The Life and Times of the Kami of Insanity

Some of you may recall that I once spent six months working as a seasonal employee (i.e. Yultide Slave) in an upscale department store, a sister-store to the widely-known Saks Fifth Avenue. Though certain features associated with Saks were not to be found in my particular store, it was definitely a place that called for a certain level of behavior from its employees as well as its customers.

Anyone who has heard me discuss my time at this store will know that most of the customers who walked through any of the large, glass and gold doors that led into the building were instantly reduced to retarded jellyfish, incapable of the kind of behavior one would expect of a normally distinguished, 54 year old wife of an oncologist. In the relatively short amount of time spent at the store (though, believe me, it felt like ages), I witnessed temper tantrums and immaturity that would put most toddlers to shame.

Now, I have, in the past, led my readers to believe that I handled nearly all of these situations stoically and that I, like the rest of my colleagues, floated through our various departments on clouds of grace and decorum, basically acting like various members of royalty rather than college students and soccer moms pulling down $6.75 and hour. And while this sweet vision may be fine for most people, I feel it is a travesty to be less than truthful with you about this, Gentle Readers.

Possibly because the store was upscale and so featured matching, upscale prices, our clientele was limited to doctors, doctors’ wives and various other people who had, simply put, assloads of money. While there were a fair number of these people in town, most of them shopped on the weekends, which meant that I spent the majority of my weekday shifts walking around my department straightening already thrice-straightened racks of blouses and trying as hard as I could not to succumb to the mind-numbing monotony of my life and impale myself on a pointy, outstretched mannequin arm. After a while, when I’d realized that none of my managers ever came around to check on me during the many shifts that I worked alone, I started to use my time much more wisely: I balanced my checkbook, juggled Godiva chocolate bars and built gravity-defying (and temporary) displays to house the latest merchandise. One memorable afternoon was even spent having a perfume fight with one of the girls at the cosmetics counter, and it was from that particular event that He was borne.

The Kami of Insanity.

“This perfume note is telling me to do something,” I said to Rachel, who sold Clinique to mean, old ladies and basically hated her life.

“What is it telling you to do?” she asked.

“I’m afraid to tell you,” I replied, my voice low. “It’s simply too horrible.”

Rachel laughed and turned around to take a sip from her bottle of Aquafina, and I took the opportunity to spray her butt with Davidoff’s “Cool Water.” She spit a mouthful of liquid onto the floor and spun around to face me.

“Hey!”

I looked innocent and held up the cardboard note. “He told me to do it.”

Thus began the Perfume Wars of Ought-Three, a gruesome event that culminated in the Battle of the Better Department in which three Liz Claiborne denim jackets nearly lost their lives. From that point on, all silliness perpetrated within the walls of that store was blamed on the Kami of Insanity, which was the name given to my rather coercive perfume note only minutes after I’d given my coworker Rachel’s butt a healthy dose of Davidoff.

Sadly, however, perfume notes, like dreams and good pizza, do not last, and after a mere two weeks in my pocket, the Kami of Insanity’s proud, pink vessel was destroyed by an unbelievably fiendish washing machine, who not only ripped the K.o.I. from the pocket of my pants, but also devoured him messily, right in front of my other laundry. As you can imagine, the carnage was unspeakably awful, and three of my socks had to go into counseling.

I let it be known during my next shift that the K.o.I. was in search of a new body, and my coworkers, no doubt sick of the joke by now, were nonetheless very supportive. Janine, who worked in Shoes, offered a rubber band. Natalie from Intimates conjured up a colorful ball of broken bra straps. Ayumi from Juniors suggested a particularly ugly pink, spangled shirt we’d all been making fun of since it had arrived. K.o.I., however, would have none of that and so remained a disembodied spirit for several months, still inspiring ridiculous behavior in store employees, especially yours truly.

Finally, one afternoon in late December, K.o.I. found a new home. As I walked around my department modeling a pair of velour Baby Phat pants with a sash that ended in two marabou tufts strategically placed between my legs, Aniko from Accessories approached.

“Want to touch my balls?” I said, repeating the phrase that I’d been saying to everyone since putting on the pants. I held up the marabou tufts and laughed.

“Um, no,” she answered, giggling. “I brought something for you.”

“For me?” I dropped my balls and reached for the small box she held.

“It’s just something my daughter got in one of those crane games,” she said, almost apologetically, “But she didn’t want it and, for some reason, I thought you’d really get a kick out of it.”

I thanked her and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, plastic, cartoonish Mexican wrestler. His hood was painted black and red, as was the shirt stretched across his big, barrel chest and even bigger and certainly unnecessary gut. He ended in a pair of scrawny legs outfitted in bright blue leggings and tight, black boots. I gazed at him for a moment, in awe of how utterly perfect he was with his beefy arms outstretched in an obvious display of sweaty, manly victory.

“Do you like it?” Aniko asked.

I looked up at her, and I swear that a tear trickled melodramatically from the corner of each eye.

“He’s… He’s perfect.”

Aniko blushed as I thanked her again. She returned to her department while I went to the dressing room to change back into the skirt I’d worn to work that day. After re-folding the Baby Phat pants, I took them and my new, plastic friend over to the juniors department. I replaced the pants quickly and quietly so as not to draw attention to myself, then snuck over to the wrap-stand (the island registers you see in department stores) where Ayumi was working. As her back was turned, I propped the wrestler up against a stack of credit card brochures, ducking behind the counter as Ayumi turned around.

“I want your soul,” I grunted.

“What?” she said, obviously confused.

“I am the Kami of Insanity, and I DEMAND YOUR SOUL!”

As this point, Ayumi spotted the inch-high Mexican wrestler, a new addition to her otherwise neat and orderly wrap-stand. The next thing I heard was a dull thump as she fell backwards into her register, holding her stomach and laughing. I stood up, grinning.

“Do you like him?” I asked.

“Ohmygodheisperfectwheredidyougethim?!?” shrieked Ayumi.

I repeated this process with all who were privy to the details of the notorious K.o.I. I ended my trip around the store with Smelly Rachel (my nickname for her after the perfume fight. She had one for me, too, but it’s far too vulgar for you Theresas). Waiting until Rachel turned to face the opposite direction, I snuck up to the counter, placed the K.o.I. on it, having just enough time to appreciate how good he looked reflected in all of the nearby mirrors before I ducked to the ground. I forgot, of course, that make-up counters are made of glass, and so Rachel could see me perfectly, though I made a decent job of trying to hide behind a stack of Estée Lauder foundation.

“Yield to me, mortal!” I grunted.

“Amanda, I can see you,” Rachel snorted.

“PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE IDIOT BEHIND ME!,” I grunted louder, “I AM THE KAMI OF INSANITY, AND I DEMAND YOUR SOUL, WENCH!”

And though she was initially obstinate, Rachel was the first to pledge herself to the K.o.I.’s kooky cult. Many others soon followed, and there was not a week night that didn’t see some “departmental rearranging” being done, as we used various bits of merchandise to perform skits, play pranks and construct small but elaborate fashion forts, all in the name of our beloved kami-sama.

Sadly, his reign was not a long one. Shortly before I left, fate dealt a cruel blow to the notorious K.o.I. I’d taken to leaving him next to the register in the women’s department so that he could still inspire insane and inane antics in employees during my nights off. Unbeknownst to me as I sat in my 4:30 PM European Literature class one Tuesday afternoon, my heinous and sacrilegious coworker Kathy disposed of our beloved kami-sama’s small plastic frame, believing him to be the lost toy of some horrid, undeserving child. Though we all searched our trash bins desperately over the next few days, we all eventually admitted that the Kami of Insanity had moved on to another fortunate and currently unenlightened soul, perhaps one who worked at the Target down the street or the Sears across town. We celebrated our own time with our beloved kami-sama by getting together at Rachel’s apartment to watch the MST3K version of Samson vs. the Vampire Women, which features Mexican wrestling star El Santo.

To this day, I can’t see a beer gut or a pair of leggings without getting just a little choked up.