Retail Hell: How I Sold My Soul to the Store Read online

  Knowing only a few friends who were nice enough to let me sleep on their couches, I landed in the mid-Wilshire district just miles from Hollywood. Unfortunately, none of my friends were related to Steven Spielberg or knew Ron Howard.

  Having a limited amount of money to start my new screenwriting life, I needed a Pay-the-Bills Job. Delirious for a new L.A. wardrobe, I didn’t think twice about where to go first: a store where I could buy cool clothes, measure the inseams of hot men, and make loads of money.

  The buzz around town was The Big Fancy. A large, upscale department store famous for customer service, The Big Fancy carried the trendiest brands and paid their salespeople commissions. The idea of getting commissions played out in my head like a scene out of Indecent Proposal, with me rolling around naked in a pile of money.

  How amazing would it be to write my Million-Dollar Screenplay while driving my limited-edition Mercedes and living in Beverly Hills?

  I’d never been to The Big Fancy before (we didn’t have one in Reno), but when I stepped inside the Burbank store, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The place was like a golden marbled, mirrored castle full of beautiful things everywhere I looked. We’re talking four floors filled with everything from clothes and cosmetics to espresso machines and comforters. They carried the hippest trends from the world’s top designers. As I wandered through the men’s section, drooling over racks and tables of amazing clothes, my eyes went straight to a $50 designer tee emblazoned with a flying skull. It called out to me, “Freeman, you must buy me NOW!” The salespeople at The Big Fancy were smiling and looked happy and their customers were leaving with shopping bags packed full. Who wouldn’t want to work here while they write their Million-Dollar Screenplay?

  After flirting with a cute guy in customer service, I wasted no time filling out my application. Minutes later, I was sitting down with the H.R. manager, Two-Tone Tammy. Her name wasn’t really Two-Tone Tammy. That’s what I called her because she had two tones: Sicky Sweet and Fire-Breathing Dragon. One minute, she was the caring nanny who wanted to rock you to sleep; the next, she was a mean old ogre who wanted to eat you alive. Two-Tone was a blubbery woman in her mid-thirties with frizzy prematurely gray hair, bulging eyes like a bulldog, and style that could only be described as Uglier Betty. When I met her, she had on a thick navy blue cable-knit sweater, a gauzy pink gypsy skirt, and sparkly red ballet shoes.

  “I’d really like to work in Men’s Clothing, ” I told her as I tried not to stare at her red slippers.

  “I’m so very sorry, ” Two-Tone said in her Sweet voice, “You have excellent experience and references, but we just don’t have any openings in our men’s areas. In fact there’s a waiting list.”

  A waiting list to sell pants? What? Do you people advertise in the Gay Yellow Pages?

  “Would you consider working in another area?”

  Thinking Two-Tone might offer me something in one of the departments that sell Egyptian cotton sheets, overpriced blenders, ceramic mugs filled with candy, or maybe even a gig in Customer Service, I said, “Yes, I’m open to anything. I just moved to L.A. and I need a job.”

  Big mistake.

  Never sound desperate and always hold out for what you want. If you want to measure men’s inseams, don’t stop until you get there. Stupidly I panicked.

  I need a job. Must grab whatever job I can. I’m sleeping on a couch.

  “We have an opening in our handbag department, ” she said.

  “Handbags?”

  At first, I wasn’t sure what that was … the word sounded foreign.

  I know what a hand-job is. But handbags?

  Was that something to do with the janitorial staff? Garbage? Cleaning bathrooms?

  Then it dawned on me, “Do you mean women’s purses?”

  “We don’t refer to them as purses here, ” Two-Tone said, “They’re called handbags, and I think you would be great in that area because of your free-spirit personality.”

  “Sell purses?” I said, wondering what she meant by free-spirit personality.

  “Well, we have men in Ladies’ Shoes, Cosmetics, and even in Women’s Designer. Our motto is creativity through diversity. We like to mix things up. I can see you working in Handbags.”

  Creativity through diversity? Diversity? I’m as white as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. What the hell is she talking about? I certainly didn’t ask her if I could work in the purse department. All I want to do is measure men’s inseams. Wait a minute. I know what this is all about.

  Two-Tone had gaydar and she was taking advantage! It’s well known in the retail world that women love to buy shit from gay men.

  Free-spirit personality, my ass. She wants to exploit my gayness!

  DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT, FREEMAN! DON’T SELL FUCKING PURSES!

  What I should have said was, “Thank you very much, but no purse selling for me.” An inseam-measuring job had to be available somewhere in L.A.

  The problem was I didn’t have the patience or the luxury of time to look for one. Filling out applications and going on interviews is laborious and time-consuming, and like so many other Hollywood Hopefuls, I just wanted to get started on my Million-Dollar Screenplay.

  I could take the purse-selling job or walk out the door. The choice was mine. After a gulp I’m sure Two-Tone heard, I made my decision.

  “Umm . . . okay.”

  The purse deal was sealed. My soul was about to be snatched from me, but the only thought running through my head was, How can I get my hands on that T-shirt with the flying skull?

  “How soon do I get my discount?” I asked, hoping I could buy the shirt on my way out and wear it out that night in West Hollywood.

  “After you’ve completed training, ” she replied, her bulbous eyes scanning me.

  Damn. Not soon enough. I had to have that shirt.

  Climbing Mount Fancy

  After hiring me to work in the purse department and requiring me to sign a gazillion forms for God Knows What, Tammy handed me a pink flyer emblazoned with Employee Parking and Entrance Instructions and told me to report for training in the meeting room at 8:00 a.m.

  What she didn’t say was that I’d first have to climb a goddamn mountain.

  If I had known about the mountain, I would have listened to my screaming intuitive mind and said, “No fucking way. Not working at The Big Fancy. Not climbing a mountain. Not selling purses. Thank you, but nooo.”

  But I didn’t know about the mountain.

  How could I have ever seen something that bad coming?

  All this bitching has to do with the Employee Entrance.

  Every store, big or small, has a so-called Employee Entrance — a designated area providing access into the building for all employees before and after each shift. It’s a normal requirement.

  However, The Big Fancy’s Employee Entrance was anything but normal. Built out of solid steel and standing 50 feet tall, Mount Fancy was an architectural monstrosity capable of causing hearts to fail and bones to break.

  Mount Fancy was eight flights of stairs.

  That’s right, eight flights of fucking stairs.

  Eight flights of stairs up to work. Eight flights of stairs down from work. Up eight flights. Down eight flights. Up eight flights. Down eight flights.

  Are you tired yet?

  You think your commute is bad? Try climbing a mountain of stairs every day. If you happen to be seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong, it’s a breeze. But for a 55-year-old overweight woman with varicose veins working in the plus-size department, Mount Fancy is sheer torture.

  Each flight in the great mountain contained sixteen wide ledges for a total of 128 heart-stopping steps to the peak, where the actual entrance was located. The massive, unventilated stairwell connected these treacherous flights with nine platform levels that are supported by four floors of store. There was no assistance getting to the top of Mount Fancy. No elevators. No escalators. No ropes. No Sherpas. Not even a drop of goddamn water. Just s
tairs. Lots and lots of stairs that had to be climbed daily.

  For my first ascent up Mount Fancy at 7:45 a.m. on Training Day, I was running on little sleep (due to firstday jitters), two cups of Mini-Mart coffee sloshed around in my empty stomach (causing me to feel shaky and nauseated), and I was wearing a full-on black suit (and my good-luck Hollywood Stars tie) with a pair of brand-new dress shoes (purchased at a Discount Store for $10).

  Completely ill prepared.

  Cheap shoes are not what you want to wear when climbing eight flights of stairs.

  I followed the instructions on Tammy’s flyer (which didn’t say shit about any stairs) by parking on the roof of the mall’s parking structure. Then I took an elevator down and went for quite a walk through the parking structure’s underbelly, until finally reaching The Big Fancy’s Employee Entrance. I entered a numeric code in the brown box next to the double doors. A clicking noise signaled. I opened the Employee In door.

  Musty air hit my face, reminding me of a locked-up toolshed in the summer. Under fluorescent lighting, I stepped onto lifeless, turf- like garage carpeting. My eyes were immediately drawn to a large yellow sign in the shape of a diamond with glittery green letters:

  Welcome to The Big Fancy, the Jewel of Burbank. Home is where you make it. We’re thrilled you are part of our family. — Suzy Davis-Johnson, Store Manager.

  It sounded like something Tony Soprano would say right before he asks you to shoot your mother. A chill crawled up my spine.

  Completely ignorant of what lay ahead, I looked around for a hallway or door leading into the store. Not finding anything, I figured it must be right up the first flight of stairs, which wouldn’t be so bad if it was the only one on Mount Fancy. I grabbed the handrail and hauled myself up sixteen steps. No biggie. I slid a bit in my new cheap shoes on the garage carpet, but I figured it would be just a few short steps. Easily handled.

  On the second platform there was a huge rectangular scratched mirror running across the entire length of the wall between the staircases. Above it hung a clear plastic sign with bold red letters: THROUGH THESE DOORS WALK THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN OUR COMPANY.

  At the time I didn’t think much of these condescending words, but after having to climb Mount Fancy daily, every time I read them, I feel foolish and mocked. Day in and day out, my cloudy reflection wants to destroy the Important People mirror with a baseball bat.

  If I’m so important why am I climbing eight flights of fucking stairs? How do the unimportant people enter the store? Through an underground sewer tunnel?

  But back on my first day, I wasn’t bitter yet. I just straightened my Hollywood Stars tie in the mirror and looked around, bewildered. No entrance next to the Important People Mirror.

  Puzzled, I went to the side of the second landing and looked up.

  Before me was a dizzying scene straight out of Alfred Hitchcock’s movie Vertigo. Flights of stairs. Lots and lots of flights. Flights infinitude.

  Where in the name of God is the store?

  Hiking boots with crampons couldn’t have prepared me for what happened next.

  Mount Fancy consumed me.

  I bumbled up the second flight, slipping around like a cartoon dog on black ice. The entrance had to be on the third platform. But the fucker wasn’t, and I practically skated across the platform, my cheap shoes and the garage carpet not getting along. There was a massive multicolored sign swathed in balloons shouting: Fling Your Sales into Spring! Open New Accounts. I did not stop to read what else the sign had to say because I was afraid of falling. Plus I really didn’t care. Holding on to the rail, I sidestepped my way up the third flight, skidding onto the fourth platform, where I found nothing. No entrance. No store. Just a few candy wrappers on the floor. The wall, however, was plastered with photos of salespeople and the departments they worked in. These Are Your Service Superstars Burbank! said the wall.

  Whatever. Don’t fucking care. Not stopping.

  Halfway up the fourth flight, my right foot glided off a step like it was made out of grease. When I attempted to regain my footing, my shoe slammed into the step. Pain seared from my toes to my heel.

  FUCK! SONOFABITCH! GODDAMN THIS SHIT!

  At that moment I was over climbing Mount Fancy, and I hadn’t even reached the top. But I didn’t know there were four more flights as I muttered to myself, “This-had-better-be-the-last-fucking-one.” I bumbled my way to the top of the fourth flight like a circus clown who had been shot in the foot. Still no store. And no hallway leading to a store. Instead I was greeted by three bikini-clad Headless Mannequins posing suggestively against the wall like eyeless gargoyles. They scared the shit out of me. I thought they were real people at first. Like some bizarre crime scene out of the TV show Dexter. I quickly passed them, looking over my shoulder, keeping an eye out. You just never know what mannequins without heads are capable of. Teetering and tottering up flight number five, my throbbing toes and burning feet screamed for mercy.

  Get these torturous shoes off me and stop all this bullshit RIGHT NOW!

  The air suddenly vanished. Just like on a real mountain. I couldn’t breathe. Sweat peppered my temples and poured out from under my arms.

  Am I in the wrong place? Is this a joke? Where is the goddamn store?

  No sign of it on the sixth platform. Instead, a gallery of motivational signs awaited me there. Clichés and quotes from Big Fancy executives: The people in our company are everything. — Cindy

  Billingsworth, Senior Marketing Corporate Credit Analyst Senior Advisor.

  What the hell is a Corporate Credit Analyst Senior Advisor?

  Expect to be the best and you will. — Mr. Michael, President, CEO, The Big Fancy.

  I wonder if he has ever climbed these stairs.

  Work is not all about work. — Diana Soon-Smith, Corporate Human Resources Director of the Southwest Division 2.

  Evidently it’s also about a workout! I almost vomited all over Diana Soon-Smith’s quote.

  I couldn’t read anymore. Sweat dripped into my eyes. The rest of the signs were a blur as I hauled myself up step after hideous step, breathing like I was going into labor. By the time I reached the seventh flight after what seemed like an eternity of sweat and pain, I considered screaming for help. But I was alone on Mount Fancy. Just the Headless Mannequins and me. They weren’t going to help. Death was imminent if I stopped. I considered turning around, but I quickly realized I’d have to go back down all the stairs I’d just come up. What if I found out after going down them that I’d have to go back up them all over again?

  Not.

  Happening.

  I kept climbing. Lifting, stretching, pulling. Halfway up the seventh flight, my thighs felt as if they were being pulled on a taffy machine from all the lunging. I clutched the handrail like it was a life preserver. The eighth flight turned out to be a hot, sticky, breathless blackout.

  Am I at 50,000 feet? When does the atmosphere give out?

  My throbbing feet were on auto-climb-pilot: moving through the pain. When I finally heaved my sweaty, exhausted body up onto the ninth platform and saw the brown door with Store Entrance stenciled on it, I sighed with disgusted relief and said, “There is no fucking way I am EVER doing that again.”

  “No fucking way” are famous last words of just about every Retail Slave. For me, this was a defining moment. Little did I know I was about to find myself saying and doing many Big Fancy things after uttering the phrase, “No fucking way.”

  Although Two-Tone Tammy had failed to mention that I’d be climbing eight flights of stairs every day, she had made it crystal clear about using the entrance: “Not using the Employee Entrance can be grounds for termination, ” she had said, in Dragon tone. “Every employee is required to use the Employee Entrance upon the start of their shift and upon leaving the store.”

  Who in their right mind goes up and down eight flights of stairs for work every day? Why isn’t there an elevator or escalator or sky tram here? It’s a Big Fancy department st
ore, for chrissake! I’d settle for a pack mule! Eight flights of stairs? I just don’t understand it. How could someone have designed an Employee Entrance like this? I CALL BULLSHIT!!!

  Mount Fancy has head injury written all over it.

  Feeling like a contestant on The Biggest Loser, I attempted to pull my sweaty, out-of-breath self together on the steel mountain’s ninth summit as I slid across the carpet toward the door. Next to it was a giant wall calendar with holidays, special events, and employee birthdays.

  God, I hope my name never ends up there.

  What The Big Fancy really needs to put on the ninth platform is a comfy rest area with couches, a big-screen TV with cable, and maybe a nice tropical fish tank. They also need showers. I’m sure many of us climbers end up smelling like eau de sweat by the time we reach the top. Lockers would be a good idea too. Then we could climb the mountain in workout clothes and tennis shoes. Massage therapy would be nice for our tired retail feet, and a full bar wouldn’t hurt either. Watermelon margaritas can take away just about any pain.

  Behind the heavy brown Store Entrance door is a small foyer area opening to a narrow hallway that runs by offices into Customer Service and, eventually, leads to the fourth floor of the store. Inside the foyer there are two electronic time clocks mounted on the wall, surrounded by a bunch of store reports hanging from binder rings. On the opposite wall are department mailboxes next to a window with a shelf. This is what The Big Fancy calls the Employee Check-In (ECI). All employees (except managers) are required to check in any belongings larger than 5" × 7". This includes handbags, packs, coats, umbrellas, and store purchases. None of these items are allowed on the sales floor for fear we might load them up with merchandise. ECI is a pain in the ass, but I get it. We live in a world where people steal Halloween decorations off front lawns.

  When I blundered through the Store Entrance door that first time, breathing as if I was having an asthma attack, I found a young, brown-haired, makeup-free woman who looked like she’d just woken up sitting behind the ECI counter.