An Incident I Recall Sometimes

Once when I was working as a cashier in South Philly someone tipped me.

My job was actually as a sales associate, which, in non-luxury department stores simply means you "work the floor," running around the store doing any and all tasks store and customer-related. As anyone who has ever worked in retail would know, whenever there are long lines one of the managers will call for a backup cashier, to assist the main cashiers. Whenever that would happen, I would resist going to the front of the store not only because I hated my work being interrupted but it was a long walk from my department to the front of the store. Eventually, a manager would call my name, specifically, to play backup cashier. They would call me because I was the fastest cashier — no one else ever got called by name. I would check out five customers before the real cashiers were finished with one. One woman once asked if I was the only cashier open because she just kept hearing “next customer to register six.” I wasn’t the only one open, my coworkers were just old enough and experienced enough to know that no matter how fast you work, your shift won’t end any faster, the line won’t become any shorter, and you won’t get paid any more; so why over-exert yourself?

On one particularly busy day, my name was called and I reluctantly trudged to the front of the store to help clear the long lines. I always had polite conversations with the customers if they were willing — most were. If they weren’t, I’d just leave it at a greeting, a smile, and a final “thanks for shopping with us!” This time, a man walked up to my register and laid his items down. I greeted him, asked if he found everything he was looking for, and asked how he was doing. I don’t remember exactly how the conversation shifted but he asked if I’d ever been skiing. I replied with sincere shock and amusement “skiing!? Me? No way, I’m a city girl that sounds scary. You ski??” He told me that he did indeed ski and about how beautiful the mountains are. I believed him. I wished him luck on his next trip and joked about one day hitting the slopes for myself. I finished his transaction and began handing him his bags and telling him my usual “have a great day.” He said something along the lines of “listen, I don’t meet many people who are as kind as you. I want you to have this...” as he began pushing a twenty-dollar bill into my palm. “Oh no! Thank you, you don’t have to...” he cut me off, saying please and that it would mean so much and he thanked me and hurried out of the store. The entire interaction was no more than 4 minutes, if that.

I had noticed the crutches. I saw them when he began approaching my register. They were the kind of crutches that goes under the forearms. I assumed it was the result of a chronic illness, but I assumed nothing more. I believed him when he told me that he skied and when he said how beautiful the mountains were and how he planned to “get back up there” once winter was in full swing. I saw no reason not to believe him or to think he may have been embellishing until he walked away from the counter, leaving me holding a twenty-dollar bill, mouth partially agape from surprise, still trying to figure out how to un-take the money. I only stood in confusion for a moment, though. I put the money under my register and pushed my button, “next customer to register six.” I smiled, greeted, and began the checkout process again.

I was still so confused, I didn’t notice my coworker staring at me wide-eyed. “What are you going to do?” she asked. I was still fairly new to retail, but I knew, logically, that that kind of thing had to be reported to a manager. I also did not expect secrecy from the coworker who was, apparently, watching me work instead of checking out customers. When I finished at the register, I walked up to a manager, money in hand, to report what had happened. The coworker who was so concerned followed on my heels to hear the results. The manager told me sternly that taking money was against policy and asked me to hand over my twenty dollar bill; then she sent me back to work the floor.

I didn’t think about the money again that shift. I was so upset for the rest of the night that a person would give me twenty dollars just for... well, for what, exactly? Being cordial? For listening to his story? For not judging his abilities based on a pair of crutches? I couldn’t stop thinking of how awful people must be to him on a daily basis for a less than 4-minute conversation to mean so much to him. It still hurts to think about. I don't want to be thanked for common decency ever again. Everyone should be able to expect decency as long as they give it; it's the absolute bare minimum that one can do. I still think about that short moment years later. It just goes to show that a kind word and nonjudgemental look really can mean so much to someone and I honestly wish all my words could be so kind — no payment required.

I never got that twenty-dollar bill back, by the way. I assume it paid for my manager to fill her gas tank while I, at nineteen years old, took a 60-minute bus, train, then foot commute back to my apartment at 11 p.m.