Shift Starts At Nine

For reasons I doubt I’ll ever understand, I had many “I don’t work here” incidents between the ages of nine and fourteen. It never happened again past my fifteenth birthday. I was taller than average during the early part of that time, but at nine and ten, I still looked very obviously like a child not old enough to work.

I am at the grocery store with my mom after school. I am wearing my school uniform, which consists of a plaid jumper — not the UK definition, more like a dress — a white button-down shirt, and knee socks. In my area, this is immediately identifiable as a Catholic elementary school uniform. I’m in the freezer section browsing some popsicles themed after kids’ shows, as my mom has sent me off on my own to pick out a snack.

So, basically, I look like a kid, I’m wearing an outfit only a kid wears, and I am standing in front of products aimed at kids. Despite all this, a woman approaches me. It doesn’t occur to me at first that she somehow thinks I work for the store.

Customer: “I need you to show me where I can find an [item I don’t recognize].”

Me: “Huh?”

Customer: “[Item]! Show me right now!”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

Customer: “Oh, you don’t, huh? Then radio someone for help!”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “Get. Out. Your. Radio. And. Call. Your. Manager. Now! Honestly, I don’t know why they hire people like you, with mental deficiencies.”

It finally dawns on me that she thinks I’m an employee. After standing frozen in shock for a moment, I glance pointedly down at myself and my obvious elementary school uniform while the woman is tapping her foot at me. She doesn’t take the hint.

Me: “Um… I’m nine.”

Customer: “I don’t care. Just call your manager already!”

Me: “I don’t work here. I’m a kid.”

Customer: “Manager! Now!”

I’m not sure what to do, but then my mom starts coming down the aisle. She sees the strange woman yelling at me and hurries over.

Mom: “Excuse me! Is there a reason you’re yelling at my daughter?”

Customer: “Are you the manager? Thank God! This employee is refusing to help me.”

Mom: “I’m not a manager. I don’t work here, and neither does she. She is my daughter. We’re shopping.”

Customer: “Of course she works here. What are you talking about?”

Mom: “No, she doesn’t. She’s a little too busy being a fourth-grader to have a job.”

That got through to the woman where nothing else did. She flushed bright red and walked away as fast as she could without running. And from that point on, I was mistaken for an employee about every third time I went to a store for the next six years. My family still jokes that I skipped the pre-teen stage of childhood and replaced it with a “sales associate” stage.