Memoirs of a Cashier #3 (Last)

As I come to a close on this series, I feel I should describe when I was almost robbed by a desperate woman, with a horrible addiction.

Friday night had brought the usual rush of drunken fools, dazzling drug dealers, and an assortment of other crazy customers, but one stood out from the rest. Standing next to the counter, an elderly woman (dressed in three coats) with a large boxy wicker purse stood by the lottery, away from the ever-extending line. Though I was concerned with the customers flooding through the doors, I heard a soft muttering, almost unheard over the raucous.

The woman that stood next to the counter was muttering to herself, sounding like "I need some money. Times are getting harder and harder, and I'm in need of some quick money."

My eyes glanced towards the disheveled appearance, and her hands were tucked inside the purse. Her brown eyes held a reddish hue in the white, and both were set upon me. Slowly, she lifted a folded shirt from her purse, but it seemed to be wrapped around an item of which I had no clue. Continuing her quiet mutterings, she glared at me in an attempt to ascertain the collected bills within my register.

Once shirt rose from her purse,threatening me with mystery, I scanned the nearly hostile mob; no one else had noticed. Smoothly I said, "I can't have you in my store, you're going to have to leave."

With a look of shock, like I hurled an insult her way; she withdrew her purse from the counter, storming from the establishment. A shake of my head, and I returned to work after the nervous ordeal, never to see her again.

I like to think I handled it well, especially not knowing what was held within the bag, but I do still hope she found her way out of her financial struggle. If you are threatened, I hope you luck in finding the safest way out.

Memoirs of a Cashier #2

When I worked my first day, I found out we closed late at night, around 1:30 a.m., to clean and re-stock the cooler, but little did I know, a surprise customer would make a special appearance that night. Just before the double doors were locked in place, allowing us to work in safety, I saw the silhouette of a man running through the street.

Of course, at 1:30 a.m., I could not see the man's condition. And, before it was too late to stop his progress, he bounded to and through the door. In a moment, it seemed, an African-American man of average height and build stood, stark naked, cupping his privates, dancing to warm his cold and shaken bones. The cashier and I exchanged a weary glance and an almost inaudible whisper escaped her lips.

"Should we call the police?"

It was the question of the century, for we knew not whether the naked stranger was a threat or seeking the safety and warmth of our store. Then, I listened to the repeated ramblings of the naked man, and with constant mutters, he pleaded "Please help me, please help me..." It seemed his mind reeled from an unknown experience down the road.

Quickly and quietly, I slipped into the office to the right, grabbed the phone, and proceeded to dial 911. No matter if the man asked for help, I was not sacrificing my life for his safety. Within moments of telling the address and situation, the police and ambulance pulled into the lot and whisked him away.

To this day, I never found out what happened to the man, whether he was robbed, high, or just crazy, but I did learn one thing. Just because someone runs up naked, shivering, and repeating some random sentence, doesn't make him dangerous. Often, I look back and wish I had done something to help the man further, but my fear paralyzed my need to help, and the only thought that remained was to get him the hell out of there.

When a random situation presents itself, will you quickly and quietly call someone else, or will you assert yourself and aid the situation? I hope you do whatever is best.

Memoirs of a Cashier #1

A few years ago, I worked in a small gas station known as Travel Store #6, or known in my home town of Washington as Bridge Street. Though blocks from the antique architecture of Main Street, it was also blocks from the ruffian and addict infested Martin Luther King Jr. Street.

Working the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift ensured one thing, I was the first and last stop for the thugs' night time excursions and their customers' hunt for satisfaction. Not only did working here ensure seeing the "businessman", but it also ensured I saw their customers. Nothing seemed to contrast my city better.

While men wearing designer clothes, driving clean new cars, and smoking the most expensive cigarettes came to my store, their customers often wore rags, walked in huddle packs, and shivered in the cold night air. In a strange way, I felt for the hapless players in life's game. Deep down, I knew it was their own fault for giving to temptation, but nothing seemed so forlorn as a shaking, down trodden person browsing the aisles of Bridge Street.

In the night's cold grasp, they walked inside hoping for safety--and they found it. Many times cringing from withdraws and unknown addictions, they handed crinkled, sweaty money over the counter, asking for a pack of New ports or a White Owl cigar. Still, I felt for them.

Most times, the customers and sellers mingled with each other within the confines of eggshell walls, tiled floors, and whirring coolers. Other times, they were separated by the boundaries of want, desperation, and poverty. Each needing the other, but still hoping to one day separate.

It was in this common day bazaar I saw many uncanny things, which gave insight to the actions of others, and I hope, through this series, to share my enlightenment with you.