There are days I miss working at the mall.
I miss pouring coffee for my favourite regulars. I miss the banter and chatter and joking with my coworkers, teasing each other about who said the ‘Q-word’ when they were out on break.
You never say, ‘Wow, it’s quiet today’ out loud. I swear every customer in the mall would beeline to the shop every single time, like clockwork.
I miss the smell of the first pot of coffee, setting up the giant pots and grinding beans. I miss getting in when the sun was barely up, washing out whipped cream canisters, and making up a fresh batch.
I had a job at this little coffee shop in the back of the giant bookstore, and I loved that place. It was so cozy, so comforting to stand behind that counter and look out at the endless stacks of books, people reading at the tables, and sipping the drinks I served them.
I miss that.
Until I take off my rose-tinted glasses and remember what it was really like.
It was one of the busiest places in our small town shopping center, and my coworkers and I were busting our butts all day, every day.
There was no time to take a break. It was tiring work, much more demanding than people think it is; retail workers and service industry employees don’t get the credit they deserve.
We damn sure weren’t paid enough.
We had no security team to watch our backs, nobody watching for theft — a common problem, with expensive mugs sitting on shelves in plain view — or for scam artists looking for free drinks.
I had to handle a lot of those. They thought they were being sneaky. They were not.
There was nobody there to kick out leering guys who harassed me. I had to deal with that on my own, especially if I was the only one working the front of the store when it happened.
There’s nothing you can do when rich older ladies treat you with complete contempt because low-wage workers are ‘beneath’ them.
The most annoying part of that job was the assumption that good customer service meant being the customer’s punching bag. You had to grin and bear it, and just put up with their bad behaviour or risk being written up.
Screw that. I decided I wasn’t interested in being bullied a long time ago.
When you work retail, you don’t have a choice in how you deal with rude people.
If somebody walks up to you in your personal life and says something vulgar or raises their voice, you have every right to tell them off or walk away. You don’t have to engage; you don’t have to stand there and take it.
But at work, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.
I vividly remember one customer who was the most two-faced jerk I’ve ever met. He would switch personalities on a dime depending on whether his girlfriend was with him or not.
When she was, he was in a nice button-down shirt with a friendly smile and his very best behaviour on display. He paid for their drinks, he was polite, he had eyes only for her and she was radiant under his attention.
Then he would come in without her. He’d be in a skin-tight tank top with sunglasses on — indoors, no less — and hit on every single woman working behind the counter.
Including my underage teenage coworker who had already been harassed by our older male boss.
You have no idea how badly I wanted to remind him that his girlfriend was a regular, that I literally knew her by name, and that I talked to her several times a week.
But he felt secure in assuming that I wouldn’t. He had every expectation that he was going to get away with his predatory behaviour.
See, retail workers are a captive audience. When you’re behind the counter and on the clock, you aren’t human. You’re a machine. You exist to take orders, make drinks, and smile.
Especially if you’re a woman. If you aren’t smiling ‘properly’ you will hear complaints about it.
The idea that he might get outed by one of us didn’t occur to him, and frankly, he had a point. It’s not our job to cause drama.
Luckily we didn’t need to; he wound up screwing it up on his own without our help. She’s better off without him. We heard all about it from her when she came in after the breakup.
Baristas are like bartenders; we collect all the hot gossip whether we want to or not.
Let me tell you about Jesus Dave.
Jesus Dave was the nickname we gave to our coworker’s pastor, the preacher who regularly spoke at her church. To her, he was very nice and welcoming — as you’d expect, with her being part of his congregation.
To the rest of us, he was the reason to draw straws on who would be working the register until he left the store.
Jesus Dave came to the coffee shop with one purpose in mind: To save our wretched young souls before it was too late. Our workplace, where we had no choice but to stand there and listen to him, was the perfect place to do that.
Now, to be clear, there’s nothing problematic with religious customers in general. Most are nice, except for the judgemental hypocrites who want to lecture you for working on Sunday while they pay you to make them lunch.
One of my regulars was a very devout gentleman who worked as a nurse at the local hospital. I used to get into theological discussions with him when I got off the clock, and we were pretty good friends by the time I left that job.
He once invited me to church, I politely declined, and he never asked again. When I told him I was pagan, he took it in stride and didn’t even blink. It was just another topic to discuss.
Jesus Dave was something else.
The first time I met him, I was caught off guard when several of my coworkers all suddenly found reasons to go ‘check something’ out back. I found myself alone, blinking at a very average-looking man with a big smile on his face.
He ordered a plain cup of light roast coffee. I poured it, and I rang him up. He looked me up and down as I did, taking in my dyed hair, my tattoos, and my piercings. He made a point of checking my name tag.
Then he said, with heavy emphasis and a very solemn tone, “Well, Sam. I’m going to give you one of these because I think you really need it.”
He handed me a little religious pamphlet, urging me to repent and come back to Jesus so I wouldn’t burn in Hell.
Charming.
Over the next few months, Jesus Dave would come in at random times. My one co-worker joked that he never got a pamphlet from Dave, and he felt left out.
As the one straight-laced young man in a nice button-down shirt and a short haircut, he was the only one to never get a talking-down-to by our visiting pastor.
The second time I met Jesus Dave, I had just clocked out and he slid into the line behind me when I went to claim my daily free latte.
“Sam, have you given any thought to letting Jesus into your life?”
I was off the clock. I turned to look up at him, not smiling, tone flat. “Yeah, I sure thought about it, Dave.”
He gave me a look of pure pity, gave a theatrical sigh, and said: “Well, you’re young. You have time.”
After that, he started hosting Bible study groups with kids from his church. He would bring them in, put tables together — right in front of the register, leaving just enough space for customers to get by — and talk loudly about the Good Book.
Every so often one of the kids would come up for a drink and try to give us more Jesus pamphlets. I started bluntly telling them ‘no’, pushing the pamphlets back at them across the bar.
I was losing patience. I was losing my good customer service attitude.
I was lucky that my supervisor knew Jesus Dave well enough to cut me some slack about it.
I developed a reputation by the time I left that job.
I was the one who had stopped giving a damn, who didn’t mind hustling people out the door when they were making themselves my problem.
I picked up that reputation after one awful experience that had us stuck at work well past the time we were supposed to be closed for the night.
We were in the process of cleaning up, getting ready to shut down the espresso machines and start their nightly wash cycles. We were wiping down coffee pots, filling the dishwasher, and generally winding down.
About ten minutes to closing, these two young ladies came in pushing strollers. They were new moms, carting bags full of baby gear over giant winter coats.
They ordered hot cocoa, which we didn’t mind whipping up before shutting down the machines.
Then I turned back to glance over the store and watched them dump their bags on a table. They were chattering amicably to each other, stripping off their coats and starting to get settled in.
I called out a quick, “Hey, we’re actually about to close!” and they waved their hands and turned back to talking.
I saw my supervisor’s expression fall. She was relatively new to the job, having just gotten promoted a week or so before. She didn’t feel confident in the role yet.
I took it upon myself to walk past the ladies as I wiped down tables, giving reminders as I walked back and forth.
Five minutes to closing.
Okay ladies, we’re closing in two minutes.
It’s five minutes past closing time, ladies.
They ignored me. It got to the point where one of them started taking her baby out of his stroller, making like she was going to start feeding him.
We were all standing at the counter, unable to start the nightly cleaning, money counting, or locking up until they were gone. I looked at my supervisor and she shrugged.
She didn’t want to be rude. I said I wanted to go home.
She bet me the pen she was holding that I didn’t have the guts to go and tell the moms with babies to get out.
I happily marched around the counter, straight up to the table, and loudly announced: “We’ve been closed for almost twenty minutes. Please get out of the store.”
There were gasps, affronted glares, and muttered protests. They had newborns; they just wanted a quiet place to sit out of the cold. I refused to budge and stood over them with my best RBF until it sank in.
They made a big show of it, dragging out their preparations and taking their sweet time. Tucking the babies away, packing up the bags of baby supplies, and giving me rude glares as they pulled on their jackets.
I marched them to the door, out into the mall, and made sure they left the building. When I got back, my supervisor sheepishly held out the pen without a word.
Customers act entitled because they’ve been repeatedly shown that it’s okay.
It isn’t.
Contrary to what some people might think, retail workers are equal human beings with every right to be treated with dignity and respect. There is no reason to be rude, condescending, or malicious towards us.
The customer is not always right. They aren’t gods giving commandments from on high.
I don’t work at that coffee shop anymore, but I still occasionally pop in to get a drink and browse the books. I don’t put up with the bull anymore, and I’m no longer bound by the rules of the store. There’s nothing stopping me from cranking up the attitude if somebody gives the workers a hard time.
I’m still waiting to run into Jesus Dave again. I have plans to go full-bore Petty Confetti on him if I catch him pulling another Bible Study stunt.
Getting children to help him harass us was a low blow, and I have no tolerance for two-bit bullies who exploit kids like human shields. I have no pity in my heart for people who use retail workers as a captive audience for their bully pulpit.
I have a whole speech planned out, loudly talking up the virtues of Thor and Eir. I imagine he’ll be horrified to find out he didn’t successfully convert me away from Heathenry after all his hard work.
If I run into the guy who hit on me behind his girlfriend’s back and he’s harassing the working women again, I will not hesitate to make a scene. I will ask him how his ex is doing and how she liked finding out what kind of loser he really is.
And gods help the woman who snapped her fingers at me like I was a dog when I didn’t get her food fast enough. I’d love to tell her that her expensive jewelry and her prissy attitude are too low-class for that establishment.
I’d love to give these people a piece of my mind because when they treated me that way, nobody else did.
The people in line behind them averted their eyes or just got out of the line and went to get coffee somewhere else.
Most people don’t stand up for retail workers.
This bullying behaviour is going to keep happening until we do.
Solidarity wins.
This piece was inspired by a great story written by Roz Warren, Writing Coach over on Medium. She stood up for somebody who was being berated by an angry customer who couldn’t accept his own mistake, and she deserves a round of applause!
Read her piece here and show her your support. It’s a couple years old, but cathartic all the same!