Just before graduating college I worked at a convenience store and learned the true meaning of hell. A rundown affair, the store was dirty, cramped and smelled of bleach and bubble gum. The freezers busted every other week and no one cared that the ice cream melted and recrystallized. Customers paid with food stamps and dollar bills marked with hash stains. My coworkers smoked weed next to the garbage dumpster behind the building.

However, the experience was invaluable, because the job proved that there were worse tortures than high school. Truly, the gig wasn’t all bad – there were clerk perks. I showed up on time, didn’t steal, counted out correctly and never asked for a raise. In short – the dream employee. As a reward, Atul left me alone and unsupervised for days or weeks at a time. He also gave me several raises.

Such a “favored employee status” provided fine opportunities for taunting customers without fear of retribution. Atul never fired anyone who was honest. I abused this trust daily.

For instance, customers often lit cigarettes on the way into the store.

Sam ( takes a long drag and exhales then spies customer lighting up ): No smoking.
Customer: Oh excuse me, register jockey boy. You’re smoking!
Sam: And you are a customer. Until the magic conversion kit morphs this establishment into a bar or restaurant it’s illegal to smoke in here.
Customer: Why?
Sam ( exhales ) : ‘Cause its a danger to the employees health. You trying to kill me?
Customer ( leaves in a huff ): F****** Jerk.
Sam: And also are you. Thank you, come again.

And did someone ring the deli service button?

Sam: Deli is closed.
Customer: The sign says its open till six pm. It’s 10 am.
Sam: The slicer’s broken. Deli is closed. Thank you.

By the way, that slicer was the one piece of equipment that always worked. Gosh, there were just so many opportunities for venting at innocent strangers. Compare this advantage to an office job where customers rule all.

Customer: Hey, can I pay for a Playboy with food stamps?
Sam: Let me think about that. Gee, not unless theres some milk, bread, butter or cheese spread on those pages.
Customer: Is there anyway around that?
Sam: Sure, I’ll open the deli and cut you a few slices of Swiss cheese.
Customer: You don’t have to be rude.
Sam: And you don’t have to buy that Playboy and I don’t have to sell it to you. In fact, how about some ID?

Ah, the good times never stopped.