by Freeman Hall
Some of Cammie and Freeman’s Fucked-Up Christmas Song transformations:
“Let It Snow” to “What a Ho!”
“Most Wonderful Time of the Year” to “It’s the Most Fucked-Up Time of the Year.”
“Silver Bells” to “Satan’s Balls . . . It’s Time to Drink in the City” (dedicated to Suzy).
“Winter Wonderland” to “Slaving in a Winter Horrorland.”
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to “Have Yourself a Shitty Fucking Christmas.”
So while we were popping out wallet boxes, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” began warbling over our heads for the gazillionth annoying time. Cammie came up with the best lyrics ever, singing, “I’m dreaming . . . of a black penis . . . just like the big ones I used to know. . . .”
I almost hit the floor with laughter. We then got silly singing our new words, and as the song came to an end, we telepathically finished it off together like we were Big Fancy’s Sonny and Cher: “. . . and may all your penises be black!”
Suddenly, our retailicious holiday game was brought to a halt.
“CAN I GET SOME HELP AROUND HERE?” a voice screamed behind me, followed by a loud sneeze.
I turned around and came face to face with a craggy old white-haired woman who looked like the Burgermeister in Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. She wore thick brown glasses and some sort of a peach-colored crocheted shawl, and she was carrying a cane and a poinsettia-covered box of Kleenex.
My eyes couldn’t help but go straight to the poinsettia-covered box of Kleenex.
What in Christmas hell was this lady doing wandering around a department store with a box of tissues under her arm? We didn’t sell Kleenex, so I knew she wasn’t going to ask me to ring them up.
Unfortunately, the troubling mystery revealed itself all too quickly. I observed a gallon of snot dripping from her nostrils. Only it wasn’t just dripping — it was pouring out. Like a nosebleed. Like molten lava flowing out of a volcano. As fast as she wiped, the clear liquid poured.
I couldn’t help but stare in astonishment.
Then she sneezed and coughed, forcing me to back up.
This lady shouldn’t be shopping, she should be in bed! Or in a damn hospital! Or quarantined underground. On an island. Far, far away from me!
My next shock came seconds later, watching this disgusting creature reach out with her wet, snot-covered fingers and fondle a black Perlina shoulder bag hanging on a nearby fixture.
“I need to find a new black bag,” said the sickly woman.
I actually heard Cammie gasp the minute her phlegmy hands touched it. My mind was going a hundred miles a minute.
Run, Freeman! Run like Jamie Lee Curtis did in Halloween! Don’t look back. Cammie is a strong girl. She can save herself.
But before I could even consider running, the Snot Monster screamed at me while coughing, “I NEED YOU TO HELP ME!”
NO WAY! FUCK NO! I’d rather be forced to make Big Fancy gift boxes for the rest of my life!
I considered calling someone. But who? The police? The Centers for Disease Control? An exterminator? I briefly thought about paging Security and telling them there was a problematic customer who needed to be removed from the store. The handbag team had deemed her a public-health threat. But then I remembered what Suzy Davis-Satan had said about Polly.
“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.”
Snot Monster’s flow was going to kill us all.
“I need a new black handbag,” she said bringing a tissue to her runny nose, “And I’m not leaving until I find one!”
“Umm . . . okay . . .” I responded, “if you want to just look around, there are many nice bags over there.” I pointed to the other side of the department, where Marci was circling for sales.
Snot Monster sneezed, spraying splatters of influenza everywhere.
That’s when Cammie tried to leave. “I need to go in the back and . . . uh . . . unpack stock . . .”
“NOT SO FAST!” yelled Snot Monster. “I need your help too. I am a handicapped senior citizen and I require extra service. When I come to The Big Fancy, I often have two people help me. You will hold my cane while I look.”
I slowly took the contaminated stick from the base, thinking that would be the safest place to hold it, but protecting myself from her cooties didn’t matter anyway because Snot Monster fired several sneeze-cough rockets right at me.
I was completely mortified. Even if none of it had landed on me, I was still breathing in her germs.
Oh my God, I’m going to get sick. No! I don’t want to get sick!
Then she turned to Cammie and said, “YOU — gather all the black handbags you can find. I need lots of pockets and zippers and it has to be roomy inside. I also want a new wallet!”
For the next twenty-five minutes Snot Monster ravaged our inventory like she was Godzilla taking New York. She sneezed and coughed nonstop while barking orders at us to show her one bag and wallet after another. Snot Monster left a path of vile slime all over everything, her fingers — wet with clear nostril fluid — touching counters and bags. She pulled tissues from the box, blew her nose, and then stuffed them in the pocket of her housedress, but it was overflowing and many of them fell to the floor. She simply left other snot-soaked tissues on the counter.
No one was spared Snot Monster’s nasal napalm, not even the girls not helping her. Jules walked by and got hit with a sneeze that could only be described as atomic.
Marci was helping a lady with a Burberry and had no idea the Snot Monster had crept up behind her until she heard the loud, wet sneeze launched at the back of her head. When Marci turned around, she looked like she was meeting Freddy Krueger for the first time.
I tried to keep my distance, as the carrier of her death stick, but when Snot Monster needed to see a price tag or the insides of a bag, I had no choice but to touch what she had touched. Finally, Snot Monster’s reign of influenza destruction came to an end as she decided on a black Monsac tote. I let Cammie have the sale because she’d endured the worst in germ warfare, having to interact with her and try on different bags. We could not get the flu freak out of there fast enough. And of course she wanted her fucking bag put in a damn box! (I did that part.)
After Snot Monster left, it was like a scene from the movie Outbreak. Everyone freaked out. We couldn’t find the antibacterial lotion that’s usually on hand, so Cammie announced she was going to the ladies’ lounge and left. Jules followed seconds later. I was about to bail for the men’s room and take a long hot sink bath, but a customer walked up to the Corral to buy a Coach bag and wallet. A sale is a sale, and I took it, even though I felt like I was about to become an influenza poster child.
Marci had a rag and the glass cleaner, attempting to disinfect the place. “I have to clean! I know her germs are everywhere!” she said in her usual yappy annoying way, “We’re all going to get sick. What did you touch, Freeman? Did you touch anything of hers? Were you on the phone? She was all over you. I can’t afford to get sick. Don’t get too close to me.”
I wanted to spray glass cleaner in her face and wipe until she shut the hell up.
The Snot Monster was not my fault. We were all victims!
So, I turned to her and said, “Well at least she didn’t sneeze all over the back of my head.”
“Oh my God! She got some on me, didn’t she? Ewwwww!” Marci yelped.
She dropped the cleaner and ran for the ladies’ lounge, leaving me completely alone.
It doesn’t matter what time of day it is from December 17 to December 27; if you’re a Retail Slave left alone at a counter, hell will come.
And mine did.
Within seconds there were five customers needing help, and of course, the phone started ringing.
That’s when the General walked up and had a hissy fit.
“FREE-MAN! WHERE IS EVERYBO
DY!?”
“They went to the ladies’ lounge,” I replied, handing a customer a shopping bag.
“ALL FOUR OF THEM?”
I was about to explain, but Judy got involved with one of the waiting customers, at which point she saw several of the Snot Monster’s tissues on the floor.
“And what are all these tissues doing all over the place?” she demanded, running to pick them up. “Suzy is on her way down and this place is a mess. I can’t even go to lunch without everything falling apart.”
Judy scrunched the tissues in her hand and held them while talking to the customer. I knew I should have warned her, but all I could do was cringe and stare. I’d had to touch Snot Monster’s cane of Black Death. Judy might as well have the tissues.
Just then Venezuela came back from her break. Seconds didn’t pass before she came up to me rubbing her fingers and saying, “Did someone spill water over by the Perlina? It’s all wet.”
Two days later, everyone was sick.
Even the people who didn’t work that day. They got it from the rest of us.
And as the holidays wore on, we probably gave the Snot Monster plague back to half the customers.
The Snot Monster’s gift is a gift that keeps on giving. Whether you want to receive it or not!
People were calling in sick, while others, like myself, were living on flu remedies. I made Theraflu–Jack Daniels cocktails after every shift and pretty much canceled Christmas, spending every moment I was outside The Big Fancy lying comatose in bed.
Three weeks after the Snot Monster had attacked the Handbag Jungle, I still felt like shit. With Inventory right around the corner, General Judy made it clear to us that if any one of us called in sick on Inventory, we should start calling around for a new job.
So I broke down and went to see the doctor.
My influenza had turned into bronchitis.
Thanks so much, Snot Monster! I guess you gave me the best gift of all!
The doc gave me meds so I didn’t miss Inventory.
But my cough stuck around till March.
Cock in a Box
After-Christmas returns suck no matter which department or store you work in. At The Big Fancy, our biggest problem with postholiday returns was women attempting to get refunds on bags and wallets that weren’t from our store but were packaged in Big Fancy boxes. It wasn’t a pretty scene telling a woman that the ugly green vinyl handbag her husband got her came from the Dollar Store.
One afternoon Piggy Shopper Raelene Reynolds flip-flopped her way up to the counter, wanting to return a Kenneth Cole handbag inside a Big Fancy gift box. She had bought it as a gift for her mother. “Yah, bought this in San Diego. It’s too nice for her,” Piggy Raelene said, followed by a sip from her Big Gulp. “She’ll just ruin it. Besides, I’m pissed at her right now. If she behaves herself, maybe I’ll come back and pick something else out.”
I decided not to ask any further questions. I was not interested in Raelene’s bitch-fest about her mother.
She placed a shopping bag containing the gift box on the counter.
As I took the gift box out, the seemingly empty shopping bag tipped over.
A cockroach the size of my big toe crawled out.
I jolted back.
Raelene acted like she didn’t see it, turning her attention to a tray of Juicy Couture cosmetic bags on the opposite side of the counter. “Yah, do these come in purple?”
Don’t try and act like you didn’t see that. You’ve just unleashed a giant bug in The Big Fancy!
Raelene was obviously trying to distract me from watching the insect.
“Umm . . . I don’t think . . . they make . . . blue,” I said, feeling a shiver run up my spine.
This was definitely not the cute variety you’d find in A Bug’s Life. This cockroach had two-inch tentacles, frog-like legs, and wings big enough to take flight. It was the most athletic-looking roach I’ve ever seen.
Coming from Raelene’s house, it must have been well fed.
Oreo cookies, Cheetos, and raspberry crumb cake for life!
Athletic Roach darted across the glass counter at breakneck speed.
My first thought was to scream, “ROACH!!! THERE’S A ROACH!” Being surrounded by women on both sides of the Corral, I quickly realized it wasn’t a good idea.
But then it didn’t matter anyway.
Cammie was just a few feet away showing a customer an orange Isabella Fiore hobo. The cockroach crawled up the side of a Plexiglas museum case housing a drawstring feed bag that, oddly, looked like something a bug would crawl all over. Once it reached the top of the case it halted and almost appeared to be watching Cammie while she talked to her customer about the Fiore bag.
That’s when Cammie turned and saw Athletic Roach.
She screamed like she was auditioning for a remake of Psycho.
Then her customer saw it and joined in, creating a double-murder scream. They both leaped away from the counter. Athletic Roach freaked, scurrying down the side of the encasement and right over the top of the Isabella Fiore handbag.
Jules came running over.
“OH, MAMA! That is one huge roach!”
It scaled up a large pink and green striped Kate Spade tote hanging from a metal hook fixture.
Jules joined in the scream-fest.
Together the women huddled and did the willies dance.
Now Marsha was on the scene. Fearless, she moved in closer than anyone and studied Athletic Roach, who clung to the strap of the striped Kate Spade tote.
“It looks like an oriental cockroach because of the red coloring. Must be a male. It has wings.”
Cammie screamed when she heard the word wings.
“If it flies, I will seriously freak the fuck out.”
“They rarely fly,” Marsha said.
“How do you know all that?” asked Jules.
“When you have cats who like to hunt, you learn the names of many critters.”
The bug must have sensed Marsha studying it. Living up to its healthy look, Athletic Roach sort of hopped across the top of the Kate Spade tote and went right up the other side of the strap.
Marsha bucked backward and all the girls screamed.
The General suddenly charged out of the back stockroom.
“What is going on out here . . . ?”
When she reached the Corral and saw Athletic Roach, she didn’t scream or do the willies dance, but her face said she wasn’t going anywhere near it.
“Freeman, you need to kill it!”
“Can’t you just call Maintenance?” I asked, backing away.
A small crowd had now gathered as the cockroach frantically sprinted along the counter, weaving in and out of bags and fixtures.
“It’s behind the Petal Pink Marc Jacobs Venetia!” yelled Jules.
“Oh my God, I fucking hate ROACHES!” Cammie cried.
A passing Soccer Mom customer yelped when she saw it, and her teenage daughter screamed like Athletic Roach was a fifty-foot tarantula.
“FREE-MAN! DO SOMETHING! IT’S SCARING EVERY-ONE!” Judy shouted.
Why me? Just because I’m not standing on a chair and shrieking doesn’t mean I want to play exterminator.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You men are supposed to be good at killing things.”
Not us Queer-Eye Guy men. Sorry, Judy. I only kill bugs with a super-size can of Raid, and even then I hold the nozzle down for ten minutes and drown the nasty little creatures.
Judy grabbed a roll of paper towels we use to clean glass with. “Here. Use this.”
“Are you serious?” I said, “That thing will take my hand off!”
More screaming.
More people crowding around the Corral.
The Big Fancy Handbag Sideshow was in full swing. I looked around for something to smash the scary bug with.
The stapler?
Not big enough.
The register procedure book?
It’s only a
tiny book! Still not big enough.
The Marc Jacobs Venetia?
Judy would kill me.
Then I eyed the gift box holding the Kenneth Cole bag Raelene wanted to return. Piggy did not look the least bit concerned or frightened. She was trying not to look involved.
Or maybe she’s used to oriental cockroaches. Maybe she breeds them. God, she’s gross.
I grabbed the box and followed the roach down the counter.
I waited for it to crawl out into open counter space.
“It’s so disgusting!” said Jules.
After a moment, Athletic Roach decided he’d had enough of the Kate and crawled back down it, pranced to the glass counter’s center, and stopped. Perhaps he sensed I was stalking him.
Please God, I hope Athletic Roach doesn’t have flying powers.
I took the closed box with the Kenneth Cole bag still inside and slammed it down. The girls screamed collectively. Then silence. Less the store’s speakers echoing “Dancing Queen.”
“Is it dead?” asked Cammie.
I shrugged and lifted up the box. The big bug didn’t move. Everyone gazed upon it.
Was it dead? Or just paralyzed?
Athletic Roach answered our observation by springing to life and bolting toward a purple suede Coach. A choir of screaming girls once again filled the air.
Jules grabbed the Coach before Athletic Roach could use it for shelter. Judy quickly moved a rack of wallets and scooped up three more Coach bags that also lay directly in its path. Marsha snatched up three Burberry bags.
There was now nothing but wide-open glass counter space. Athletic Roach ran for his life.
“YOU’RE CLEAR!” yelled Jules, “KILL IT!”
“DIE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I shouted, bringing the box down hard.
Again silence. The girls ended their over-the-top screaming.
“It’s not dead. I know it’s not dead,” said Cammie, reminding me of a hundred horror movies.
If it’s not, it will be. Sorry, Athletic Roach. The monster always dies in my movies.
I removed the lid of the gift box and took out the Kenneth Cole bag. Using the palm of my hand, I pressed hard on the box’s bottom.
There was an awful popping, crunch sound.
