Retail Hell by Freeman Hall

look!”
    “Fashion can be cruel. Take a look at this GORGEOUS Isabella Fiore handbag,” Jules said, picking up a large burgundy bag with two short handles and a frame opening. “This is what we call a framed doctor’s satchel. Feel it. Simply gorgeous.”
    From a distance it resembled an intricately detailed woven tapestry, but when I touched it, I felt little hairs in the swirling design.
    The kind of little hairs found on the hide of a dead animal.
    “I’m afraid to ask,” I said, wondering what poor mammal gave its life up to be a satchel.
    “Read the tag,” she said, showing me the inside of a small folded card attached to the bag.
    I read a short flowery story about how the handbag was Arthurian inspired, but it was the last sentence that grabbed me: Handcrafted Italian laser-cut calf.
    Laser-cut calf.
    Three words that should not be put together. “Omigod.”
    Jules smirked. “You need me to tell you about it?”
    My head filled with screaming calves being laser tattooed against their will.
    “Sweet Jesus, no. That’s so gross.”
    “Exactly, my friend. Not a pretty sight,” she replied, “Ignorance is bliss. That’s why you can never go wrong by saying Italian leather for just about anything.”
    “Unless it’s a snake,” Marsha said, “Women hate snakes. Turn them all into handbags and shoes for all I care.”
    “You got that fuckin’ right,” added Cammie, “Snakes creep the shit out of me.”
    Once the ladies felt they’d covered everything, it was testing time. Cammie modeled a black, wrinkled, rounded, sack-looking Francisco Biasia on her shoulder and I had to figure out what it was.
    After a few seconds I came up with, “Washed leather hobo.”
    Jules gave thumbs up. “Now look closer. Add on the features.”
    Cammie prominently displayed the zippered closure.
    “Zip-top hobo?”
    Marsha high-fived me. “You go, boy!”
    “What else, Free? There’s more,” said Jules.
    I noticed the shape of the Biasia was quite tall, very vertical.
    “A north-south zip-top hobo?”
    The girls cheered, but Jules pushed me further. “Now what’s on the front?”
    Cammie ran her fingers over two mini pockets mounted on its face.
    After a moment I nailed it:“Double pockets . . . north-south double-pocket zip-top hobo!”
    You would have thought I’d just won
Jeopardy.
My triumph was applauded, followed by hugs all around. It was the first moment in the Handbag Jungle where I thought I could survive as a salesperson.
    Marsha’s lavender fingernail pointed directly below the words north-south double-pocket zip-top hobo on the bag’s tag. “And don’t forget the name, hon. This one is Anastasia.”
    I felt a scream coming on. No way in hell was I going to remember their birth names.
    “Don’t worry about the stupid fucking names,” Cammie said. “We can’t remember most of them either. Usually they’re printed on the tags or we just look them up in the catalogs.”
    “The catalogs?”
    Marsha, Cammie, and Jules eyed each other, heads shaking in disbelief.
    “Judy didn’t show you shit, did she?” said Cammie.
    They led me into the Corral, where Jules pulled open a drawer jammed full of color catalogs: A treasure trove of dead animal hide information. “If you need names, colors, and prices, you’ll find them in here,” she said opening one and showing me a photograph of an Allure shearling bag. Underneath was everything a man selling handbags needed to know: Mia. $1,765. Authentic Italian Shearling. Large Cross-body Double-Pocket Drawstring Shoulder. Available in Cocoa, Shell, and Onyx. Features include two roomy outside pockets, a back zipper pocket, magnetic tab closure, an internal zip pocket, and an open cell-phone pocket banded in leather. I couldn’t believe it. All the info was right there. Along with fucking pictures.
    “Why didn’t Judy tell me about this?”
    Cammie rolled her eyes. “Because she doesn’t like us showing them to customers.”
    “Even though we all