By Jerome Haller
One night, Raquel walked up to me for a chat. She told me a male customer had been making her uncomfortable during her shifts. She said he repeatedly complimented her face and curvy figure.
The news enraged me. Raquel, a cashier, does her job well and follows the Golden Rule. Due to mutual respect, she and I have become friends.
After Raquel described the jerk, I recalled watching him during previous shifts. He has an average height and build, with some flecks of gray at the temples. A cocaine dealer by trade, he flashes a big wad of cash and talks loudly on a cell phone as though he were a big shot. He chats up the Cool Assistant Manager to earn suck up points. He often buys flowers for emaciated women. The staff ponders whether the women are hookups or clients.
Once, he mentioned he saw me walking in my neighborhood and added he could provide a lift to work. I firmly said he had the wrong person.
At any rate, he was more interested in Raquel. She needed my help. I described her plight to an assistant manager and a police officer. Both told me I could talk to the dealer when he visited company property.
For a couple of weeks after Raquel complained, I awaited his return. But he stayed away from the store. Instead, he continued his pursuit away from the premises. One morning, Raquel finished her shift and walked toward her apartment. He stopped his car and offered to buy her breakfast. She refused. He drove away.
Raquel got scared, thinking that he might get more aggressive. She started packing Mace and a small knife. Her boyfriend searched for him around the neighborhood.
One night, the dealer finally showed up. I pulled him aside to address Raquel’s claims about his conduct inside the store.
He snorted something about not trying to cause offense and walked into the aisles. He bought his goods and left without uttering a syllable. He has not bothered Raquel anywhere since that night.
The quiet end of the drama relieved me. But the dealer got the last laugh a month later.
He walked through the door about 4 a.m. with a young girl. The petite brunette wore a denim jacket and tight blue jeans.
Raquel retreated into the break room.
Both the Cool Cashier and I looked at the youngster’s smooth face and wide eyes and reached the same conclusion. She did not appear hip enough to be on the street with him, especially at that hour. She was also most likely a minor.
I figured the drug dealer intended to send a message to Raquel. He did not need to bother her anymore. He had found a younger replacement.
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A very pseudononymous Jerome Haller earns rent money as a security guard for a large, publicly-held retail chain. He welcomes your comments.
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See more tales of security guarding, pizzeria waitressing, barista-ing and office drudgering in our Life at Work collection.
Posted on May 2, 2011