I’m Not Serving Myself Up On A Tray For You

(I’m seventeen, working my first job as a cashier at a fast food joint. We have a soda fountain located behind the counter, but customers are allowed free refills within reason. The cashiers are required to clean off the trays. A customer in his 30s and his friend have been in the restaurant for nearly an hour, ordered one soda, and have been getting constant refills, but no one else is here and it’s hot as balls, so I’m letting it slide. They are loud and rowdy, but again, no one else is here, so whatever. I am wiping down a stack of trays at the counter.)

Customer: *ambling over* “Hey, so, what do you do here all day?”

(I get the feeling I’m being hit on by this older man.)

Me: “I serve the customers and clean up, sir.”

(I smile and indicate the trays. He continues chatting and leaning into my space as I work, but I’m young and shy, so I say nothing and give noncommittal hums to his questions. I finally finish drying off my 40+ trays and smile politely.)

Me: “Sorry, I have other chores to get to. Just call if you need a refill and someone will be out to help you, okay?”

(In response, the guy pretends to stretch and carefully shoves my stack of trays, and all of them clatter to the dirty floor. He leans back over the counter and smiles smugly as I step back in shock. His friend howls in laughter.)

Customer: “Can I get a refill?”

Me: *discovering that I’m not THAT shy* “You don’t deserve one! Get out of my store!”

(They call me a b**** and leave. My supervisor — an angry, sixty-year-old feminist with butch tendencies — hears the noise, comes to investigate, and after hearing the story, pats me on the shoulder.)

Supervisor: “Next time an a**hole tries that s*** with you, just shout for me or something. See him try it on me.”

(I did indeed call on her once or twice, and surprisingly, the same men were much less likely to hang around the counter after she took over my position.)