Retail Hell (34 page)

But I never slept this time.

I was too busy thinking about The Big Fancy.

And the shopping dead.

George Clooney opens the envelope and announces, “And the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay goes to . . . Freeman Hall — Escape From The Big Fancy.” Applause thunders across the Kodak Theatre. As I reach center stage and the golden statuette is handed to me, George gives me a friendly guy-to-guy hug and says, “Well done on your escape!” My speech kicks ass. I thank director Steven Spielberg for not getting angry when I slipped my script into his shopping bag. I also give a shout-out to God, my mom, my sister, my acupuncturist, my fifth-grade teacher, my beta fish, Sid Vicious . . .

“FREEMAN!”

What? Who is that? I am not finished with my acceptance speech. Whoever it is will have to wait.

“FREEMAN, IT’S YOU!”

There it is again. Sounds like a woman. Whatever. Some jealous screenwriter in the audience. I’m at the Vanity Fair party. Everyone is there: Oprah, Johnny Depp, Madonna,Will Smith, Queen Latifah, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey — a virtual who’s who of Who’s Who. Robert Downey Jr. has a character he wants to talk to me about. Ellen DeGeneres comes up to me and tells me she wants me on her show. I can’t wait. Love her! Megan Fox bumps into me. She’s smoking hot! Gerard Butler bumps into me. He’s smoking hot! Steven approaches me and says he wants to have a meeting with me about writing . . .

“Freeman, she just called your name, you better go up there!”

Crap.

I really want to hear what Steven had to say
.

Suddenly, it’s gone. The stage. The audience. Steven. All of it. Gone.

But the applause is real and I am sitting in an audience.

Just not the Academy Awards at the Kodak Theatre surrounded by Hollywood royalty. I’m at The Big Fancy department store sitting in a fold-out chair in the Kitchen Access department, surrounded by 400 managers, buyers, and salespeople.

A Big Fancy Rally.

A super-size Big Fancy Rally, with a mini stage, chairs — they’re even serving coffee. Wow!

The irony is that it’s just one month after my Come to Jesus talk with Satan, and I’m winning The Big Fancy’s most prestigious customer-service award, Service Superstar. It is only given out four times a year, and I was chosen for spring.

Lucky me, just a little blossoming Queer-Eye Handbag flower.

Judy, who is sitting next me, is in my face, screaming, “FREE-MAN! YOU HAVE TO GO UP THERE! They just called your name. Remember, I told you?”

That’s right. The General
did
tell me. I remember her saying that Suzy wanted to make me the Spring Service Superstar because I had so many customer letters and that I had better show up to the early morning meeting and I had better act surprised.

“Got it?” she asked. “Got it,” I’d replied.

I must be in a deep Oscar trance, because for a minute, I think Judy is Dame Judy Dench. But she isn’t. She’s the Handbag General.

(Incidentally, it’s a role Dame Judy Dench could actually play. And quite masterfully, I might add.)

I snap out of my daydream and make my way to the stage. Satan hugs me like I’m her BFF. I returned the embrace, grossed out but not caring; I hug everyone.

After the clapping stops, Suzy pulls me close to her.

“I’m just so darn proud of you, dude!” she says, all maternal and shit. Then she turns to the crowd and starts reading from her notes, “The first man we’ve ever had selling handbags! Freeman Hall! Free-man is one of the most unique individuals I’ve ever met. His free spirit and fun personality. . . .”

I wince.
Stop with the
fuckin’
free-spirit-personality crap already!
I’m
not free, my spirit is trapped here in The Big Fancy, and my personality is the
droid you see before you.

“. . . his ability to find the perfect handbag for every customer he approaches is amazing. He sets a wonderful example to his team. He gives the kind of personal service our company is legendary for, and he is by far one of our best. I truly believe he sets a standard of service in this store that we should all take notice of.”

All this from someone who said
she’d
fire my ass if I
didn’t
sell five dollars
more per hour.

“In the past six months,” Suzy Satan continues, “Freeman has gotten more letters than anyone in the store. Here are just a few of the customers whom he has gone above and beyond the call of duty for and provided outstanding customer service to. Lorraine Goldberg writes: ‘Freeman is my Big Fancy point man. He has the most impeccable taste and knows what I like. I’ve made him my personal shopper. I could not live without him. You need to give him a raise!’”

You heard the woman.
I’d
also like a bonus and a trip to Hawaii.

“Virginia Maplethorpe said, ‘Freeman is always there and I love talking to him. I buy all my handbags from Freeman.’”

“And from a Mrs. Constance Beaumont: ‘Being the wife of a surgeon, I lead a very busy social life, and Freeman has shown time and again that he has the BEST eye for accessories of any salesperson I have ever met.’”

Satan holds up the next letter for show-and-tell. “And we have a customer named Summer Sterling who wrote on the most beautiful pink leopard stationery. She says, ‘I needed a new evening bag that fit my needs and Freeman found me the best one. It makes me feel like a movie star when I wear it. Here at the Wild Horse ranch, we girls always need to look our fashion best and . . .’” Several chuckles and catcalls erupt from Retail Slaves who recognized Wild Horse ranch as a place other than a four-star resort. Suzy pauses for a moment. “Oh . . . my . . . uh . . . Stephanie? I think this one wasn’t supposed to . . .”

Stephanie quickly grabs it while rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disgust.

Why are they embarrassed by a prostitute?
Aren’t
we all prostitutes selling
something?
I’m
selling handbags, and Summer is selling . . . well, Summer is
selling what she sells best.

“Anyhow,” continues Suzy Satan, “Your customers love you, and I hope you know that.”

What? No comments from the Vampire Bavaro and Monique?
I’m
so
sad. They love me to death.

“Without further adieu, I hereby honor you with The Big Fancy’s most prestigious customer service award, SERVICE SUPERSTAR! YOU ROCK, DUDE! CONGRATULATIONS!”

Everyone claps. I am sweating and maybe even starting to shake.

“It’s not a raise,” says Satan, “But I am pleased to give you this 31% discount to use for six months on anything in the store and this stunning silver bowl with your name beautifully etched into it! You also get your photo on the wall in Customer Service. WAY TO GO!!!”

Suzy Davis-Johnson hands me the bowl with tears in her eyes. I want to cry too, but for different reasons, mainly because I’m worried now. If customers are going to see my name and picture in Customer Service, how many more freaks will I attract? I glance briefly at my new bowl. It looks like something from the Dollar Store.

Not so stunning, sorry Satan.

“Are you excited, Freeman?” she asks.

No, I want to kill myself. Maybe with this bowl.

“Umm . . . yes . . . thank you, Suzy. It’s a great honor,” I reply.

“So what words of wisdom can you share with everyone about customer service?” she asks, shoving the microphone in my face.

Oh please, Satan. Stop with the Larry King interview. I can tell you
I think this whole thing is bullshit, except for the discount. I really kinda like
that, though I
don’t
have any money most of the time.

I
so
do not want to talk about customer-service wisdom in front of 400 people at 7:00 a.m.

“Umm . . . I just try to be nice to customers . . . treat them like I am just hanging out and shopping with them . . . umm . . . find them what they want . . . be nice . . . you know.”

My response is not something that would have Donald Trump rising for a standing ovation.

For two seconds, Suzy stares at me like I’ve just fallen out of a spaceship, and then she is ready to move on.

“LET’S HEAR IT FOR OUR NEW SPRING SERVICE SUPERSTAR!”

Everyone claps as I make my way down the makeshift stage to my chair. When I sit down, I feel nauseous and jittery, as if I’m going to pass out. Perhaps it was the Sugar Free Rockstar and two cups of coffee I had before the early-morning rally call.

Cammie, Judy, Marsha, and Marci, who are all sitting next to me, pat me and say things like, “Awesome job.” Was it awesome? I believe I’ve just sold my soul to Satan for a lame silver bowl.

What the fuck am I going to do with this?

The rally rages on like a migraine that wouldn’t go away. There’s a lame skit about opening new accounts, with the customer-service manager dressed in drag, and then Satan screams out the names of the departments that made it happen yesterday, and we all answer her call by clapping and woohooing.

My nerves are being electrocuted.

Despite The Big Fancy shock and awe blazing away around me, my mind is far away.

What does this mean? That
I’m
a slave to The Big Fancy?

Forever condemned to burn in its Retail Hell?

Now we’re clapping for the top ten salespeople in the store.

I
can’t
let this happen. I
don’t
want to spend my life at The Big Fancy
clapping and being sucked dry by customers. Marsha and Jules love it here,
they love working retail, and
that’s
okay. But not me. Like Cammie, I have
my own dreams that are outside this store.
I’m
here because those dreams
haven’t
happened yet. I
can’t
ever give up on my writing. I have to keep on
keepin’
on. Writing in the face of all my nightmares. If I stop and do nothing,
my soul will be lost forever. The Big Fancy will keep me forever.
I’ll
end up
with a closet full of these bowls and . . . who knows, even worse,
I’ll
be going
to the movies with Satan.

After two hours, the Super-Size Big Fancy Rally finally comes to a close, with the Stephanator screeching,“ EVERYONE NEEDS TO PICK UP THEIR OWN CHAIRS! MAKE SURE YOU GRAB YOUR CHAIR! STACK THEM BY THE ESCALATOR! COME ON, YOU GUYS! WE’RE LATE. THE STORE IS OPENING IN TWO MINUTES!”

I pick up my chair and collapse it. Like a good Service Superstar, I carry it toward the escalator with the bowl under my arm. Everyone is coming up to me and congratulating me.

Back in the Handbag Jungle we have like thirty seconds before the store opens, and everyone is cheerful and celebratory from my accomplishment, even the Demon Squad members. Marci brought in her world-famous cupcakes, Tiffany gives me a hug, and even Douche is civil, telling me, “You deserve it.”

Cammie’s ecstatic. “I’m taking you out tonight. There’s this amazing new place called Rock Sugar and they have pear martinis that taste like fuckin’ candy crack.”

“Have you ever been Service Superstar?” I ask Cammie.

“Are you kidding? Fuck NO! I have my favorite Custy bitches, but Suzy would never give it to me. The only reason I’d want it is for the discount.”

I didn’t know it, but Marsha has been Service Superstar three times in her lengthy Big Fancy career, and Jules twice.

“Did you win bowls too?” I ask Marsha.

“You bet I did,” she replies. “They’re sitting on my kitchen floor right now holding cat food for Mr. Butters, Shania Twain, and Putz.”

“My husband uses mine out in the garage for his nuts and bolts and whatever,” adds Jules.

I look down at my silver bowl with FREEMAN HALL engraved on it next to the words Service Superstar. Not exactly an Oscar. Wrong color, and it’s fat and hollow.

What should I do with this? Put it on my desk? Build a museum case
for it?

Maybe I should just vomit into it.

Or not.

Actually, I know exactly what I’m going to do with it.

When I get home, I’m going to fill my Service Superstar bowl to the brim with Frosted Flakes and Jack Daniels. Then I’ll eat until the room spins.

And maybe after that, I’ll do a little writing. I have a new idea for a script.

But first I need to go break in my limited-time bigger discount.

There’s a Marc Ecko jacket I can’t live without.