I walk into the Crew Jan. 5th, ten minutes late, per usual, and with a touch of a hang over. My manager, K, is there along with another co-worker and some butchy woman wearing a billowing tent of a collared shirt tucked into her version of Jersey Mom jeans. My manager and I hug, we exclaim, we laugh about how lame we were on New Years; she shows me new pictures of her baby and I show her the holiday growth of my fupa. Basically, I did all but rim her in our five minute banter.
My other co-worker leaves the office and this strange woman lurking on the perimeter of our pleasantries now walks in and shuts the door behind her. K introduces her and in the fog of my recollection I think her name was Nicole, Nicole from loss prevention. However, for reasons of sheer accuracy in my recount, for her I'll use the initials CP--Cunt Prevention.
She tells me that she's sitting down with some employees to talk to them about loss prevention. What do I understand is loss prevention? Did I know we were the highest yield shortage store? What have I heard about theft in the store? Did I know her queef sounded like a foghorn?
We sit back and she tells me old tales of lore--safe thefts, register shortages--by the way, did I know that 80% of loss prevention comes from within? Hoarding clothes, brown-bagging clothing, how funny is tea bagging--God, in that shirt I can't even tell if her tits are sagging. I'm officially getting nervous. K, my manager and friend, won't look at me. I ask her if this is a test, what's going on? She fumbles with a little giggle and says, "Kind of." Was this a test of how quickly I could come up with a lie on the spot to save my own ass? Does she think I stole from a safe? I honestly had no idea where this interrogation was going. Then again, this is also coming from the girl who came out of the closet at 24. Genius.
Cunt Prevention tells me that I'm under investigation, asks me why do I think I'm here. Here meaning deep shit, or here in the office facing-off with her feathered-do? She says it's going to be up to me, how honest I am, to make these proceedings go as painlessly as possible. She says she's going to ask me some questions, some questions harder than the other questions, and that she probably already knows the answer to the questions she's going to ask me. Did I have any questions? Yeah, can we play with Lincoln logs afterwards?
Me: I FedExed some packages to friends.
CP: (With yellow legal pad in lap, crossing legs, suddenly it's no longer rank in the office) What items were these and to what friends?
Me: Uhhh, there were some shirts to C. Ryan...
CP: (Writing) Uh huh. Who else?
Me: There was a tank top and cardigan to Cassie Convert and to R. Bops...
CP: Who is this...Cassie Convert?
Me: Of course. My friend.
CP: The tank top and cardigan weren't paid for.
Me: (Confused) The tank-top was paid for.
CP: Well, unless you can produce a receipt for that, they weren't paid for. Now how do you think this came about?
Cunt Prevention flips over a label that had been lying face down on the counter. It's Cassie's shipping label. I'm a little relieved--at least they didn't think I embezzled thousands from the safe or robbed the bank transport guy. Now I'm just looking at this frumpy woman and thinking:
Hey, hey, I can get down on my knees and munch your muff...
...and maybe we can just forget about all of this stuff? Yeah yeah, yeah.
She asks briefly about R's sweater. God only knows where that's at now. Cunt Prevention probably used it to sop up her bog-gina.
Did I mention I included little gift messages in each of the boxes? Basically I all but drew a map to my apartment and provide numbers for my bank account for the "investigation."
CP: Now what was that on the card you wrote? It wasn't Merry Christmas...it was something, something with a "D"?
Me: (Pausing) Um yeah. It was...Merry DOUCHEMAS.
CP: (My manager stifles a laugh) Now what is that? I don't even understand that, is that like a different language?
Me: It's a JOKE. Like your time spent with me here. It's creeping up on 40 minutes now.
CP: Well, I just have to make a few calls to see how the company is going to handle this. If you can just step outside or go to the breakroom for a few minutes and we'll call you back in.
Me: Whatever.
In the breakroom I went into bi-polar-denial mode where I had two different conversations, one with a manger and the other with a cashier, about how wonderful and lovely Aruba is, and my favorite parts of the island. I said see ya later and walked to the office when Cunt Prevention called me.
CP: Well, I've made some calls. Now, how do you think the company is going to handle this?
Me: How do I hope, or how do I think?
CP: How do you think?
Me: Well...I think I'm going to be fired.
CP: The company has decided to terminate your employment, but the good news is they are not pressing charges.
YIPPEE!
CP: And, this won't be on any employment record, and in the future if you want to use J. Crew as a reference, they will give you a neutral one.
People, if I EVER need to use J. Crew as a reference, I have officially hit rock-bottom and I give my friends (or anyone for that matter) permission to push me in front of any moving vehicle of mass transit.
And that was that. I gave Cunt Prevention my allotment card. I punched out for the last time. K walked me out to the front of the store. I told her I was sorry and I never intended for this. She said she knew and put her hand on my back. There was no public humiliation, clearing out of desks and lockers. The store was near empty and no one even looked twice. And I walked out of J.Crew, Columbus Circle, with trouser legs, cardigan sleeves, a pair of gloves and magic wallet trailing from my pants...
Naaah. But that would've been pretty funny. I left my jacket there in the office so at some point I'll have to have the security escort back in the store to get my shit. Maybe I'll just 'pick up' some things while I'm there.
Hey, they don't call me Snatchalie for nothing, right?
Anyway, Merry Douchemas to all my friends! I can't wait for ya'll to see the gifts I steal for everyone next year!
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