I turned sixteen right as I started working part-time. At the aproned home improvement store that employed me, there were four main assignments for cashiers: Self-Checkout, Garden, the inside normal register, and the Pro Desk register.

As a trainee, I was to stay only at the self-checkout or the normal inside register as I learned to do my job. While this taught me the ropes, it left me inexperienced in the less-than-ideal assignment: Pro Desk.

As the name implies, the Pro Desk is where professionals (carpenters, plumbers, electricians, etc.) come to do business and check out. It was constantly slammed, and customers often purchased thousands of dollars of merchandise in multiple carts per transaction. If you were a cashier at this register, customers often expected you to have comprehensive professional knowledge in each and every construction-related discipline, and ring everything up faster than the Flash. It was especially busy in the early morning, when many contractors would get their supplies to use at their jobs later in the day. 

And of course, when it came time for me to have my first solo assignment, barely-sixteen year old part-timer me was assigned an eight-and-a-half-hour Saturday morning shift at the Pro Desk register.

The shift is a panicked blur in my memory. At one point, I had to stop checking out customers in order to do a cash strip, and in the time it took me to count and send up the $3,000 in spare bills I had accumulated, my line grew from two to over ten customers, each with at least a single full cart. 

Right at the end of this rush, the final customer had four full carts, which totaled over $1,500 in plumbing materials. He muttered under his breath about how long I took the whole time and insisted I move faster.

I rushed through until I was stopped by a single PVC plumbing part, which didn’t scan properly. I tried typing in the code by hand, scanning it from different angles, but no dice. I asked him if he knew what the part was called, and he simply began cussing me out for not knowing it already, and then admitted he didn’t know the name of it either. I paged my manager as I began to frantically search our website to see if I could find it online.

Customer: “Are you f****** kidding me? They put a r*****ed kid on the register just in time for me to come through. Figures.”

He continues in this manner. Finally, after minutes of spouting verbal abuse at me, the now-crying cashier…

Customer: “I can’t believe this s***ty service! Over at [Competitor], they’d never—”

The customer froze. Then, he rifled in his pockets before pulling out a crumpled receipt from [Competitor].

Customer: “Oh, I bought that part at [Competitor]. Forgot I brought it in to make sure it’d fit.” *Laughs.*

He then finished checking out in silence as I continued to cry quietly, then left.

What a warm welcome to retail that was. I still remember it close to ten years later, so clearly it left a positive impression.

I was shopping at a large home improvement store a few years ago. They used to have a particularly nasty woman who worked at the checkouts. You could tell she thought we were all stupid and beneath her. It was very early on a Sunday morning, and I had a cartful of assorted items. I knew some of the items wouldn’t scan. 

The only thing open was the four self-service registers.

Me: “Could I get some help, because I know some of these things won’t scan?”

She didn’t even look up from what she was doing and, in the most condescending voice possible, said:

Employee: “All you have to do is run it over the scanner. Just scan it.”

I scanned my small bag of grass seed. I scanned my bottle of plant food. I scanned the new igniter kit for my grill. Then I grabbed one of the landscaping pavers and plopped it down on the scanner glass. The sound coming from the machine would seem to indicate it wasn’t scanning. I flipped it over and tried the other side. The scanner made more protesting noises. 

I guess I was too vague. The noises I was referring to were the scanner glass breaking. Broken glass was everywhere. 

Now I had every employee in the area rushing over trying to help me. Of course, the manager came over, and they were trying to make a huge scene.

There was another customer who was standing right there who called out the employee and said she was very rude to me when I asked for help.

Other Customer: “She was just following her instructions perfectly!”

I left with all my stuff. I don’t know how long self-serve #3 was out of commission. It was still closed the next weekend. I never saw that employee there again.

I had eye surgery recently, and one of the lingering side effects is light sensitivity, so I got permission to wear sunglasses inside, especially in the morning, because the sun glares right into the cash registers.

Most people don’t pay much attention to it when I wear sunglasses, but not this old couple, who pulled into my lane with several sheets of drywall and lumber.

Customer: *Whispering not as quietly as he thinks he’s being.* “Figures, insane DEI, a blind girl checking us out, what will they think of next?”

Woman: “Hush, I’m sure she can do her job. It’s better than her driving one of those forklifts.”

I rolled my eyes as I gave my spiel and went to count the drywall, touching it as I tend to get a better bead on the number when I do.

Me: “It’s [Couple hundred dollars and odd change].”

Customer: “Here is [Couple hundred dollars rounded up to the next dollar].”

Woman: *Scandalized.* “Dear?!”

I looked down and saw he gave me a couple of tens. Oh, no, you don’t, Buster, but I’ll give him one chance at an out.

Me: “I’ll need the rest.”

Customer: “It’s there, trust me.”

Me: “Sir, this is thirty dollars. One, I heard what you said to your wife, and second—” *I pushed up my sunglasses and stared at him.* “—I’m light-sensitive, not blind. Now, do you wish to pay the correct amount, or should I bring a manager over?”

The man grumbles as he takes the tens back and pays by credit, while his wife scolds him on the way out for trying to trick a blind girl. I did let my supervisor know about his attempt to shortchange me, so they’ll be on alert the next time he comes in.

Customer: “Can you mix [paint color] with [wrong base]?”

Me: “I can make that color, but I can’t use that base.”

Customer: “Yes, you can.”

Me: “The computer literally won’t let me do it with that base, because the colorant won’t fit. The bases are a certain amount of base… light colors use [Base #1], which is almost full with white base, [Base #2] is about three-quarters full, and [Base #3] is about half full. Darker colors use either [Base #2] or [Base #3], depending on how much color goes in. You want a dark color and [Base #1]. It will overflow, which is why I can’t even override the system.”

Customer: “I got it that way before!”

Me: “Not from here, you didn’t, because the computer will not allow me to move forward with this base.”

Customer: “Get a manager to override it!”

Me: “Ma’am, you misunderstand. This is a matter of physics, not store policy. Not even a manager can override it.”

Customer: “Fine, make it how you want, but if it’s wrong, I’m coming back and chewing you out!”

That was five months ago. Still waiting on that chewing.

I’d ordered a set of blackout curtains online for pickup. The site showed the colour as “Deep Charcoal.” When I collect them, the colour is definitely not that.

Me: “Hey, I think there’s been a mix-up. I ordered charcoal, but these are purple.”

Manager: “No, that’s just the lighting. They’ll look darker once they’re hung.”

Me: “They look like eggplants in daylight. I don’t think lighting’s the issue.”

Manager: “Hmm, well… fabric dye lots vary. You probably got a slightly different batch.”

Me: “It’s not a slightly different batch. It’s a different colour family.”

Manager: “We don’t make colour guarantees, sir. The photos online are representative.”

I open the box and show him the label on the curtain itself, printed in bold letters: “Lavender Bloom.”

Manager: “Ah. That’s… uh…”

Me: “It’s kinda funny, because the box also says Lavender Bloom, but someone’s stuck a “Deep Charcoal” barcode over it.”

He glances at the barcode, then at me. His smile’s doing a slow crumble.

Manager: “Well… we can exchange it, but technically our online system marked this as charcoal, so…”

His voice trails off as he has nothing to say that can save himself. They process the exchange and fetch me the correct colour. As he hands me the new receipt, he tries for one last scrap of dignity:

Manager: “Of course, we’ll be reviewing this internally.”

Me: “Maybe start with whoever thinks purple is a shade of grey.”