by Freeman Hall
“EXCUSE ME!”
What?
Who is that?
Excuse me, but I’m not finished with my acceptance speech. Be quiet.
“EXCUSE ME!”
There it is again. Sounds like a woman. Whatever. Some jealous screenwriter in the audience. As I take my Oscar backstage, I am so glad I didn’t cry. Tom Hanks pats me on the back. Meryl Streep winks at me. I feel a little lightheaded. Oprah’s people stop me. I promise my first interview to her, of course. Jennifer Aniston bumps into me. She’s smoking hot! Hugh Jackman bumps into me. He’s smoking hot! Jerry Bruckheimer approaches me and says he wants me to write . . .
“EXCUSE ME! You do work here, don’t you?”
Crap.
I really wanted to hear what Jerry had to say.
Suddenly it’s all gone. The stage. The audience. Leo. All of it. Gone.
Another Academy Award dream lost. Oprah wouldn’t want to interview me any more than she would an Olive Garden dishwasher.
My Oscar night fantasy evaporates into the unnatural yellow glow of track lights bouncing off mirrored columns while Celine Dion goes on and on about her heart going on and on. The Kodak Theatre’s slick stage is replaced by worn carpet the color of moldy oatmeal and a maze of glass fixtures and shelves holding overpriced designer handbags. My fingers are not clasped around Oscar’s gold body, but instead around the leather straps of a Coach signature satchel. I am in the middle of the handbag department of The Big Fancy, where I work as a sales associate.
I may as well be a million miles from Hollywood, even though the Kodak Theatre is actually mere miles away. No award ceremonies or after-parties in my immediate future . . . only a tangle of handbags to be tidied for tomorrow.
It’s five minutes to closing. I get out of my head and reposition my eyes toward the counter. The late-night interruption of my Tinsel Town dream had come from a short, plump thing with bacon-colored hair so greasy it looks like she just came out of the shower. Her clothes are disheveled and she sports orange safety-goggle-looking glasses in need of cleaning. A beat-up Big Fancy shopping bag sits on the counter in front of her.
Return time.
When I arrive at the counter, the greasy little hobbit immediately turns all bitchy. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, peering at me over the top of her orange glasses. “I was asking for your help several times and you just stood there like you were in a trance.”
“I was. The Oscar trance.”
And if you hadn’t bothered me, I’d still be there, at the Governor’s Ball showing off my statuette, drinking champagne out of Leo’s shoe.
The Greasy Hobbit is not interested in my trance.
“I need to return,” she says. “There’s also a wallet inside.”
I open the bag and immediately recognize the white plush Ferragamo dustcover. A large $2,000 calfskin tote bag and $500 wallet sat inside. Greasy shoves a receipt in my face.
Of course, my eyes immediately go to the salesperson number: 441064.
Fuck me with a handbag. It’s my employee number and I don’t even remember selling it to her. The last thing I need is a huge return. The day had been slow with sales and busy with problems. Her return is going to be the nail in my coffin.
To make matters worse, the outside of the $2,000 Ferragamo tote isn’t exactly in “I never used it” condition. Its days of immaculateness are long past — scratches, dents, and scuff marks are scattered across its body. WTF? Had she loaned it to Edward Scissorhands?
“This bag has been used,” I announce, repeating a line I say often at The Big Fancy.
Greasy peers at me through the orange glasses, attempting to turn me into stone with her goblin eyes, “I’m telling you I didn’t use it, the scratches must have been there before.”
“And I’m telling you there is no way you would have paid $2,000 for a bag with scratches.”
“Well, I did,” she says, “I just decided not to keep it. I never used it. I don’t know what I was thinking spending that kind of money.”
I bite my tongue. Greasy didn’t buy this Ferragamo bag. No lie detector needed here — I remember who purchased the Ferragamo a few months ago. The buyer had been a tall blond woman who had sucked the life out of me. A total Therapy-Digger. During our lengthy time together, I had showed her every handbag in the joint while she spared no details of her train-wreck life: She was overworked at her job, hated her coworkers, had an elderly mother in rehab and a teenage daughter who wasn’t speaking to her, and — the topper — she had just discovered her husband was having an affair. Apparently she found some photos of him in a pair of pink lace panties. It wasn’t clear if the other woman was a woman or a man dressed as a woman.
Oh yeah. Good times.
The writer in me had wanted to take notes, but the Retail Slave in me had just wanted her to be gone. The whole session gave me a headache. I had played the good little sales associate, offered exceptional service, played her shrink, and then told her she needed to buy the bag to get back at her panty-loving husband. Proclaiming the Ferragamo the bag of her dreams, that’s what she did. And now some other woman was here returning it all beat to shit? Like a thousand times before, I am about to become the casualty of another Therapy-Digger, but decide to go down fighting.
Not so fast, Greasy Little Hobbit, it’s late and my feet hurt.
“But you didn’t buy this bag.”
“Yes, I did!”
“Umm. No you didn’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar? I told you it’s my bag.”
“Well I’m the original salesperson and you’re not the woman I sold it to.”
Busted! Greasy Hobbit sighs and rolls her eyes behind her smudgy glasses. Then she sort of snarls her lip at me.
“Whatever,” she says, “It’s my sister’s. She gave it to me and I don’t appreciate being interrogated. I want to return it.”
“I’m not allowed to take back used handbags.”
“What are you talking about? I never used it!”
I point to several mauled areas of the Ferragamo.
“That’s ridiculous. I return things all the time and I’ve never had a problem!” she says, ignoring my observation,“I have my receipt! I know the policy at this store. You have to return it. I never used that bag.”
We’ll see about that, Frodo.
I quickly open the Ferragamo and pull out the paper stuffing. Sure enough, I find makeup stains smeared across the bottom. I show them to her.
“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.
Free-Spirit Personality
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:
HOT DUDE: “So, what do you do?”
FREEMAN: “I work in retail.” (I always tried to be truthful at first, but vague.)
HOT DUDE: “Cool. Where do you work?”
FREEMAN: “Umm . . . at The Big Fancy.” (Here’s where I’d place my prayer request to God and beg to let the “what I do” question end there.)
HOT DUDE: “Expensive store. What do you sell? (Prayer request denied. God went straight to my shit list.)
FREEMAN: “Umm . . . handbags.”
HOT DUDE: “What?” (They always said “what?” like I was speaking in tongues.)
FREEMAN: “Ladies’ handbags. You know, like purses.” (Humiliation ensued.)
HOT DUDE: “You sell purses to women?” (Laughing. They always laughed.) “That’s fucking bizarre.”
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 m
en 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: “How are you going to help me? What do you know about bags?”
FREEMAN: “That’s what I’ve been hired to do.”
CUSTOMER: “But men never work in this section.”
FREEMAN: “One does now. And men have been selling shoes to women forever. No difference really.” (This was always my big line for customers questioning my gender-based abilities.)
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.
