What Happened In That Restroom Is Not Right, But The Price Is

Back in the days of VHS tapes and rotary phones, I was a newly minted seventeen-year-old bagboy at a local supermarket.

This was before everything was taken over by the big box stores, so the employee roster tended to be pretty short. A few cashiers, a couple of bagboys/cart pushers, one manager, you get the idea.

One night, it was ghostly quiet, with only a handful of customers in the store. I’d already gathered up the carts outside, it was cold, and my manager called me over. 

Manager: “Come with me.”

We headed back to the customer’s restroom (we only had the one), and the first thing that hit me was the smell. It was like Satan gorged on an all-you-can-eat Taco Tuesday and blasted it out his rear end, washed down with broccoli and stinky cheese.

I won’t describe the state of the restroom, but it was horrifying. I still have nightmares about stuff dripping off walls.

Manager: “Maintenance went home for the night, you’re going to have to clean this up.”

I looked my manager square in the eye.

Me: “No way in h*** am I cleaning this up! I’m not qualified, I’m not trained, I’m not even eighteen! I will quit right this second if you even dare to try and force me to do this.”

My manager looked at me silently for a moment, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He peeled off two twenty-dollar bills.

I learned that night that I had a price. 

No matter how horrible something was, I would do it, for a price.

But hey, $40 is $40.