Retail Hell (23 page)

Every time the Raelene tornado hit, she made messes so quickly in so many different places in the department that I couldn’t keep up with her. Judy would bound out of the stockroom and suddenly be up in my ass, “Free-man, you just left five bags on the counter with stuffing all over the place. Suzy is doing a walk-through any second. You’d better get it cleaned up.”

But Piggy Raelene took no responsibility for her messes. That was my job. Her job was to assault as many handbags as she could, and then toss them aside like spoiled tomatoes. Stuffing was yanked out and thrown everywhere, and bags she didn’t like were left anywhere she pleased, which meant the floor most of the time. I actually witnessed Raelene drop a bag to the floor and then step over it on her way to grab another bag that had suddenly captured her attention. And when Raelene needed a wallet, look out. By the time she left, it was like playing a game of fifty-two card pickup — wallets every-where! Until Raelene Reynolds settled on that special bag or wallet willing to sacrifice its life to her slovenly ways, this Piggy Shopper was a forced to be reckoned with.

More often than not, Piggy Raelene searched for her next hand-bag victim with food or a drink in her hand. I once watched breath-lessly as she shopped haphazardly while drinking from a 7-Eleven Big Gulp cup and devouring chicken nuggets and fries right out of a McDonald’s bag. But most every other time I waited on Raelene, she had an iced chocolate something-or-other from the Coffee Bar and some kind of snack in her hand: soft pretzels, raspberry crumb cake, nachos, or her favorites, Mrs. Fields cookies.

If you followed the cookie crumbs all over the floor, you’d find Raelene.

As her porky fingers become covered with whatever she was eating (something usually wet and sticky), they wanted to touch everything. Grease and condensation were the leading causes of death for many handbags and wallets that had just met Raelene.

That was the case for a new Kate Spade floral collection we had just received.

Three handbags were killed in the line of duty after Raelene’s cookie grease bombing.

There were seven different shapes on the table, and Raelene rubbed her oily paws all over each one like she was trying to make a genie come out. By the time she had completed her violent, greasy groping, there was severe stain damage. Kate’s flowers were hemorrhaging.

A half-hour later, after desecrating the sale table and half of the designer department, Raelene returned to the handbag crime scene and picked up a satchel she had damaged.

“I decided on this Kate Spade,” she said while eating another cookie, “But it has a mark on it.”

I was speechless.

It has a mark on it because you just about ate it, Raelene!

“Really?” I said, picking up the bag for examination. “It wasn’t like that this morning. We just put them out. They’re brand-new.”

“Yah well, it’s dirty, and I’m not buying that one.”

“Umm . . . okay. I’ll get you a new one from the back, Raelene.”

What else could I do?

In a court of law, the security cameras would have busted Raelene Reynolds with the truth.

But at The Big Fancy, whatever this little Piggy wanted, this little Piggy got.

Weeeeeee!

When she was in the heat of determining whether a handbag passed inspection, Constance Beaumont looked like she was trying to have the biggest bowel movement of her life. Odd grunting noises then accompanied her shiny, scrunched-up, constipated face.

“Humph . . . humph,” she’d say, followed by triple-smacking her tongue to the roof of her mouth like it was full of sticky peanut butter. Smack-smack-smack.

Constance Beaumont was one Picky Bitch.

The face she made should be in Wikipedia as a visual reference.

“Humph. Humph.” Smack-smack-smack.

I know firsthand about Picky Bitch psychosis. Although I’m not one of those anal freaks who run around terrorizing salespeople for hours with my Picky Bitchness, I am finicky about the condition of T-shirts, books, shoes, vegetables, and fruit before I buy. I’ll dig through a bin of apples, searching for ones that are firm and shiny. I hate apples that are soft and dull. Can’t eat them. Call me a Picky Apple Bitch.

I can’t even imagine what Constance Beaumont is like at the grocery store.

She probably spends three hours in the produce section alone. Or maybe she doesn’t eat produce.

Judging by her anorexic body, she doesn’t eat much.

I found that odd because of who she claimed to be married to.

Not one to talk about her personal life, Mrs. Beaumont revealed this to me one day when she was looking for an evening bag to match her gold Prada shoes. The best match we had was an inexpensive $35 Big Fancy–brand silk clutch. She shot me her crinkled, constipated face.

“Humph. I can’t wear that dreadful thing. I’m the wife of a surgeon.”

Not doctor. Not physician. Surgeon.

Picky Bitch Beaumont was the wife of a surgeon.

What surgeon would marry her? Dr. Wither-Away?

Someone needs to read her the surgeon
general’s
warning about not
eating!

Aside from her anorexic, skeletal body, everything else about fiftyish Constance Beaumont appeared to be the best a surgeon’s salary could buy. Her wispy shoulder-length sandy hair was expertly highlighted, and her makeup was flawless (even the lipstick on her fat lips). She dazzled in conservative designer clothing and accessories, dressing as if she was headed to a formal dinner party or luncheon. Everything looked like it was made to go together. Even her reading glasses were color-coordinated.

Mrs. Beaumont had Picky Bitched her way to looking picture-perfect. And it probably took forever.

The first time I waited on Constance Beaumont, I said, “Thank you for shopping with me, Constance. I hope you enjoy your new Cole Haan.”

She shot me a look of indignation and said, “I prefer you address me in the formal, professional manner, as Mrs. Beaumont.”

“Umm . . . sure . . . Mrs. Beaumont. No problem.”

You bet, Connie, you
fuckin’
Picky Bitch. Whatever you want!

I
so
wanted to call her Connie. But it was better for me not to upset Picky Bitch Beaumont. Despite her persnickety affliction, she’d buy only from me.

I’ll never forget the look on Douche’s face the first and only time she tried to snake Mrs. Beaumont away from me when I left her alone to answer the phone.

“I’ll be happy to help you with that Ferragamo bag,” Douche said, slithering up to her.

Mrs. Beaumont lowered her reading glasses and stared at Douche.

“Freeman helps me. Please don’t approach me again. It’s annoying.”

Douche never said another word to her. I wish that could have happened with all the customers Douche tried to steal from me.

Selecting a handbag or wallet could take Mrs. Beaumont as long as two hours. Whenever she appeared out of nowhere asking for my assistance, I knew I was in for a handbag root canal.

I asked Jules if real estate agents have this much trouble when they’re selling ten-million-dollar homes. “They’re ten-million-dollar homes,” she said, “Not handbags and wallets.
Mrs.
Beaumont needs therapy and a good nutritionist.”

When Mrs. Beaumont showed up, it wasn’t just to window-shop. She was there on a mission to find the perfect handbag she needed for an outfit.

Like a museum tour guide, I waltzed her around the department, tediously showcasing every handbag and lecturing on their fashion benefits and useful features. After she had gathered no fewer than ten bags, cleared an area on the counter, and lined them up like criminal suspects, the reading glasses were slipped on, and Picky Bitch went into interrogation mode.

She would slowly scrutinize every handbag, one by one, all the while saying “Humph. Humph.” Followed by a smack-smack-smack.

She tugged every strap, removed stuffing, examined the inside linings, and checked every seam, searching for any kind of fatal flaw that would deem the handbag unacceptable.

“Humph. Humph.” Smack-smack-smack.

One day she was looking at a Coach signature satchel to bring on an upcoming cruise. While going through her obsessive-compulsive motions, she suddenly lifted the bag up to her nose and inhaled deeply.

“Humph. Humph.” Smack-smack-smack.

“This bag smells like fish!” she announced.

I casually sniffed it. Nothing. Just leather and fabric.

“I don’t smell anything.”

Wrong thing to say to a delusional Picky Bitch.

“My nose is extremely sensitive,” Mrs. Beaumont said. “This bag smells like it was in a fish market. Has it been returned?”

I checked The Big Fancy tag. No remnants of a purchase sticker.

“No. Never been sold,” I told her.

“I highly doubt that. Something is wrong here.”

I unzipped the Coach bag and held it up to my nose, practically sticking my head inside. Absolutely no fish smell. Only fabric and leather.

“I’m not smelling fish.”

Mrs. Beaumont waved me off with a “Humph.”

“Do you have others?”

I went to the stockroom and found four more of the very same design. They’d just come in, and some were still wrapped in plastic and tissue. The Picky Bitch sniffed every single one.

“Humph. Humph.” Smack-smack-smack.

“They all smell like fish. Revolting!”

I sniffed right alongside her, like we were dogs looking for territory to mark.

“I still don’t smell anything.”

“All these bags have fish stink! I can’t believe you don’t smell it! They reek! I think I’m going to be sick. You really should call the buyer.”

“Did you have fish for lunch?”

I didn’t mean it to sound insulting. I thought it could be a legitimate reason for her sensitive nose, but Mrs. Beaumont lowered her reading glasses and shot me a look of repulsion.

“Excuse me?” she said.

I stammered. “Umm . . . maybe you ate something fishy, that’s causing the . . . umm . . . smell . . . you are noticing.”

“
No
, I did not have something fishy for lunch,” she cried, indignant.

“I’m just trying to figure out where the smell is coming from,” I said.

“Well it’s
not
coming from me, Freeman. I don’t appreciate your inquisition.”

Oh shit. Big Fancy rule #1: Don’t ever upset a super persnickety Picky Bitch! Especially if her name is Constance Beaumont, wife of a surgeon!

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Beaumont, I didn’t mean to say you smelled like fish.”

After that, Picky never claimed another bag smelled like fish.

Instead, her hound-dog nose picked up the scents of formaldehyde, rubber, peaches, licorice, sandalwood, and new-car smell from the handbags at Big Fancy. Though leather does have a rich scent, I’ve yet to notice any of it smelling of licorice.

Anything deemed an imperfection in the world of Beaumont was instantly pointed out to me. “Humph! You see that? Humph! You see that?!” Her French-manicured nails would follow, tapping the area in question.

“This is defective. It’s no good.” Smack-smack-smack.

Then she’d discard it like a dirty Kleenex.

Or I’d get the leather cleaner out and scrub at the flaw until my fingers ached, only to ultimately have it rejected because Picky Bitch would still see the scratch or smudge even after I had buffed it out. “It’s still there. It will come back after the lotion dries.”

After a while, I stopped trying to clean or repair an imperfection she had denounced. I just simply agreed in an exaggerated way, “Oh yes, the entire seam is crooked. I can see it a mile away. I don’t know how they could have allowed this one out of the factory. It’s tragic.”

“It most certainly is,” Mrs. Beaumont would say, wrinkling her nose, followed by a “Humph. Humph.” Smack-smack-smack.

Once a bag was eliminated for not being perfect, if she was really interested in it, Mrs. Beaumont would say, “This handbag is defective. Get me one from the back.”

She used this “Get me one from the back” line at least five times per shopping trip.

As with Lorraine Goldberg, Shoposaurus Carnotaurus, who definitely had Picky Bitch tendencies but was nowhere near as awful as Mrs. Beaumont, I’d learned not to wait to be asked.

My sanity was saved if I beat Picky to the punch.

The minute she spotted a flaw or said she was “very interested” in a bag, I’d say, “Let me go get one from the back.”

On my way to the stockroom, I’d pray.

God, please let there be another one. And let it be in pristine condition.
Wrapped up in plastic and tissue. Or at least not lopsided with a thread missing.
I really need this Six-hundred-dollar sale.

Mrs. Beaumont didn’t glow appreciatively the way Lorraine did when I returned from the stockroom with a brand-new, factory-wrapped handbag; instead, she just looked at me like, “What took you so long?” Then she’d yank it from my hands and begin scanning it.

If a handbag passed the Flaws and Defects portion of Picky’s meticulous handbag interrogation, next up was the Try-On, where she’d stand in front of the floor-length mirror modeling each bag.