Growing up, my parents had three rules: 1) You must play an instrument; 2) You must get your drivers license; and 3) You must get a job as soon as you’re of age. At the height of pre-teen angst – rocking braces, glasses, and fuzzy Crocs – I took up the clarinet. I spent so much time working the keys that I taught myself how to play the Law & Order intro by ear. Once I entered the musty halls of high school, I decided I would pick up yet another instrument. I didn’t opt for something cool like the drums; instead, my four-eyes landed on the oboe, which I spent four years playing in the concert band. Fast-forward about six years, and I was forced into getting my drivers license; I still despise driving to this day, and I’m the intelligent human who chose a college that requires at least five hours in the car to reach the final destination. To fulfill parent rule number three, I got a job working at a Japanese Hibachi. That was a short-lived experience because I ended up applying for a retail position around the holidays, and I’ve worked there ever since. It was rewarding to finally make my own money, and I’m grateful that I did not have to scramble to find different employment while at school.

Working in retail for almost four years has been great for people watching and constructing characters for stories. The human race is an interesting species, especially when unleashed into the color-coded racks and tables of a department store. I think everyone should have to work in retail at least once in their lifetime because it would give an entirely new meaning to “treat people the way you want to be treated.” Every time customers trash a fitting room and walk out looking me dead in the eye, I almost want to stop and ask them if they leave their closets at home like the leaning tower of inside-out articles of clothing piled against the mirror.

However, when dusk settles onto the horizon, the real characters crawl out of the woodwork, specifically those with an itch to steal. A few years ago, right when I started working retail, I distinctly remember the static ridden voice of loss prevention crackling over the headset warning everyone on the floor about a sketchy individual in the men’s department. He was making his way through the clearance racks, and not even fifteen minutes later, the distinct static voice rang over the headset once again to inform associates that the sketchy individual was crouched in a corner, gnawing on a security tag like it was a crispy chicken leg. Because of incidents such as this, it is imperative that stores do inventory to account for every item in the store, and let me tell you, this is always an interesting eight-hour day.

About a week ago, I stumbled through the automatic doors at 5:45 am, eyes half closed because my coffee hadn’t fully kicked in yet. The hot florescent lights burned my retinas, and as my sensitive eyes adjusted, I noted the black uniforms of the counting company that would be taking inventory of the entire store. I would be assigned to the pants tables, so I grabbed my fold cart and headed on over to the infamous men’s denim. I was assigned to work with a stocky gentleman adorning shoulder length stringy brown hair with gray roots who looked to be in about his late forties. Actually, I was not specifically assigned to spend eight hours with this man; in fact, he grabbed my fold cart from me and said, “I guess I’m working with you.” The entirety of the day consisted of him attempting to flirt with my non-interested expression while simultaneously coughing and yawning in my face. I spent the day breathing through my mouth while turning my head to the side so as to not smell the rank scent floating in my direction every few moments. I must have a flashing neon sign above my head that says, “Yes, you, please hit on me.” And it’s always someone at least twice my age who would find more luck at Bingo night. Needless to say, I was glad to part ways with this particular individual.

Working in retail is like trick-or-treating in smaller towns. You’re expecting the good chocolate like Hershey’s and Reese’s, but instead you get a few rusted pennies and a bruised apple that looks like it fell a little too far from the tree. These rusted pennies and bruised fruits serve as the best stories to share with the rest of the world. I’m glad my parents coaxed me into the workforce at such a young age because I have catalogs of stories left to tell and an abundance of character traits to explore and define in the near future. Filing those rusted pennies and bruised apples away for another time, I’ll opt for a coffee a day to keep the weirdos rolling my way.