Retail Hell Read Online Free Page B

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 stairs. 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