by Freeman Hall
“GOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING!” Cowgirl Suzy blurted out into the mike. “HOW IS EVERYONE THIS MORNING?”
I’m still sweating, my ears hurt, my palms are turning red from clapping, my clothes are dirty and wet, my heading is pounding, and I’m actually thinking about opening the box of Hot Tamales. That’s how I am, Suzy, thanks for asking.
A few claps and grunts greeted her back. She was not thrilled.
“OH, COME ON, PEOPLE! SOMEBODY DIDN’T TAKE THEIR POSITIVE PILLS TODAY! I KNOW YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT! GIVE ME SOME NOISE. EVERYBODY WAAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUP!!!”
How can she think we’re not awake after techno music and the Stephanator forcing everyone to clap? I am so awake right now I could jump off the roof and pretend to fly. I’ll never sleep again.
As if an applause sign had lit up, the studio audience obeyed instantly, clapping and whooping. My eardrums pleaded with me to take them away from this bad, bad place.
“THAT’S MORE LIKE IT!!! HOW ARE Y’ALL TODAY?” asked Suzy Satan.
“Well let me just tell you how I am! I’ve been to spinning class this morning and I am OVERFLOWING WITH ENERGY! WOOHOOOOOOO!!! Today I want to talk about SMILING! Smiles are the motivating essence in life. You are never fully dressed without a smile. You should never leave the house without smiling and always come to work with a smile. Smiles are contagious! To-day I want everyone to SMILE! And I want you all to think about smiling and what it does for you. Smile at people walking by your department. Smile at your customers. Smile at each other. Heck, just SMILE! THAT’S WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT, PEOPLE! LET’S SEE SOME SMILES OUT THERE!”
What the hell? Where did all this smiling bullshit come from? Her Chicken Soup for the Soul desk calendar? She makes it sound like we can grab one at the 7-Eleven on the way to work.
Nevertheless, Satan had made a command. I smiled so hard my face felt like it was going to split in half. Cammie looked like Elmo.
“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, PEOPLE!” she gloated into the mike, with an oversized, eerie cartoon grin, “DOESN’T IT FEEL GREAT! DON’T YOU JUST LOVE SMILING?”
Around the room, everyone smiled, from ear to ear. We were all smiling happy faces. Cammie and I turned to each other with our huge, unnatural, fraudulent smiles. Through her clenched-teeth smile, she uttered, “I can’t ucking elieve this!” Through my own clenched-teeth smile, I responded, “She is ucking insane!”
For the next twenty minutes we were in Big Fancy Retail Rally Hell.
We had to listen to Satan complain about the figures and service. (She wasn’t smiling.)
Then Stephanator yelled out the names of The Big Fancy’s Top Ten Salespeople and the Top Departments with increases — it was a list that never seemed to stop, and we had to clap for each one. My palms hurt.
Then Satan went back to lecturing us about multiple sales, approaching customers within thirty seconds, blah, blah, blah. During the entire rally, all I could do was look over to the Handbag Jungle in the distance. It looked like a designer cargo plane had crash-landed.
Finally, at 9:55, Satan belched out her closing address:
“I WANT TO MAKE SURE EVERYONE IS HIGHLY MOTIVATED AND DEDICATED TO WIN! I know I am! I want to see lots of bright, shiny SMILING faces today! HAVE A RIP-ROARIN’ ROCKIN’ DAY, EVERYBODY!”
Cammie and I bolted for the Handbag Jungle.
“JUST THROW ALL THE SHIT INTO BOXES AND WE’LL PUSH IT BACK,” she shouted in a panic, “I have no fuckin’ idea where any of it is going.”
The store doors opened. Customers poured through, making their way down the main aisle, awkwardly sidestepping over handbags and boxes. One lady bent over, picked up a Dooney bag and said, “Are you guys having a special sale today?”
Suddenly, the Stephanator appeared out of nowhere and screamed, “FREEMAN! MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THE STORE IS OPEN!”
I just stared at her.
Did the Megatron monster think I was unaware of that? WOO-FUCKING-HOOOOOO!
“Dig in Stephanie, there’s plenty to go around,” I answered.
Her fiber-optic eyes seared into me as she snapped, “If you and Cammie had gotten your work done before the rally started, you wouldn’t be in this position. I’ll be having a conversation with Suzy about it.”
“GO RIGHT AHEAD,” Cammie shouted from behind her, “And while you’re at it, tell her we need a stock person, LIKE A NORMAL STORE!”
I turned a box on its side to scoop up a bunch of DKNY wallets and stacked five boxes in two rows. Then I bent over and pushed them, like a broken-down car, down the aisle leading to the double doors that opened into our stock area.
My face flushed red. Stephanie pissed me off.
If we had gotten our work done before the rally! She has no fucking clue what we have to go through every hateful morning here. I think I’ll go accidentally spill coffee all over her desk when no one is looking.
When I came out of the stockroom, it was a freakin’ retail riot. Cammie, along with salespeople and managers from Women’s Shoes, scurried around, picking up handbags and wallets. The Stephanator had taken command and barked orders: “THE STORE IS OPEN, YOU GUYS! WE HAVE TO GET THIS DONE!”
I watched with a sigh as they haphazardly threw handbags and wallets behind the Corral and behind the door of our stockroom. It would take all day for us to clean up the mess.
In her whirlwind to control, Stephanie violently snatched up a bunch of Coach bags and heaved them over the counter with bionic force. A $698 black leather Coach satchel flew through the air without wings. The Coach went airborne, sailing across the Corral, eventually hitting the top of the register, bouncing down it, and smacking the tape dispenser before disappearing from sight.
The Stephanator ran down the aisle, hysterical, head completely up her ass.
She had no clue about the murder she’d committed.
I rushed behind the Corral. The $698 Coach bag had fallen in the metal trash bin under the register. A horrible deep scrape marred the front leather flap above the buckle.
Ruined. The Coach was dead. Caught in the destructive path of a short-circuiting Retail Droid. No woman would want it now. Not even marked down.
Killed by an out-of-control store secretary and Scotch tape dispenser.
Before I could decide on how to handle the burial arrangements for the deceased $698 Coach bag, a customer ambled up to the counter and scrutinized it.
“Oh my,” she said, “that beautiful bag has an awful scratch on it!”
I tossed her my shit-pleasing retail smile and said, “How may I help you this morning?”
She put a shopping bag on the counter and said, “I want to return this.” I looked inside. A $1,500 Marc Jacobs stared up at me. One that I had sold.
Sonofabitch. Now I’m starting the day in a financial hole.
Around me the Handbag department churned like a stormy sea.
Another customer asked one of the helping managers about a bag thrown behind the counter.
Another customer needing help hailed me from the end of the Corral.
Suzy was now on the scene, and Stephanie yapped at her wildly about the handbag mess.
Cammie got pissed and jumped into the fray, yelling at Suzy.
The phone started ringing.
A trickle of sweat slid down my forehead.
My clothes were damp, dirty, and disheveled.
My ears were ringing.
My palms had turned bright red.
My stomach felt like it was housing an alien.
Techno dance music banged away in my head.
And my Rip-Roarin’ Rockin’ Day had only just begun.
Polly Wants to Talk
My first official Big Fancy Shopper Stalker was a woman I never met. She did all her shopper stalking over the phone.
“Hi, Mr. Freeman, how are yooou?”
That was how every single phone call started with Polly.
Polly was a Crazy Lady who loved to call me Mr. Freeman and ask, “How are yooooou?
” like she was some kind of freaky ghost.
My unwanted hella-communication with her started because I was the unlucky idiot who picked up her call. Abiding by Big Fancy Customer Service Phone Etiquette, I happily assisted her for a good hour as she interrogated me about the brands we carried, the styles, and what was new.
Fresh out of Handbag-Selling School with Jules, Cammie, and Marsha, I was eager to nail as many sales as possible — over the phone or otherwise. In Polly’s case, she decided on Fendi because her coworker had one and she loved my story about the Fendi sisters, so she had me put five handbags on hold.
That was the first night.
Every night after that she continued to call, wanting to know what was new and wanting me to describe the bags I had on hold for her over and over. I tried to get her to come in or buy them over the phone, but Polly told me she didn’t have a car or credit card and she liked to pay only in cash. I thought this was strange because Polly also told me she was a nurse at a big hospital in downtown L.A. Nurses make fairly good money, way better than Retail Slaves, and she was telling me she was a nurse without a car or credit card? Something wasn’t right.
I smell a bored bloodsucker with Mr. Freeman as her evening entertainment.
POLLY: “Mr. Freeman, are yooou there?”
ME: “Yes, Polly, I’m here.”
POLLY: “Do you still have my five Fendi bags on hold?”
ME: “Yes, Polly, they are all on my hold shelf, and I’ve extended it until Saturday.”
POLLY: “Wonderful, Mr. Freeman. Could yooou go and get them; I have some questions.”
Me: “Polly, when can you come into the store? I’ve had them on hold for two weeks now.”
POLLY: “I’m not sure. It’s very difficult for me.”
Every time Polly called, I wanted to fucking scream. Right into the phone! But I didn’t. Giving Excellent Customer Service is our priority. When Judy bitched at me for holding the Fendis for so long, I told her the situation, and she snapped, “You need to get her in here to buy, or I’m putting the bags back, and I better not get any calls from Suzy about this woman being upset. This is your customer and I want you to take care of it. Got it?”
Yes, General. I got it.
ME: “My manager keeps asking me when you’re coming in, Polly.”
POLLY: “My hours at the hospital are long, and I don’t drive, and I live in downtown Los Angeles. I told yooou last week I don’t drive, Mr. Freeman. Now please go get my bags. I’m not sure about the pockets. I’d like yooou to measure each pocket, tell me their dimen-sions, and describe what they are made out of, whether or not it’s the Fendi material or tan leather. After that I’d like yooou to tell me the story again about the Fendi sisters. Did they have any children or pets? Find that out for me please, Mr. Freeman.”
I’M GONNA FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE AND GET A COURT ORDER TO HAVE YOU COMMITTED, YOU FUCKING CRAZY BITCH!!!
ME: “Yes, Polly.”
As I put her on hold, I saw Douche ringing up a $1,700 Burberry, Marci selling a $435 Signature Coach, and Tiffany showing a $600 Isabella Fiore with a matching $200 wallet. For the next hour I would be talking to a ghost over the phone. No sales for me.
The best I could do was pray that a track light fell out of the ceiling and knocked me out.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
CALLER: “Hi, Mr. Freeman, how are yooou?”
Polly had called so many times, I was afraid to answer the fucking phone.
ME: “Hi Polly. I’m fine.”
POLLY: “Did you get anything new in today?”
ME: “No, I’m sorry, Polly, we didn’t.” (I lied.)
POLLY: “Do yooou still have my Fendi bags?”
ME: “Yes, Polly. When are yooou coming into the store?”
POLLY: “I don’t know, Mr. Freeman. I’m working on it, like I told yooou, it’s hard for me to get to your store. Perhaps I can catch a cab or something.”
I wanted to scream. The crazy phone-calling loon had told me over and over again she was going to come into the store.
Judy went on the warpath and yelled at me for ten minutes because I wasn’t able to push Polly into buying the Fendi bags crowding my hold shelf for the last month. “I WANT THEM GONE, FREEMAN! GOT IT?”
Tiffany suggested that I talk to Security to see if they could do anything about my phone stalker. They said unless she’d made violent threats, the only thing I could do was continue answering the phone.
I asked the Customer Service manager how I should handle Polly, and he said, “I’m not touching that one with a twenty-foot Fendi! Ha-ha!”
I don’t know what was so funny.
Jules suggested I go to the head honcho for advice. Suzy Satan smiled like she related to my plight as I bitched about holding everything and losing sales. But when I asked her how I could nicely get rid of Polly, she cast me a worried look and said, “We don’t get rid of any potential customers here at The Big Fancy. We are all about giving the best customer service possible. Sometimes you have to give to the community without expecting anything back. Just go with the flow. I’m sure this lady will get bored and stop calling eventually.”
After my powwow with Suzy, Cammie said, “Why the fuck did you go to her? She makes us wait on homeless people! What you need to do is to tell the bloodsucker to leave you the fuck alone or you’re going to burn down her motherfucking house.” As usual, Cammie had the best advice, but the question was how could I tell Polly to get lost without her complaining to Suzy Davis-Johnson that I had burned down her house?
POLLY: “Mr. Freeman? Are yooou there?”
ME: “Yes, Polly, I’m here.”
POLLY: “Great! I want to talk about wallets. What kind of wallets do you carry? I’ll need to know exactly how many pockets each wal-let has. Does Fendi have matching wallets? Anything new? What kind of wallets do yooou like, Mr. Freeman?”
ME: “Yes, Polly, we have matching Fendi wallets.”
I felt a smack on the back of my head.
Compliments of Cammie.
Big Nightmare #1
Even though The Big Fancy had me by the neck with a leather shoulder strap, I knew that if I wanted out of Retail Hell, I’d better get my ass in gear and write that Million-Dollar Screenplay. Writers are supposed to write.
That’s easier said than done when you work retail.
Every week my schedule felt like a vomit-inducing thrill ride at Magic Mountain amusement park, except that I was anything but amused. I’d open, then close, then open, then work a mid-shift (11-8), then open, then close. Which shifts and days I worked would change at the drop of a handbag, based on whatever drama was going down in the department. More times than I could count, Judy begged me to stay late and come in early, and then demanded I attend all meetings and seminars on my days off. Just like during my days in Reno, the Store was taking over my life.
One afternoon, my good Retail Droid behavior paid off. Judy said I could leave at 4:00. The plan was to go directly home — as fast as I could — and channel the writing genius of Stephen King.
Unfortunately, my plan and The Big Fancy’s plan rarely matched up.
At 3:55 I found myself all alone while chaos ensued. Tiffany was still at lunch. The phone rang nonstop. Customers were everywhere. A woman demanded to have her old Coach handbag repaired. A young girl wanted to return a Burberry tote that I’d never seen before. (Of course she had no receipts.) And an elderly lady insisted I call Big Fancy stores to locate five identical $38 evening bags because she needed them for a wedding in two days. The firestorm of handbag hell consumed me.
Until 6:30.
Although I was pissed off at not being able to leave early and cursing the fact that I had to stay late, as I descended Mount Fancy’s fifth flight, I made a vow not to give up.
“I’m still going to write,” I shouted down the hollow stairwell of Mount Fancy.
“I’m still going to write,” I mumbled to myself repeatedly as I got into my car.
�
�I’m still going to write,” I said out loud as I hit a road closure for a movie premiere at Hollywood and Highland and was trapped in traffic for an hour.
“I’m still going to write,” I bitched through clenched teeth as it took twenty-five minutes for me to get my dinner at a Jack in the Box drive-through because the car in front of me was an SUV holding twelve people.
“I’M STILL GOING TO WRITE, YOU FUCKERS!” I yelled out my car window while circling my apartment building for fifteen minutes trying to find a parking space.
By the time I opened my front door, it was 8:30. I could have screamed.
But instead, I calmly said, “I’m still going to write!”
A half-hour later, after gobbling down my Ultimate Cheeseburger and checking e-mail, I opened the screenwriting program.
All ready to write.
It was three hours later than planned, but hey, I had faced retail adversity in the eye!
Ha ha, Big Fancy. You did not get all of my energy.
“I’m still going to write!” I said out loud and proud.
Within seconds my script appeared on the screen, awaiting my creative brilliance.
But it never showed up.
Twenty minutes later, I slumped in my desk chair almost to the point of falling out. There was not a single word or vision in my brain. It had been deep-fried by The Big Fancy, and I couldn’t find the backup generator.
Maybe I just need a break. A short, little break. I’m not giving up. I’m still going to write!
To relieve my writer’s block, I listened to Green Day and played AstroPop on my computer, mindlessly blasting bricks to make points. After reaching 70,000, I figured I’d better write. But then I had the munchies. After eating half a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and watching several episodes of Scrubs, it was after midnight. Time was quickly slipping away.
But I held firm to my dream.
I decided at that late hour, I was still going to write, dammit, even though I was getting sleepy. I took a deep breath and forced my fingers into typing position on the keyboard. My eyes focused on the white screen, and I told myself to write.
