Retail Hell (18 page)

After one of Monique’s appearances in our department, Stories circulated for days:

“Monique just returned a twelve-hundred-dollar Marc Jacobs with a torn ticket and no sticker on the back.”

“Did you hear? Monique returned three Coach wallets yesterday with no receipts!”

“Monique just wrote a bad check using a driver’s license with someone else’s name!”

“Cammie just saw Monique shove a Coach clutch down her pants and walk out!”

In spite of her frequent visits to our store, Monique Jonesworthy never got caught by Big Fancy’s security. For anything.

Why? Because they were lazy, moronic losers most of the time.

They’d tell us they needed more evidence. They needed to catch her in the act. They needed to have her on camera. They needed this. They needed that. They just couldn’t arrest her until they had everything they needed.

So because of that, Monique Jonesworthy screwed me and all the other Big Fancy Retail Slaves over plenty of times. Once when she was cleverly disguised as a hip-hop fashionista, wearing a trendy pink workout suit, New York Yankees baseball cap, rhinestone-covered sunglasses, and some serious bling around her neck, I didn’t even know it was her until it was too late.

Hip-Hop Monique knew exactly what she wanted and bought a $3,000 Bottega Veneta hobo from me, paying in cash with a wad of $100 bills. Not believing who this hip-hop princess was, but also believing that those girls have an insatiable appetite for All Things Designer, I wasn’t suspicious in the least.

That is, until I handed her the wrapped-up Bottega in a shopping bag and she grinned at me, unveiling two big front teeth with a space in between.

Monique Jonesworthy? Oh NO! Please God, NO!
Don’t
let it be her.

All of the past split-teeth smiles Monique had flashed while committing offenses played through my mind like a training video for Dental Reconstruction School.

I’m
fucked! Totally fucked! Hip-Hop Monique is going to do something
nasty with this three-thousand-dollar Bottega Veneta hobo and my fucking
employee number is on it! Holy shit!

“Isn’t your name Monique?” I said, feeling nauseous.

“Monique?” she replied coyly, “Nah, y’all got me confused with some other girl. My name is Shatiqua. Thanks for helpin’ with the purse. Catcha later.” Before I could say anything else, Hip-Hop Monique took her $3,000 BV hobo and split.

What happened after that was Retail Hell at its worst. Apparently Hip-Hop Monique had
another
$3,000 Bottega Veneta hobo that she more than likely stole from another store. She then went to two different Big Fancy Stores and returned them both on my employee number by splitting the receipt and the price tag. I got hit with two returns that The Big Fancy took back my commissions on — one of which I was never even paid for. It wasn’t uncommon for the Store to allow customers to return with just one receipt, so Nasty-Ass Thieves doing multiple returns on one set of receipts would go crazy and make all kinds of instant cash — at the expense of us salespeople. (Thankfully, some brilliant computer geek finally figured out a way to track the Nasties’ returning, and it’s no longer a problem at most stores. Merchandise can only be returned once!)

Feeling as if Hip-Hop Monique had just mugged me and taken $140 right out of my wallet, I stormed up the escalator and into Two-Tone Tammy’s office. It was nothing new to her, and she couldn’t have cared less. In her Sicky-Sweet voice, she said, “You’ll have to fill out this form. We don’t handle commission credits here in HR. It’s something Security must do.” I filled out the form and waited for someone from Security to get in touch with me. I waited and waited and waited and waited. Nothing happened. No one knew anything. It was like dealing with a government office. Like everyone at The Big Fancy who got screwed by Nasties doing multiple returns on them, I got tired of asking for my $140 credit and forgot about it.

Then, late one night, months after that horrible incident, I was working the closing shift alone, and at about 7:30, Nasty-Ass Thief Monique resurfaced.

This time she had disguised herself as what she thought the winner of
America’s
Next Top Model
would look like. Fashion-Model Monique had long, golden-amber, flowing hair (a wig I’m sure), light blue Dolce & Gabbana shades (fake, I’m sure), chunky gold Chanel hoops (also had to be fake), a V-neck, lace-trimmed, purple silk top (covering her mom jeans), and probably a pound of makeup (poorly applied).

Fashion-Model Monique also looked like she’d dropped at least forty pounds. Maybe all the stealing she’d done had paid for a lap band. Or she’d gone on the Meth Diet.

“Hi there,” said Fashion-Model Monique, all sugary and sweet, flashing her split-teeth smile, “I want to return these purses.”

Fuck me with a Bottega Veneta hobo.
It’s
Monique Jonesworthy!

I looked inside her shopping bag and saw three black Cole Haan Shoulder Flap bags, all the same. Identical.

After taking them out and getting a closer look at the tags, I discovered the proof-of-purchase stickers were torn and looked as if they’d been peeled off other tags. Totally shady.

“I’ve been out of the country shootin’ for
Elle
magazine,” Fashion-Model Monique explained, “My photographer had me get ’em, but he nixed them at the last second, so I need to return them and get my cash back, cuz I paid cash.”

In the past I would have had a good time playing a game with her by asking what country she was shootin’ her
Elle
spread in and what did she wear, but all I could think about was the $140 in commission she stole from me.

But this time, I started to shake, and my face instantly looked sun-burned. I so wanted to hit her with a nearby handbag, which happened to be an Isabella Fiore with lots of hardware on it, but I had to keep my mouth shut. Any accusation made would have just bitten me on the ass. The Big Fancy would side with Monique Jonesworthy because, other than my memory, there was no proof that she was the
actual
customer who paid me $3,000 in cash on that fateful day.

Still, I felt like I had to say
something.
My fury over being robbed by Hip-Hop Monique was too deep. So I opted for one of my I-know- who-you-are-and-what-you-did approaches.

“Monique!” I said with a giant, shit-pleasing retail smile, “It’s been a while. You look so different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Excuse me, but do I know you?” said Fashion-Model Monique.

Nasties hate it when you call them by their first name. Especially ones like Monique who work so hard to cover up their identities. It’s like they’ve just been outed.

“Oh, I’ve waited on you many times,” I said to her calmly, “In fact, you once bought a three-thousand-dollar Bottega Veneta bag from me. I think you returned it — must not have worked out.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think that was me. I never had me one of those purses before.”

That’s
because you returned TWO of them on me, you nasty fucking
bitch.

Monique knew exactly who I was.

I stared her down.

“I do returns for you all the time, Monique. Surely you remember me.”

Fashion-Model Monique did not like this at all.

“I ain’t never seen you before in my life. Are you gonna help me, or what? I didn’t come in here for you to get all up in my business and ask me questions about who the hell I am. You gotta problem? You best be calling your manager, cuz I know how this place operates.”

Fashion-Model Monique was right. She did know. And that is why I caved without a fight and processed her bogus return. Later on some salesperson at a Big Fancy would be getting some bad news from me. They’d have to go fight their HR manager and Security. I hoped they’d have better luck than I did.

“Take this up to Customer Service. Your money is up there. You know the drill,” I said dryly, handing her a refund slip so she could collect cash.

Fashion-Model Monique flashed a smile, showing off those wretched teeth, and said, “Thank you so much, pleasure doing business with y’all.”

As Nasty Monique headed down the aisle toward the up escalator to go cash in her chips, I was about to start cleaning the glass countertop when a wonderful, serendipitous thing happened.

I saw something on the counter that wasn’t a designer handbag.

It was a lump of keys attached to a large key ring with three dirty pink-and-green pompoms and a grime-covered troll doll with orange hair. Fashion-Model Monique had run off and left her nasty keys behind. I took a piece of tissue and, using it as a glove, I grabbed the pompom-troll-doll keys.

Payback’s a bitch. The way I saw it, I was finally receiving goods worth $140. Sure, they were gross and dirty and useless, but nevertheless, I had paid a lot for them. $140 is expensive for keys you’ll never use!

A smile more devious and nasty than anything Monique had ever produced with her split teeth crept across my face. I held up the pom-pom- troll-doll key ring full of keys and made them jingle for my own enjoyment.

“Now you see them . . . now you don’t!”

I dropped the keys into the trashcan under the register and covered them up with the tissue.

Fifteen minutes later Fashion-Model Monique came racing into the Handbag Jungle, looking anything but ready for a photo shoot.

In fact, she looked quite distressed. “I can’t find my keys. Have you seen them anywhere?”

“Keys?” I said, with great joy, “I haven’t seen any keys. Are you sure you left them here?”

“I ain’t been but a few other places,” said Monique, “I looked all over. They must be in here somewhere.”

I decided to have some fun.

“I’m not busy right now,” I said, “I can help you look for your keys, Monique.”

She looked at me funny when I said her name, but then quickly went back to searching and worrying. I took Monique all over the handbag department looking for her keys.

“You can’t miss them,” she said, “They got pink and green pom-poms and a little troll doll with orange hair.”

You mean grimy, grody pompoms and a cootie-covered troll doll.

Monique searched every crack of the department (except the trash can under the register, of course). She dropped to her squishy knees and looked under tables, sat on the floor and pulled stuffing out of bags, and even rifled through the wallet bins hoping her keys fell behind a stack.

“Look under all the fixtures and be sure to check any handbag you were looking at,” I said, chuckling under my breath as I stared at her fat ass sticking out from underneath the sale table as she scanned the floor on all fours.

After twenty minutes or so, a haggard-looking Fashion-Model Monique gave up.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she whined, “I don’t have my cell on me and my car keys are on the ring. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

You have nine hundred fifty-three dollars in your pocket, you fucking
Nasty-Ass Thief.
I’m
sure
you’ll
be just fine.

“If you go to Mall Information, I think they can suggest a really good towing service,” I offered, doing the happy dance inside my head.

Monique frowned at me, mumbled something about mall security, and shook her head.

Perhaps she’d burned her bridges with them as well.

“Sorry, Monique,” I said, “If they show up, I’ll take them to customer Service right away.”

Fashion-Model Monique wandered away in a daze.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of Monique. There were many other disguises that followed. But for once I felt I had really gotten my money’s worth. The thrill of my overdue purchase lingered as my fantasizing screenwriter mind played out the story of how Monique Jonesworthy was dealing without her pompom-troll-doll key-ring loss.

It went just like a MasterCard commercial:

Towing her 1988 Honda Accord to her apartment . . .

$182.

Replacing a broken window she had to crawl through to get inside her
apartment because the apartment-complex manager
wasn’t
around to give her
a spare key . . .

$328.

Having a locksmith replace all the locks because of her lost pompom-troll-doll
key ring . . .

$583.

Smile on Queer-Eye Handbag
Guy’s
face . . .

Priceless.

Perhaps the most annoying shoppers in all of Retail Hell are the people I call Discount Rats. Aggressive and usually underhanded, these sale-sniffing rodent-customers stop at nothing in their hunt for any kind of discount. They beg and haggle us to death, often becoming our worst nightmare and making us wish we could actually call a number like this: 1-888-Discount-Rat-Exterminators.

ACME DISCOUNT RAT
REMOVAL —
Stopping hagglers since
1910. You point out the stingy rats, and
we’ll
make it so they
can’t
afford
anything! Relax and leave the bartering to us!