Retail Hell: How I Sold My Soul to the Store

by Freeman Hall

  Sorry, General Judy,What I NEED is to hurry up and write my Million-Dollar Screenplay and quit The Big Fancy!

  I’d found Judy’s so-called Guide completely useless, reading it was like reading a legal deposition written in Latin. There were no pictures, just a list of companies, their uninteresting histories, and a bunch of bizarre handbag terms that sounded like an inventory sheet for a military weapons arsenal: roll bag, drawstring feedbag, tote, cross-body, demi pouch, barrel, hobo, mini, messenger, carryall, duffle, and convertible bucket.

  Convertible bucket? Are we selling cars? Drawstring feedbag? Does it come full of apples and oats? Roll bag? Who invented that? Cheech and Chong?

  “Every handbag silhouette has a name,” said Jules, “They may sound strange, but many shapes and designs are actually taken from the names of bags in other industries. Dooney & Bourke once copied an old ammunition bag and made it in three sizes, and it was the hottest style for several years.”

  “Did they call it the Ammo Bag and fill it with bullets?” I asked, teasing.

  Jules laughed and replied, “No, but it was heavy as hell. Dooney called it the Spectator.”

  “Spectator sucks,” I said, “I would have called it the Bullet or maybe the Uzi.”

  Then Marsha jumped in on the trip down Handbag Memory Lane: “What I remember about the Dooney & Bourke Spectator is how much I hated merchandising them. They wouldn’t stay standing up. Fell over constantly like dominos. They were always a mess and I pulled a muscle lugging those bastards out of the stockroom. Sold a lot of them, though.”

  Jules was on the move in the leather jungle. She grabbed a pink medium-size structured bag with a single handle. “This is one of my favorite handbag shape stories,” she said, “They call this shape — with the single rounded handle — the Kelly bag. It was created by the famous French fashion house Hermès. Then in the ’50s Grace Kelly was photographed wearing it because she wanted something stylish to cover her pregnant belly. Next thing you know, everyone goes nuts and women around the world had to have it! Any bag made in this shape is now called the Kelly bag. The Big Fancy makes this one on our private label and they call it Amanda.”

  I was mesmerized by the Grace Kelly story because I love so many of her films, but then I realized Jules had called that Big Fancy brand Kelly bag Amanda. Handbag names 101 was getting complicated.

  “Wait,” I said, “Are you telling me they have silhouette names AND people names?”

  “Afraid so, hon,” said Marsha, “Just like my plants and cats!”

  “And my dog, Ginger,” added Jules, “She’s a Yorkshire Terrier. Absolutely gorgeous.”

  Cammie tossed a slouchy-looking bag over her shoulder, “This motherfucker is named Rodan. How fucking stupid is that?”

  “A satchel named Rodan?”

  “Umm . . . Freeman, that one is a hobo,” said Jules.

  “Hobo? I am so fucked. I’ll never remember all this. Maybe I should leave right now.”

  Marsha’s arm went around me. “You’ll do no such thing, hon. We love you! It’s been a breath of fresh air having a guy around here for a change.”

  With the Handbag Guide in tow, the Angels went over every shape, showing me what was what. Turned out a demi pouch was small with a short strap, a roll bag looked like a giant Tootsie Roll with a strap, and a drawstring feedbag was definitely something a horse could eat out of.

  In my mind a hobo was a vagabond, a shoulder was a body part, a clutch was a car part, a tote was a crate in a warehouse, and a satchel was the name of some four-legged, tree-hugging creature in a rainforest. Not so in the Handbag Jungle.

  A clutch was flat and carried in the hand, a tote was usually square-shaped with two handles but sometimes had straps, and a satchel had two short handles and has been around since the Middle Ages.

  “A hobo is a large, rounded, unstructured, slouchy bag designed to be worn on the shoulder,” said Marsha while Cammie modeled a variety of different hobo styles.

  “It’s called a hobo because the shape sort of looks like the bundle at the end of a stick that hobos used to carry way back when in movies and cartoons,” added Jules.

  I couldn’t believe one of fashion’s hottest handbag shapes came from bums on skid row.

  What’s next? Traffic-cone hats and bedpan shoes?

  Learning the basic shapes wasn’t too difficult, but the stuff that really annihilated my brain cells were all the feature add-ons: triplezip satchel, push-lock satchel, hand-held satchel, east-west shoulder satchel, zip-zip satchel, and multifunction box satchel.

  “I don’t get it. Why don’t they just call it a satchel?”

  “I know it’s confusing, hon,” Marsha said, “But you’ll get the hang of it with practice. Just remember, there are five basic handbag shapes: satchel, shoulder, tote, clutch, and hobo.”

  I felt like Audrey Hepburn’s Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady struggling over the “rain in Spain” phrase, except that my nightmare of words was north-south oversized satchel zip-top.

  It only got worse after that.

  “Do you know anything at all about leather?” asked Jules.

  “Umm . . . I have a leather motorcycle jacket and lots of shoes.”

  The Handbag Angels stared at me.

  “But dude, do you know about the different kinds of leather?” asked Cammie.

  “Not really. Can’t I just say it’s leather and looks cool?”

  “Hon, that will not fly in here,” said Marsha.

  My Angels taught me that Napa leather feels buttery soft, mock-croc is embossed to look like crocodile, and washed leather has an aged, crinkly, wrinkled look. They gave me the rundown on all the different fabrics, from jacquard to wool to terry cloth. I discovered handbags are made out of just about everything but sheet metal and drywall. Could it be possible that one day women will actually be able to live in their handbag satchels named Dolly? I think so.

  The list of leathers mentioned made my head hurt: vachetta leather, distressed leather, patent leather, silk-screened leather, metallic leather, glazed leather, and washed leather.

  What the hell is washed leather? Is it preferred over dirty leather? Do they use a really good detergent like Tide when they are washing the leather? How long does it stay in the rinse cycle?

  And the skins all these handbags were made out of? Calfskin. Lambskin. Buffalo skin. Deerskin. Snakeskin. Goatskin. Ostrich skin. Croc skin. Rabbit skin. Oh my God . . . I could feel the ghosts of dead animals staring up at me.

  Should I call PETA? Do they know about Big Fancy’s House of Hand-bag Horrors?

  “Is any of that making sense, sweetie?” Jules asked in her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.

  I groaned. “Dead animal hides everywhere.”

  Cammie agreed. “It’s a fuckin’ dead-ass zoo in here.” Then she held a bag from the clearance table that looked like suede with white fur around it. “You know what this bitch is made out of?”

  “No clue. A cow?”

  Jules smiled.“Shearling. Real shearling. From the skin of an unborn lamb. Obtained after a pregnant adult sheep has been slaughtered for meat or skin or died from a disease.”

  Holy shit! That’s way worse than bunnies and goats. I might throw up.

  “But NEVER say that,” she warned, “It will turn customers off big-time. Always be casual and just say, ‘Oh it’s a type of leather.’”

  “That’s so fucking disgusting. A baby lamb! All for a look!”

  “Fashion can be cruel. Take a look at this GORGEOUS Isabella Fiore handbag,” Jules said, picking up a large burgundy bag with two short handles and a frame opening. “This is what we call a framed doctor’s satchel. Feel it. Simply gorgeous.”

  From a distance it resembled an intricately detailed woven tapestry, but when I touched it, I felt little hairs in the swirling design.

  The kind of little hairs found on the hide of a dead animal.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” I said, wondering what poor mammal gave its life up to be
a satchel.

  “Read the tag,” she said, showing me the inside of a small folded card attached to the bag.

  I read a short flowery story about how the handbag was Arthurian inspired, but it was the last sentence that grabbed me: Handcrafted Italian laser-cut calf.

  Laser-cut calf.

  Three words that should not be put together. “Omigod.”

  Jules smirked. “You need me to tell you about it?”

  My head filled with screaming calves being laser tattooed against their will.

  “Sweet Jesus, no. That’s so gross.”

  “Exactly, my friend. Not a pretty sight,” she replied, “Ignorance is bliss. That’s why you can never go wrong by saying Italian leather for just about anything.”

  “Unless it’s a snake,” Marsha said, “Women hate snakes. Turn them all into handbags and shoes for all I care.”

  “You got that fuckin’ right,” added Cammie, “Snakes creep the shit out of me.”

  Once the ladies felt they’d covered everything, it was testing time. Cammie modeled a black, wrinkled, rounded, sack-looking Francisco Biasia on her shoulder and I had to figure out what it was.

  After a few seconds I came up with, “Washed leather hobo.”

  Jules gave thumbs up. “Now look closer. Add on the features.”

  Cammie prominently displayed the zippered closure.

  “Zip-top hobo?”

  Marsha high-fived me. “You go, boy!”

  “What else, Free? There’s more,” said Jules.

  I noticed the shape of the Biasia was quite tall, very vertical.

  “A north-south zip-top hobo?”

  The girls cheered, but Jules pushed me further. “Now what’s on the front?”

  Cammie ran her fingers over two mini pockets mounted on its face.

  After a moment I nailed it:“Double pockets . . . north-south double-pocket zip-top hobo!”

  You would have thought I’d just won Jeopardy. My triumph was applauded, followed by hugs all around. It was the first moment in the Handbag Jungle where I thought I could survive as a salesperson.

  Marsha’s lavender fingernail pointed directly below the words north-south double-pocket zip-top hobo on the bag’s tag. “And don’t forget the name, hon. This one is Anastasia.”

  I felt a scream coming on. No way in hell was I going to remember their birth names.

  “Don’t worry about the stupid fucking names,” Cammie said. “We can’t remember most of them either. Usually they’re printed on the tags or we just look them up in the catalogs.”

  “The catalogs?”

  Marsha, Cammie, and Jules eyed each other, heads shaking in disbelief.

  “Judy didn’t show you shit, did she?” said Cammie.

  They led me into the Corral, where Jules pulled open a drawer jammed full of color catalogs: A treasure trove of dead animal hide information. “If you need names, colors, and prices, you’ll find them in here,” she said opening one and showing me a photograph of an Allure shearling bag. Underneath was everything a man selling handbags needed to know: Mia. $1,765. Authentic Italian Shearling. Large Cross-body Double-Pocket Drawstring Shoulder. Available in Cocoa, Shell, and Onyx. Features include two roomy outside pockets, a back zipper pocket, magnetic tab closure, an internal zip pocket, and an open cell-phone pocket banded in leather. I couldn’t believe it. All the info was right there. Along with fucking pictures.

  “Why didn’t Judy tell me about this?”

  Cammie rolled her eyes. “Because she doesn’t like us showing them to customers.”

  “Even though we all do it anyway,” said Marsha.

  Jules nodded, adding, “They want us selling what’s on the floor. Not special ordering. And even though we do transfers, it saves the company money if you sell what’s in front of you.”

  “Why didn’t you guys just show me the drawer?” I said, pulling out the Coach book and opening it to a full-page photo of an east-west single-pocket tote in purple signature jacquard.

  “None of it would have made sense without a basic knowledge of handbags,” said Jules.

  Cammie grinned. “Dude, you didn’t even know what a fucking satchel was.”

  “And now you know what a double-pocket zip-top hobo is!” added Marsha, “You are no longer a newbie! You’re an official Hand-bag Connoisseur!”

  Handbag Connoisseur.

  Not exactly something I’d ever thought I’d become.

  But what choice did I have at that point? It was a good thing I had Angels in the Handbag Jungle. Otherwise the $3,000 glazed anaconda-skin multipocket satchel named Brutus would have eaten me alive.

  Instead I sold it to a woman after I told her it was this year’s It Bag on the Paris runways.

  Falling Down Mount Fancy

  One afternoon, I happened to arrive in the parking structure at the same time as Marsha, who was my fellow closer for that day. We walked together, talking about everything from her cats to my screenwriting. Our lighthearted chitchat ended when we reached the brown door where Mount Fancy waited silently, ominously.

  “Sweet mother of God, here we go,” sighed Marsha.

  I entered the security code, waited for the click, and we both entered leg-lifting hell.

  Then our jaws hit the floor.

  I didn’t hold back. “What the fuck?”

  The steel carpeted mountain had been transformed into a birthday party.

  Apparently it was The Big Fancy’s fifty-second year in operation, and Suzy Davis-Satan had spared no expense in reminding us as we climbed. The entryway was awash in ugly yellow and purple balloons with green and white crepe-paper streamers strung everywhere. Suzy’s welcome sign had been replaced with an oversized cheesy party store Happy Birthday card. A huge yellow banner covered the Important People sign: Happy 52nd Birthday, Big Fancy! We Rock! The walls were painted a putrid pea green color, the very same color Linda Blair released all over the carpet in the first Exorcist, with party-themed yellow and purple signs: What can you celebrate this week? Make it a Big Birthday with Big Sales! Have a Cake Walk with Client Capture! The Headless Mannequins were swathed in cheap Happy Birthday wrapping paper and wore pointed yellow party hats where their heads should have been. And at the top of the mountain stood a giant fake cake with fake lavender frosting and a 52 on top.

  As we climbed, I was dumbfounded by the amount of decorating work involved. “Seems like they went to a lot of trouble to do all of this. They could have spent the money installing an elevator.”

  Marsha let out a cackle as we trudged up the third flight of stairs. “Hon, that will never happen. This company is too cheap to spend money on something to make our lives easier. It’s been this way ever since the store opened.”

  “I just don’t understand it. How could they have designed an employee entrance full of stairs? Shouldn’t this be against the law? Why haven’t they been reported to OSHA?”

  “Ha! OSHA! That’ll be the day. Did you know that nearly all The Big Fancy Stores have stairs in the employee entrances?”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope,” said Marsha gripping the handrail. “This store has the most. Almost all Big Fancies have them. It’s because of Mr. Lou.”

  I figured she was talking about one of The Big Fancy’s executives. For some ridiculous reason they like to be called Mr. with their first name after it. Kinda creepy if you ask me.

  “Who is Mr. Lou?”

  “Hon, don’t you remember the training video?”

  “I think I slept through most of it.”

  “Freeman, he’s the founder of The Big Fancy.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah.”

  On the fifth platform, we passed the birthday-paper-wrapped Headless Mannequins with their yellow party hat heads, and Marsha let out a gasp, “What the hell are they supposed to be?”

  “Party Animal Mannequins, I guess. I hope they don’t start dancing.”

  “You got that right,” said Marsha as we lumbered up the sixth flight. “
Anyway, Mr. Lou is an absolute pig. He was visiting the store once and came into the handbag department pretending to look for something for his wife. The scumbag asked me if I wanted to go to dinner in his hotel room. You believe that? Dinner in his hotel room! Sleazy sonofabitch! His wife had just given birth in Des Moines, to Mr. Michael.”

  “CEO, President Mr. Michael?”

  “That’s the one. I’m dating myself now,” she said, wheezing and white-knuckling the handrail.“His father, Mr. Lou, was a walking hardon. He had mistresses at all the stores. I could tell you stories. . . .”

  When we got to the seventh platform, Marsha stopped for a moment to catch her breath before resuming.

  “Are you okay, Marsha?”

  “This is my bad spot. Two more flights. But I’m a tough old broad. I’ll make it.” Marsha steadied herself with the railing while trying to regain her composure. “All these damn stairs were Mr. Lou’s idea,” she gasped, “The bastard had builders install stairs in all the Big Fancy employee entrances because he felt the employees needed to get a little exercise each day before our shifts to work off our fat.”

  “Work off your fat? No way!”

  “Yes way, hon. His exact words at an employee meeting. I’m afraid so.”

  “What an ass. It’s not like we can wear workout clothes and tennis shoes to work!”

  Marsh wheezed as we started up the seventh flight. “Apparently, he wasn’t happy with the way many of The Big Fancy’s salespeople looked. He felt most were out of shape and needed to work off a few pounds. Mr. Lou was really into fitness, a big lover of Jack LaLanne. Before Mr. Lou dropped dead of a heart attack, he made his sons swear they would keep building Employee Entrance stairs. They built this store a short time later, and his sons wanted to pay tribute. Mr. Michael christened these very stairs Lou’s Big Workout.”

  “What an evil bastard,” I said, panting like a golden retriever tired of fetching, “I’m surprised there isn’t a sign when you walk in that says LOU’S BIG WORKOUT!”

  “Funny thing about that! There used to be one! Suzy didn’t like it. She felt it was too uninspiring so she replaced it with that fake feel-good- family-jewel garbage.”