I had some… memorable moments working retail.
Let's start with the time I was "facing shelves." That's retail code for making the aisle look neat and full, pulling items to the front, lining them up like you're prepping the store for a surprise inspection by God.
I noticed this guy watching me. Like, watching me. Following me from aisle to aisle. Staring in a way that made even me, the queen of oblivious, uncomfortable.
After ten full minutes of trying to pretend it was fine (it wasn't), I ducked into the basement where the employee bathrooms were. Because even creeps couldn't follow you into HR-safe zones.
And there, under the gloriously unflattering fluorescent lights, I discovered why he'd been gawking.
There was a hole.
Not a tiny hole. Not a maybe no one noticed hole.
No. This was a full crotch-to-butt canyon in my pants. My entire baby blue thong was on show like it was auditioning for a Victoria's Secret window display, at a Kroger.
I had unknowingly become the most desired store display in town. All that was missing was a sale sign and aisle lighting.
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Then there was the hiccup incident.
I get hiccups a lot. It's a thing. I was working, minding my business, hiccuping like a startled hamster, and then, out of nowhere, a man I didn't even know came up behind me and grabbed me around the chest.
Around. The. Chest.
And yelled "BOO!"
I nearly spun around and clocked him. My fight-or-flight reflex chose violence.
He just laughed. LAUGHED. Said, "I heard if you scare someone with hiccups, it makes them stop."
I looked him dead in the eye and said, "If you ever touch me again, I will hit you. I don't care that I'm at work."
Also, the hiccups didn't stop. They just became painful, silent rage spasms.
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And then… the butt slap. Because apparently, I was unknowingly starring in a workplace version of America's Funniest Assaults.
I was walking through the back aisle, completely unbothered, when someone slapped my ass so hard it lifted me off the ground.
My first thought?
"Oh, one of my sisters is here."
Because that's the kind of sibling chaos I grew up with. Honestly, we're weird. Don't question it.
But no. It wasn't my sister.
It was Gladys. Seventy, sassy, and apparently very handsy. My elderly lesbian coworker. Grinning. Proud. And then she frowned, frowned, and said, "Wow. You didn't even react."
I looked her dead in the eye and said, "Yeah… I thought you were my sister."
Which, in hindsight, did not make this less weird.
She looked horrified. I looked horrified. Because ma'am, you just sexually assaulted me at work and your biggest concern is that I didn't react enough??
She shuffled away muttering something about sensitivity training. I just stood there wondering if I needed to report it or just sage the back aisle.
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At one point, I had a part-time employee named Colby, fresh out of high school, full of attitude, and somehow convinced that "whatever" was an acceptable response to everything.
"How's school going?"
"Whatever."
"Can you face that aisle?"
"Whatever."
"Colby, you're two minutes late."
"Whatever."
It drove me insane. I asked him nicely. I asked him less nicely. And then one day, I cracked.
I spent an entire shift responding only with "whatever." Three hours. No exceptions. Tone shifts only. No other words.
Colby: "Do you want me to take break now or later?"
Me: "Whatever."
Colby: "Is that a yes or a no?"
Me: "Whatever."
I was a living passive-aggressive oracle. The ghost of sass future. Somewhere around hour three, he snapped.
"OKAY, OKAY, I'LL STOP!"
Blessed silence. We celebrated with nachos from the gas station next door. Brotherhood restored.
I gave him one final "whatever" for the road, because closure matters.
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Then there was the time a customer gave me his number while I was working.
That wasn't weird. That happened more than I'd like to admit. People love flirting with retail employees because we're trapped and paid to be nice.
But this guy? He seemed decent. Polite. Normal. (You'd think I'd learn that "normal" is just a red flag in khakis.)
So I texted him. For one day. ONE.
By the end of that single day, this man offered me $400 to sleep with him. Cash.
I didn't even respond. I just blocked the number and immediately sanitized my soul.
To this day, I still want to know what I said that screamed: "She'd probably take four hundred."
Sir, I stock ibuprofen and tampons. Not dignity for sale. Please.
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Working retail really puts you in situations you couldn't make up. People think customer service is about transactions.
But really, it's about surviving assaults, wearing duct-taped pants, dodging creepers, and praying the employee bathroom isn't your only safe space.
And honestly? I loved that job.
Just not the people who needed Jesus, jail, or a HR rep with a spine.