Retail Hell: How I Sold My Soul to the Store

by Freeman Hall

  Somewhere on the Other Side of the World.

  Every time I ran into her, I wished she’d just go back there.

  I don’t even think her real name was Patty. It probably had twenty letters and was even more unpronounceable than her last name. Like so many foreigners who take up residence in the good ole U.S. of A., Patty probably picked an easy American first name so people could remember her.

  Unfortunately, I would have remembered her without an easy American first name.

  Hunched over and disheveled, with clumpy hair the color of dirty hay, Patty scavenged the store like vermin in search of free garbage. She drove us all crazy, asking for discounts on everything, trying to get more discounts on things that were already on sale, and wanting discount adjustments on items she had purchased months before. None of us knew what Patty did with all the discount bags she bought. Jules concluded she was returning them to other Big Fancy Stores, while Marsha believed her to be one of those out-of-control hoarders we’ve all seen on talk shows. Whatever the case, Patty was clearly a candidate for Shopaholics Anonymous.

  Although I despised the actions of Discount Rats like Patty, I understood their persistence and desire to save money. We all love to get stuff on sale and often go to extremes trying to get discounts. I’ve had Cammie keep a pair of $200 jeans on hold for me past the allowed three-day limit so I could wait and see if they got marked down to a price just shy of free.

  Okay, that was slightly underhanded, but, what the hell, I wasn’t bothering anyone, just waiting for a markdown. It’s a lot different from badgering a helpless salesperson.

  “Excuse me, do you work here? Is this Kate Spade handbag on sale? If it’s not on sale, can you give me a discount?”

  Whenever a customer asked me for a discount, it always surprised me. How is it they thought I, a lowly Big Fancy salesperson, was authorized to hand out discounts at the whim of a request?

  “Sure! No problem! You bet! How about 50% off! You look like a nice lady; why don’t I go ahead and mark this new Ferragamo 75% off for you? Will that do?”

  Every time I was asked for a discount, my response was the same.

  “The Big Fancy does not give me authorization to discount anything.”

  But that rarely stopped a desperate Discount Rat from haggling.

  “This bag should be discounted!” the Discount Rats whined, “It looks shopworn. There’s a scratch on it. Isn’t there anything you can do for me? I think I saw it on sale at another store.”

  I went into autopilot and repeated myself, “The Big Fancy does not give me authorization to discount anything.”

  The constant daily begging from Discount Rats on patrol at The Big Fancy was nothing compared to an encounter with Patty. She was the Queen of Discount Rats.

  It was like playing a game of Department Store Deal or No Deal, but instead of a numbered briefcase, Patty would pick up a designer handbag and ask, “Is deescount?”

  Every time she did this, I wanted to scream.

  What do you think, Patty, you goddamn Discount Rat? No, there is no fucking deescount. No fucking Deal. The banker has left the building. You’re not getting shit discounted today, Patty! GO AWAY!!!

  “Is NOT deescount,” I always replied.

  Patty didn’t notice my sarcastic mimicry. It was almost as if she didn’t hear me at all.

  “Is deescount?” she repeated, as if I’d suddenly change my mind.

  “NO Patty, is NOT deescount,” I said slower and more forcefully, like someone scolding their dog who wants to eat something gross off the sidewalk.

  Patty would look up at me with her dark, Other Side of the World eyes, ignoring my command, and with a shady smile, she’d try again.

  “Is deescount? Yes! You give me to! I pay it for you! We together it go to up.”

  It would have been so much easier if Patty had gone to night school and learned English. Then we could have at least argued about deescounts in a language I could understand.

  Patty Whatever’s sentences were either simple to understand or made no sense at all.

  “Is for me beautifuls bag, yes. You see me to it.”

  When she rambled incoherently like this, I just stared at her.

  “Is deescount? Give me to?” she asked.

  “No Patty, NOT deescount,” I said back.

  “Pleeeeeez deescount for me. For Patty!”

  “No deescount for Patty, sorry.”

  “Is scratched! Deescount scratch!”

  “We don’t give deescounts for scratches.”

  “You nice man, you gives to Patty percentages of twenty deescount?”

  “Patty, I can’t give you any percentages.”

  “Little percentages?”

  “No.”

  “Is deescount twenty dollars?”

  “No.”

  “Ten dollars?”

  “No.”

  Then Patty Whatever would give up, drop the handbag she had been trying to get discounted, look around briefly, and pick up another bag.

  “Is deescount?”

  This was about the time I would start looking for another customer to wait on before I ended up strangling myself with the chain from a Chanel handbag.

  Although I’ve never given Patty any kind of unauthorized discount, she never gave up and often resorted to desperate tactics.

  She would wink at me. Smile at me. Bat her eyes. Pet my shoulder. Giggle. Ask how I am doing. Compliment me on my tie. Tell me how nice I am. Offer to buy me coffee.

  “You drink? You want from place?” Patty would ask, pointing to the Coffee Bar.

  All in the name of trying to crack my NO-deescount standing.

  One day Patty showed up at the counter flashing a deceitful mousy smile. “Candies for you,” she said, dropping a handful of what looked like saltwater taffies on the glass countertop. “You take. I like you.”

  I stared at her candies. They weren’t saltwater taffies. They had weird colorful wrappings and foreign words written on them.

  Candies from somewhere on the Other Side of the World.

  Oh my god! I am not going to eat that! For all I know, they could be laced with some sort of drug that would overcome me instantly, making me so delirious I’d give Patty all the deescounts she wanted. Go for it, Patty! Deescounts away! How about 75% off everything! Or I could just stuff several shopping bags and give you everything free.

  Patty eagerly waited for me to eat the candies.

  I fingered them, trying to figure out what they were. Cyanide and Date-Rape Drug flashed through my mind. No. Not eating them.

  I am not putting anything in my mouth that came from your hands. No. Fucking. Way.

  I showed my appreciation with a shit-pleasing smile.

  “Thank you, Patty. You’re so thoughtful. I’ll save them for later.”

  Patty’s shifty eyes tried to read me, watching intently as I scooped up the brightly colored candies in one hand, opened a drawer under the register, and dropped them inside.

  Patty was disappointed.

  Why does she want me to eat the candies so badly? Maybe they ARE laced with something?

  I considered calling mall authorities.

  Patty’s candies stayed in the drawer until she wandered off. Then they went directly into the trash under the register.

  Besides wanting a discount on everything, one of the other reasons Discount Rat Patty was overly nice to me was because of all the shady returning and exchanging she did so often.

  My impatience with her had come to such a breaking point, sometimes it was easier to just give her what she wanted if it was within Big Fancy’s Customer Service Rules.

  Like the yellow DKNY handbag she bought at 25% off a month ago. We had another one on our clearance table that had just been marked down to 50% off, and of course, the Discount Rat sniffed it out during her afternoon burrow.

  “Is deescount more! You give deescount more to me, for Patty’s.”

  She pulled her own yellow DKNY out of a tatte
red Big Fancy shopping bag.

  “Is deescount more! Patty want!”

  Technically, there is only a two-week turnaround for adjustments.

  Unless you’re Patty Whatever.

  “Sure Patty, I give you 25 percent more deescount on your DKNY.”

  Patty looked like she was going to kiss me. Thank God for the counter blocking the way. That would have been way worse than eating one of her candies.

  It was a good thing I gave Patty her deescount on the DKNY, though.

  If I had said no to Patty, she would have returned the one in her bag and bought the one on the sale table, causing me to do more work on the register.

  Or she would have complained to Suzy Davis-Johnson, like she did when Judy wouldn’t give her a price adjustment for a Juicy Couture bag she had bought six months earlier. Suzy admonished Judy, telling her that as a manager she should have accommodated Patty because she was a regular customer.

  “There are times we have to bend the rules for our best customers,” Suzy said.

  Discount Rat Patty Whatever was in the store several times a week, but I really couldn’t see how she fell into the “best customers” category.

  Sneaky and conniving customers maybe, but certainly not best.

  Aside from Suzy Davis-Satan’s decree of letting Patty have price adjustments after the time limit had expired, there were other instances when she lost and did not get deescounts.

  Like when the old Coach handbag she bought last fall never went on sale because it was popular and sold out. Patty thought that since so much time had passed, surely it was on sale by that time.

  “No Patty, this is not deescount,” I said, overjoyed because I was the one who had sold her the Coach bag last fall, and I sure as hell did not want to give my commission back to Big Fancy.

  “You check for me,” said Patty, grinning.

  “I’ve scanned it twice, Patty. It’s not on sale. No deescount.”

  “I later try,” she responded, putting the receipt in her wallet.

  Then there was the time she tried to get a second price adjustment.

  “Patty, you have already received a discount on this bag.”

  “Is deescount more? You give me more deescount!”

  “No Patty. You are only allowed one deescount.”

  And there was the time she wanted a Kenneth Cole handbag on sale, so she claimed she got it off the clearance table. She pointed to the sale sign on the table and then the Kenneth Cole.

  “Is deescount! Is sale! You give Patty!”

  “No Patty, it’s not on sale. Someone dumped it on the table.”

  Again she pointed to the sale sign on the table and then the Kenneth Cole.

  “Says deescount! Is sale!”

  I took the bag from her hands, walked over to where the other Kenneth Coles were displayed, and pointed at them.

  “IS NOT ON SALE! IS NOT DEESCOUNT!”

  Forcefully, I plopped the bag down on the shelf with the others.

  Patty didn’t say a word after that.

  But the slippery antics of Discount Rat Patty never stopped.

  By far, the most underhanded thing Patty had ever tried on her quest for a deescount was when she asked me to buy a Burberry tote with my employee discount.

  It was a quiet Monday morning, and she had signaled for me to assist her in the Burberry shop. When I reached her, she was petting the tote like it was a mink coat, proclaiming, “Is beautiful. Patty loves! Have a must!”

  I sighed. Any second the “Is deescount?” was coming.

  “I have offer,” she said, “I give you money. You buy Burberry with, how you say, employee deescount. I meet you in parking arena. Pay you ten dollars. Is good for you? You do for Patty?”

  Either someone had coached her or Patty had started night school. It was the only thing ever to come out of her mouth that made sense to me.

  In a Nasty-Ass Thief sort of way.

  Meet her in the parking structure? Use my employee discount for her? So Patty Whatever can get a deescount? And she’ll pay me ten bucks? I wouldn’t walk to the escalator for ten bucks. And certainly not for her! What is this loon’s problem?

  “Patty, I am not allowed to use my employee discount for you.”

  “Is okay. You do for Patty. Is good, yes?”

  “No Patty, is not good. I can get into trouble.”

  “No trouble. We meet in parking arena.”

  “We are not meeting anywhere. I can’t. The answer is N.O.! NO!”

  “I take you lunch? You like? Where you want to go?”

  “Patty, I can get fired for letting you use my discount.”

  “No one know. Only you and me.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Pleeeez! You help Patty, I help you. Is secret. Yes?”

  “No, Patty, not gonna happen. You can’t use my deescount.”

  “Patty love Burberry. To want badly.”

  The department phone started to ring.

  Thank you, Retail Gods!

  It was one of those few times I looked forward to dealing with whatever problem would blast out of the phone line. Sometimes it was all about trading one nightmare for another in Retail Hell.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I have to get the phone, Patty.”

  I left her to salivate over the Burberry she was not getting my deescount on.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Patty had hit up for an employee discount.

  Cammie, Marsha, Jules, and Tiffany had all been courted.

  If I ever chatted with Douche or Marci about Patty, which I didn’t, I would imagine they’d also been approached as well. We all had to wait on her at one time or another.

  When I asked Cammie about her experience with Patty’s devious deescount request, she got pissed: “I told the fucking bitch to fuck off and get the fuck out of my face before I called security and had her fat ass thrown out of the store.”

  “Did you really say that to her?”

  “Damn straight I did. I’ve fucking had it with that skanky little rat.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She just stared at me because she’s a fucking bitch.”

  Patty probably didn’t know the word fuck.

  Marsha said she’d laughed in Patty’s face when prodded for use of her discount.

  “Hon, I’d like to keep my job. I’m retiring soon. You know what retirement is?”

  I doubt Patty knew that word either.

  Tiffany told me she gave Patty the formal Big Fancy textbook response: “It is a violation of The Big Fancy employment expectations for employees to utilize their discount for anyone else but themselves. Noncompliance results in immediate termination.”

  A whole bunch of words Patty probably didn’t know.

  “Did she understand all that?” I said.

  “I don’t think so. She sort of just stared at me,” replied Tiffany.

  Jules was clever when handling Patty’s desire to obtain an employee discount. She quickly brushed off the request, rushed to the clearance table, and showed Patty a similar handbag with a big reduction. “Our employee discount is only 19 percent. This bag is 50 percent off, and it’s gorgeous!”

  “Did she buy the bag?” I asked Jules.

  “What do you think?” she replied, “Like a rat to cheese.”

  I had a quandary: Should I do what Cammie did and tell her to fuck off? Laugh at her like Marsha? Waste my time trying to talk her into another bag like Jules?

  So many options for Discount Rat extermination. But would any of them work?

  I was hoping that Patty would leave while I was handling the call, but when I finished, she was right there, gazing up at me with the plaid Burberry handbag in her hand.

  “Is deescount for Patty now. You give to me your percentages,” she said, flashing her ratty smile.

  Since Patty didn’t seem to understand anyone else’s answer, I decided to speak in her own fucked up language.

  “Is NO employee deesc
ount for Patty. Is no good. Is no okay. Very, Very, BAD. Patty go to JAIL if use my deescount. Police. Crime. Prison. Big Fancy no like Patty percentages off with deescount. PATTY GO TO JAIL!”

  Her face flushed with worry.

  “JAIL! Patty not go jail! Ack! Oh my. No, no, no, no, NO!!!”

  Patty handed me the Burberry bag and ran off.

  Finally I had found a word she knew.

  Jail.

  The Two Virginias

  Meet Virginia . . . and Virginia. Both haunted The Big Fancy on a daily basis. No, they weren’t ghosts. Unfortunately, they were customers. But I wish they had been ghosts! I’d have shooed them away with rice or garlic or burning sage.

  Virginia Number One was Retired. Virginia Number Two was Crazy. Retired Virginia was in her late sixties. Widowed. A former bank teller. Crazy Virginia was in her early fifties. Single. Mentally insane. The Two Virginias were polar opposites.

  Retired Virginia had bouffant hair the color of gray flannel topping an overly powdered face with too much bright makeup, reminding me of a manic Marie Antoinette. Her clothes were classic, moderately priced designer knit suits, sweater sets, gabardine slacks, and low-heeled dress shoes. And no matter what she wore, a glistening gold cross hung proudly from her neck.

  Crazy Virginia had gray-brown frizzy hair the color of dried dog shit over a bloated, pockmarked face with black bean eyes. Her wardrobe consisted of a green-and-blue plaid flannel shirt with holes, light gray sweatpants, and dirty white tennis shoes. Like Retired Virginia, Crazy Virginia also had a cross hanging from her neck, though hers was much smaller and not as shiny.

  Crazy Virginia wore the same outfit every single day. The only thing that made me not think of her as a homeless person was the fact that her ratty clothes were laundered, she didn’t stink, and on occasion I’d see her wearing light makeup.

  Retired Virginia carried brand-name handbags, and many of them had been purchased from me, usually during sales. Retired Virginia had sophisticated old-lady fashion flair.

  Crazy Virginia didn’t carry a handbag. Instead, she clutched a ragged, dirty, old teddy bear that looked as if it had barely survived her childhood. She never bought anything from me. Crazy Virginia had no fashion flair whatsoever. Everyone in the store had nicknamed Crazy Virginia Teddy Bear Lady.