coffee?” I asked Cammie.

“Are you fucking kidding?” she replied.

“Hon, they’re too cheap for coffee,” said Marsha, “We had to buy ours at the Coffee Bar.”

I was just about to go find the General to ask if I could make a latte run when the stockroom door flew open. She marched up to us and let loose:

“I’m holding this meeting because we have a lot to work on here, people. We missed our month twice in a row. There was a 22% decrease in January, a 13% decrease last month. You know how Suzy feels about third strikes. I absolutely cannot allow this department to miss another month. The unemployment rate in Los Angeles is at an all-time high, and I’m sure I can find plenty of hungry people to sell handbags and get me increases.”