Retail Hell (35 page)

It was bad enough that I had to recall my social security number, phone number, bank account number, a shitload of pin and password numbers, and a two-part zip code, but like so many others working in retail, I had to remember an employee identification number.

The mark of The Big Fancy beast: 441064.

Like a prison ID, sales associates had to use 441064 on everything.

441064 documented every sale:
The Total Sales for 441064 =
$15,984.

441064 deducted every return:
The Total Returns for 441064
= $15,984.

441064 opened every new credit account:
It is unacceptable
that 441064 has only opened one new account this week;
441064 will be required to attend a training class.

441064 verified time worked:
441064 failed to clock back in
from lunch properly.

441064 also appeared on all official Big Fancy paperwork:
Please
sign your employee number stating you understand the
company’s
sexual harassment policy.

To the store’s computerized systems, Freeman did not exist. Only 441064. Like the half-man, half-machine beings on
Star Trek
, I had been assimilated by 441064.

Having to remember 441064 melted at least 50 percent of my brain cells. It’s the reason I can’t recall birthdays or how much I have left in my checking account. I fully expect medical research to one day identify this dreaded retail disease. They will no doubt call it END — Employee Number Disease. Millions of sales associates will be diagnosed with this horrifying numerical memory-loss condition. Because of END, we won’t be able to recall what year it is, our age, our shoe size, or on what channel to find
American Idol
.
This is the END of the road for your brain, Freeman.
You’ve
spent too
many years in retail having to recall employee numbers. Your brain cannot take
any more.
It’s
fried times four.

When I became 441064, there was no special ceremony like a graduation or bar mitzvah and I did not receive a 441064 official certificate, engraved necklace, fashionable tee, henna tattoo, or bumper sticker. The number 441064 was presented to me illegibly scrawled across a small piece of orange scratch paper that wasn’t even a Post-It. HR Manager Tammy unceremoniously handed 441064 to me and said, “Memorize it and never forget it. Those six numbers are connected to everything you do, including your paycheck.”

I stared at my beastly mark like it was part of
The Da Vinci Code.

How will I remember this? I hate numbers. It took me months to remember
my cell number. If my paycheck is riding on this number,
I’m
in deep shit.

The first few days of trying to remember 441064 were worse than trying to remember my locker combination in high school. Within hours, I lost the slip of paper and mixed up the order of the numbers like a blender on purée. Every time I tried to enter them into the register it beeped loudly while my customers sighed impatiently.

Was it 460144? BEEP! 446014? BEEP! No,
that’s
not it. Are the
double 4s at the beginning or the end? 440164? BEEP! 406144? BEEP!
441046? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Why
can’t
my employee number be 12345? Or 420? Or 666? Or
8675309? I can remember those numbers! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The register noise and impatience of Douche standing behind me, ready to ring up half the department, alerted General Judy, who was on me like some freaky ninja-manager.

“FREE-MAN!” she yelled, “YOU NEED TO REMEMBER YOUR EMPLOYEE NUMBER! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? Don’t force me to write it down and pin it to your tie.”

Fearing humiliation, I took to writing 441064 on my palm with a red pen. As it turns out, this was not such a great idea. The heat from the handbag department coupled with my nerves produced enough sweat to fill up a Marc Jacobs satchel. I ended up smearing red ink all over a pink DKNY leather tote that a customer was about to purchase. “What are you doing?” she snapped, “Your hand is red! My God, you’re bleeding on my new bag!”

Thank God Marsha in the Corral was with me at that moment and not Judy. “Oh, it’s nothing, hon,” she said, quickly opening a drawer and producing a bottle of magic leather cleaner. Seconds later, the red smudge disappeared. Then Marsha opened another drawer and pulled out a 5"×7" card that had a list of all the department’s employee numbers — including yours truly, 441064.

“We use this for reference when ringing up holds and whatnot.”

“Why didn’t Judy just show me that?” I asked, feeling my retail blood start to boil.

“Because she’s a nasty bitch and likes to yell at people,” Marsha replied. “Now ring up your customer, dear.”

From that point on, I never forgot 441064. I also ended up unwillingly memorizing everyone else’s numbers,
including
the General’s.

Ultimately, I think stores like The Big Fancy should let sales associates create their own employee numbers. Then they could choose easy-to-remember digits that have personal significance, like birthdates, anniversaries, favorite Super Bowls, or dates of loss of virginity. If I had been given creative control of my employee number, I definitely would have made some retailicious improvements on 441064.

For instance, I’d have cut the 1, 0, and 6, making it 444444! How sweet is that?! Nice and easy on my number-challenged brain. Or, 242424 because it’s three 24s in a row and
24
is the Fox TV show starring Kiefer Sutherland, whom many say I look like. (Dumbass Customer: “Are you Kiefer Sutherland?” Me: “Why, yes, I am. I’m selling handbags to make extra money between explosions and tortures.”)

What if my employee number were a countdown number, like 654321? After entering the 1 on the register, I would do something dramatic, like yell, “BLAST OFF! You are about to get rung up by the Jack Bauer of handbags!”

If I’d had a more attractive group of numbers like 323232, they could be a decorative border for my business cards. 323232323232323232323232323232. Employee number art!

I can’t help but think that my number might have been luckier if it had been 123456, a straight flush, or a big jackpot number like 777777. I also would have loved 1313 as an employee number because it’s
The
Munsters’
home address on Mockingbird Lane, or 111111, because it looks mysterious like an
X-File.

But as far as employee numbers go, I guess 441064 isn’t the worst set of Big Fancy employee numbers to ever grace the top of a receipt. I could have been given something really fucked up like 392754186. What a bitch
that
employee number would have been to remember.

As The Big Fancy days turned into years, and 441064 saturated my very being, the thought of actually becoming 441064 crossed my mind more than once. I’m 441064 at The Big Fancy; why not in life? Prince did it when he changed his name to that symbol. Why not me? No one has the name 441064!

Eat your heart out, Moon Unit, Apple, Moby, and 50 Cent.

Not only would it confuse the shit out of the IRS when they got my taxes, but can you imagine the look on a cop’s face after he pulls me over and reads 441064 on my driver’s license? And if annoying telemarketers ask to speak to the man or woman of the house, I could proudly respond, “There is no man or woman here, only 441064.”

It would certainly be strange living as 441064, but I suppose I’d get used to it, like 007 did. My friends would say, “Hey 441064, s’up?” They could also shorten it to an affectionate nick-number and say, “You rock, 44 . . . props, 44!”

But there are times, I fear, when being called 440164 would have major downfalls. My tombstone would read, “Here lies 441064”; my full signature would take forever to write: Four four one zero six four; I’d have no last name; and I’d hate it during sex when my boyfriend called out, “Oh, yes, 441064! You are the stud among studs, 441064!”

Maybe being 441064 wouldn’t be such a good thing after all.

As END ravaged my brain on a daily basis at The Big Fancy, making it difficult for me to play Sudoku and sing
99 Bottles of Beer on
the Wall
, one thing was for sure. The number 441064 left an indelible mark. A hideous, permanent graffiti stain. Like the name of a cattle ranch branded on some poor steer’s ass.

441064 is forever.

According to corporate America, The Big Fancy, and consumers everywhere, “The customer is always right.”

Even when they’re not so right.

The way I saw it?

If the customers were always right, that was fine by me.

It was my absolute pleasure as a sales associate of The Big Fancy to provide them with the most outstanding customer service I could and let them act however they wanted to.

“Hi. Can you help me?” asked a woman with wiry black hair so out of control and full of static, she must have French-kissed an electrical outlet. The bitch looked completely insane.

“I’m looking for a handbag in a purplish brown color,” said Electric Hair.

“Purplish brown?” I replied, unsure of what she meant, although the visual of a black eye did pop into my head.

“Yes, a brown with purple.”

“You mean like an eggplant color?”

Like a shiner?

“No. Brown and purple.”

“Like a Bordeaux?”

“No, more brown.”

Like dog poop?

“Like a cordovan?”

“No, more purple.”

Like purple dog poop?

I’m really confused now.

“Is the brown chocolaty?” I asked.

“Yes, but with purple in it,” replied Electric Hair.

Like your alien blood?

“Is the purple a deep purple?”

“Yes, very deep.”

“Chocolaty brown with deep purple in it.”

“Yes! Exactly. That’s what I’m looking for. Do you have it?”

If we do, I
don’t
know where it is.

“I don’t know,” I said, hoping she would go back into the mall’s wilds.

“I really need to find something,” Electric Hair pleaded, “it’s for a very important event. Can’t you please help me find something?”

Against my better judgment of helping freaky-looking women with dangerous hair, I put Queer-Eye Handbag Guy into action and gave her a Brown Handbag Tour.

“It needs to have purple in it,” she said after seeing each one.

So then I gave her a Purple Handbag Tour.

“It needs to have brown in it,” she said after seeing each one.

I showed her every handbag that looked like rotting eggplant.

“Not the right shade,” she quipped, “Almost, just not quite right.”

I showed her every handbag that looked like freshly dumped doggy poo.

“No, there’s not enough purple,” she groaned, “I need purplish brown.”

Then Electric Hair went all high-voltage hell bitch on me:

“I’m frankly surprised you don’t have anything in that shade. It’s the hottest color of the season! Your buyers need to be more on top of what is going on in the fashion world. This color was all over last month’s
WWD
. Why aren’t you salespeople better educated? This is such a disappointment. I was planning on buying my purplish brown handbag today. They shouldn’t have a man working in Handbags who knows nothing.”

I’d had just about enough shock therapy from Electric Hair. She was full of static shit.

Even though The Big Fancy had never sent me to New York’s fashion week, I decided to pretend like they did, and tell her what she wanted to hear.

“Oh, I know what you are looking for!” I said overly dramatic, “You want burple. I could not agree with you more. Our buyers are so out of it. Burple is HOT!”

“Burple?”

“Yes, burple! It’s all the rage in handbags!”

“It is?” she said gazing at me like I had just given her a key to the power company.

“That’s the color you saw in
WWD
. It’s what all the designers are calling a mix of brown and purple. I personally think it’s fashion accessory genius. Burple bags are going to be huge.”

“I know, I know,” said Electric Hair getting excited, “That’s why I want to get mine now.”

“There will be burple shoes, burple clothing, burple makeup, burple everything. Hey did you see last month’s
In
Style
?”

“No, I missed it.”

“Madonna and J-Lo are already wearing burple. There was a whole spread about it.”

“Wow,” said Electric, completely mesmerized.

“You know it’s pretty sad, we should have it in by now, but we don’t. My suggestion would be for you to try all the other stores. Just make sure you ask for the color by name: burple. That way salespeople will know exactly what color you’re looking for and everyone will be so impressed that you’re on the cutting edge of fashion!”

CUSTOMER:
“I know what I saw! It was a white handbag with black stripes and purple dots. It was about this tall, there was a handle and a strap, it wasn’t too big or too small, and it was right here on the counter. On this very spot.”