Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 5

(I own a sports memorabilia store. Although I’m in my mid-30s I could pass for 17 easily. I just returned from a two-week vacation and check in with the store. Behind the counter is the new hire I was told about while I was gone. We’ve never met before.)

Me: “How’s it going? You must be—”

New Hire: “The f*** do you want?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

New Hire: “You heard me. I see you f****** teenagers in here every day. I’m sick of it! You better get your a** outta this store.”

Me: “First of all, never talk to a customer that way. And second, I’m not actually a teenager. I’m really—”

New Hire: “Did I stutter? I don’t think I did. So turn your little smug a** around and leave before I call the owner. He’s a good friend of mine so he’ll side with me.”

Me: “Go ahead. Call the owner.”

New Hire: “You must think you’re hot s*** or something, daring me to do this. But, oh well. Your choice.”

(While the new hire reaches for the phone and gets ready to dial, I nonchalantly pull my phone out of my pocket and place it on the counter facing him. He turns around with the phone to his ear shaking his head. Suddenly my phone rings on the counter. He looks down at my screen and sees his phone number pop up. All the color drains from his face as I pick it up and answer.)

Me: “This is [My Name]. Guess what? You’re fired. Leave the property now.”

(He practically sprints out of the store, so fast that I have to call him on his phone to tell him that he left all his belongings behind.)