Retail Hell (6 page)

Finally we were released for lunch. I wanted to get a salad at this French Café place, but then I saw half my fellow Female Newbies standing in line. I went to Carl’s Jr. instead.

Man food. No Female Newbies there.

The afternoon was off to a lobotomizing start as Tammy began showing us Big Fancy movies that threatened to knock me out. We endured the history of The Big Fancy with some old dude yapping on and on about how lucky we were to have been hired at a
Fortune 500
company devoted to customer service. Didn’t hear half of what he said; the man food had sent me into a food coma.

We were forced to watch something on inventory and the importance of accuracy, and then some nonsense about returning everything for the customer, and finally a canonizing masterpiece delving into the seedy world of stealing employees and what happens to them when they get caught.

I slept with my eyes open.

That is, until Baby-Talk Brandi scared the shit out of me by yelling, “TIME TO WAKEY-UPPY, WE ARE GOING TO HAVE SOME SUPER-FUN RIGHT NOW! AND GET THIS PARTY BACK TO LIFE!”

The super-fun was having us draw slips of paper out of a fishbowl with scenarios printed on them about subjects like opening new accounts, multiple selling, approaching customers, and handling returns. We were to take turns role-playing in front of the class.

Did I mention I
loathe
role-playing games?

My slip of paper had me playing the part of a woman wanting to buy lipstick.

Hilary, with the gay ex, played my Cosmetics salesperson. The look she gave me when I asked her if she had anything in Candy Apple Red made me want to ask Tammy if I could take out a restraining order.

Suddenly the meeting room door flew open, and a woman stuck her head in and shrieked at a pitch that made Brandi’s cheers sound tame: “WOOO-HOO! WHAAAASSSUP, BURBANK NEWBIES??!?!!”

I nearly jumped clean out of my chair.

The owner of this shrieking voice was Suzy Davis-Johnson, the store manager. I call her Suzy Satan because she rules The Big Fancy Underworld like a Disney witch on Ecstasy. “NEWWWBIES! NEW, NEW, NEW, NEWBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!” Suzy Davis-Johnson sang out, making my ears beg me to cover them.
American Idol
rejects have nothing on her.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Suzy Satan had orange and blond stripy highlighted hair cut into a pageboy, and thick black rectangular glasses.

“MY NAME IS SUZY DAVIS-JOHNSON!” she screamed, “I’M YOUR STORE MANAGER! THE CAPTAIN OF THIS FABULOUS SHIP! I WANT TO WELCOME YOU TO OUR MAGICAL STORE. THE BIG FANCY IS THE GREATEST PLACE TO WORK EVER!!”

Satan fired off a laundry list of expectations: No cell-phone conversations in the store. No chewing gum on the sales floor. No standing around. No frowning. No. No. No.

With tears in her eyes, she told us what customer service means to her and how it can change the world. “If we love our customers, they love us, and they keep coming back.”

A confusing lecture about sales requirements came next. If we didn’t sell more in commissions than our hourly rate, we ended up doing something they called Misfire. Apparently it was the equivalent of committing murder at The Big Fancy, and if we did it three times in a row, we were viewed as “Ineffective Sales Associates” and considered “not a right fit.” Termination was initiated. Suzy Satan announced all of this with a smile that had to be hiding something wicked.

Positioning herself in front of the
Sun of Success
poster and framing it with her arms, à la Vanna White, she gushed:“The Sun of Success is our most prized and cherished philosophy. Each one of you has the ability to be a beautiful, radiating sun at this store, full of tremendous warmth and light. When you excel at what you do, you grow brighter, and all of those around you shine even more. The rays of your bright shining sun affect everything!”

Somebody get me a paper bag! The Gay Guy is going to barf.

Brandi passed out sheets with suns drawn on them so we could fill in our own Sun of Success to present to the class.

I cringed. In sci-fi movies people are killed by the sun. Could this day get
any worse?

Before we could start, Tammy announced we were out of time and we’d have to sadly forgo that part of orientation.

I was so happy I almost yelled, “SUPER-FANTASTIC!”

Suzy Davis-Johnson continued, “I hereby welcome all of you to our close-knit family. We are highly dedicated individuals and are motivated to win! ROCK ON! Now that you have completed training, I have a fabulous tool I want to give each one of you. IT’S THE OFFICIAL EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK!”

Oh. My. God. NO! Not a fucking handbook. Studying and tests go with
that word. I
don’t
want to study. I need to go home and write. What have
I gotten myself into?

“IS EVERYONE READY TO GET THEIR EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK?” she yelled.

A half-assed “Yessss,” answered back. Satan’s face went sour.

“NOW, THAT’S NO GOOD!!!” she cried, “REMEMBER, YOU ARE ALL SUNS!!! BRIGHT, BRILLIANT, RADIANT SUNS! YOU ARE THE LUCKY ONES, BEATING OUT HUNDREDS OF OTHER APPLICANTS TO WORK IN THIS STORE! I WANNA HEAR HOW EXCITED YOU ALL ARE TO BE WORKING HERE!!!”

“YEeeAAaaH!” responded all the women and one man, sounding like a broken accordion.

“What do you think, Tammy?” Suzy Davis-Johnson asked, deflated.

“I think they’re ready, Suzy,” she said, looking haggard from the day’s training events.

Baby-Talk Brandi walked up to the front with a large box. I held my breath. If she took out anything bigger than an old
TV Guide
, I was going to bawl.

To my surprise she pulled out a stack of glossy 4" × 6" cards and gave them to Satan, who went around the room handing one to each of us and shaking our hands as if we had just graduated. “Congratulations, here is your official employee handbook, shine on!” she said.

On the front of the card there was a photo of an old black book that said EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK in gold lettering. On the back it read:

Welcome! Congratulations on joining our team! Our number-one
goal is to give excellent customer service above and beyond the norm.
Remember, you are the center of the sun. Store rules: Use your best
judgment with everything. There are no more rules. Have fun!

I stared at the Employee Handbook, relieved that it wasn’t the size of
Gray’s
Anatomy
, but I was confused by the message.

This did not make sense.

Have fun? Are they fucking kidding? No rules? Where are
Satan’s
expectations
about not chewing gum, not misfiring, and not using cell phones? What
about everything Tammy said that
isn’t
tolerated? What about
Brandi’s
threats
regarding what would happen to us if we
didn’t
carefully inspect every credit
card and hundred-dollar bill? What about the fucking eight flights of stairs we
have to climb every day? What about? What about? What about?

The Big Fancy’s Employee Handbook was as bogus as one of the computerized personal checks Brandi told us to watch out for.

When I looked around the room, I saw the blank faces of my Female Newbies.

Not a peep. Not even a frown.

Today the mice were going to be quiet and take their drugs.

This included me.

I wanted the hell out.

Finally we were excused, and everyone quickly rushed the door. Before I could even get close to it, Suzy Davis-Satan lurched toward me and started yammering inches from my face: “I’ve heard SOOO MANY GREAT THINGS ABOUT YOU! We finally have a DUDE working in handbags! RIGHT-ON! HIGH FIVE! ROCK AND ROLL! I expect GREAT things from you! This is SOOO EXCITING! I’m totally excited! You must be excited? Are you excited?”

What a crazy-ass freak. Who is this woman? What have I done getting a
job at this place?

Moments later, I stood at the top of Mount Fancy looking down the eight flight of stairs.

Now I have to go down them? How the hell will I do this every day?
I am so screwed.

I felt like I had been shot into the center of the sun naked.

Completely fried. Char-broiled. Burnt to a crisp.

All the Noxzema and aloevera gel in the world would not be able to save me.

But in moments of great duress, the human mind can find ways to protect its body from the most severe conditions.

My cheap dress shoes came off.

And I didn’t care who saw me.

Climbing Mount Fancy was not the only obstacle I faced at The Big Fancy in my early days as a newbie sales associate. I had to learn not to say the p-word.

Purse.

I know many of you women out there still refer to the piece of backbreaking luggage you drag around all day as your purse, but at The Big Fancy and in the fashion world, saying the word purse is akin to calling a day spa a beauty parlor.

When I arrived in the handbag department on my first morning an hour before the store opened, I was like an Ohio farm boy stepping off a bus into New York City for the first time.

I was in over my head.

There had to be millions of different sizes, shapes, and colors of purses. They looked like lumps of wild, exotic, sleeping animals and if any of them woke up, I was sure they were going to eat me alive.

How the hell am I going to sell these things? I
don’t
know shit about purses.

The place suddenly felt like Bikram Yoga class. I thought it was leftover heat from my stairwell workout coupled with my purse nerves and the fact that I was wearing a suit, but I found out later the AC didn’t kick on until 10:00 a.m. Suzy Satan didn’t think air-conditioning before the store opens was cost effective.

I
so
wanted to take off my sport coat, but the dress-code requirement called for all men to wear a dress shirt, tie, slacks, and sport coat. “Everyone must be the epitome of fashion professionalism,” said Two-Tone Tammy during training.

Nothing about that in the Employee Handbook!

Since I had no budget for a closet full of suits when I started at The Big Fancy, I pulled together a suit look with a black sport coat and black slacks.

I did not feel like the epitome of fashion.

I felt like the epitome of Discount Store.

Because that’s where it all came from, including a pair of new dress shoes for Mount Fancy, with thick hiking-boot soles.

The only fashion fun we Retail Slave men got to have was with our ties. I took full advantage of this, and I own quite the collection. Picasso, Monopoly, the Tasmanian Devil, hundred-dollar bills, sun-flowers, Homer Simpson, pizza, billiard balls. You name it. If it’s weird and on a tie, I’m wearing it around my neck.

For my first day in the purse department I wore a new black tie with a screaming white alien; apropos considering the circumstances. (Mom gave me that one. From one Retail Slave to another.)

While wandering around the sweltering compound sweating in my suit and checking out the purses, a strange thing happened. I found myself wishing I could carry some of them. The Big Fancy had cool purses. They had unusual locks, hooks, buckles, and weird shit on them, like charms, chains, and pom-poms. Many were covered in letters, and a few had phrases like “Juicy Girl,” “Crazy For Couture,” and “I’m As Mean as I Look.” They were made out of astonishing leathers, colorful fabrics, shiny plastics, and exotic animal skins and came in every shape imaginable — from slouchy-looking sacks to clunky-looking gym bags. I even saw one resembling a bowling-ball case. I couldn’t help but touch and play with them, feeling their textures, moving their zippers, pushing their locks.

The plethora of intricately designed purses blinded me and impressed me at the same time. It was as if each one was trying to outdo the other. I suddenly realized why women get so hooked. Already I wanted a $1,300 black leather Marc Jacobs because the heavy silver zippers and push-locks looked like my motorcycle jacket.

Perfect for the leather bar.

And I thought the $800 Isabella Fiore with a painted pirate skull was beyond cool. Perfect for Disneyland!

When I picked up a zebra-print sack with gold medallions hanging from it and saw the $4,000 price tag, I almost fainted.

Holy fuck! I could live off that for almost three months!

“Versace,” said a woman’s voice, “the It Bag for spring.”

I almost dropped the $4,000 Versace It Bag for spring.

“Hi, you must be Freeman. I’m Judy, the handbag manager,” said a skinny woman in all black with short, dark red hair. Her hardened face reminded me of a dried-up lake bed. “Tammy and Suzy have told me so much about you. I’m expecting great things. You’re the first man we’ve ever had in Handbags. We’ve been looking for a while now. All the designers have men selling handbags in their boutiques. Women love it.”

If one more person tells me how much women are going to love me,
I’m
going to scream. Not to mention
she’s
treating me like the latest breakthrough
in technology.