In my line of work, I spend a great
majority of time in Wal-Marts and convenience stores. As my manager explained in my interview,
these aren’t the Race Tracs or Quick Trips where you might stop to buy a gallon
of milk or pull over during a road trip knowing, with confidence, that you
would find a tolerably clean restroom – I’m talking about the kind of C-Store
where you drive up, take one look, and hit the gas without so much as a glance
in the rearview mirror. Fortunately,
I’ve been blessed with a more “posh” territory (although all of that changes in
March), so I haven’t had to deal with the cliental that most of my coworkers
encounter. Despite this great fortune, I
do occasionally find myself in rather uncomfortable situations.
Take,
for example, a day last summer when I was working in Denton with my manager. I was standing in the gum/candy section,
working on my computer and minding my own business when a man approached
me. He obviously assumed that I worked
there at the Shell station – a common misconception – because he immediately
started to complain. Now, had he expressed
concern about cleanliness of the store or the price of gas this wouldn’t be a
story worth telling. But no, he
complained about product selection: more specifically the lack of variety in
the condom section. He went on… and on… and on about how they didn’t
sell condoms large enough for “his needs.”
Embarrassed though I was, my poor, poor manager turned bright red, not
knowing whether to step in or step outside.
I tried to interrupt the gentleman (using that term pretty loosely here,
huh?) to tell him that other than suggesting a flavor of gum, I really couldn’t
be of much help. I finally raised my
voice enough that I caught his attention.
I explained that I really, REALLY couldn’t be of assistance and that if
he had any complaints or suggestions he could certainly approach the man at the
counter. I can’t say whether or not he
talked to the store manager or not – I walked away as soon as I could.
That scenario is a pretty good
snapshot of the routine encounters I have on a day-to-day basis. Generally, the worst thing that happens is
that I get a “hey baby” or a whistle, nothing too threatening – more annoying,
and depending on the circumstances, comical, than anything, but there have been
situations where I did feel a little freaked out, a little unsafe.
Early
in my Wrigley career, a homeless man stood directly next to me in my store for
a full 45 minutes, then followed me outside to tell me that my hair “smelled
wonderful.” I offered to buy him
something to eat, but he seemed far more interested in entering my personal
bubble (he was literally only a couple of inches away from my face) and making
me feel extremely uncomfortable than getting a free bite to eat. There was also the time a very drunk man – at
9:00 a.m., mind you – kept telling me I was beautiful, would speak some
unintelligible Spanish (I don’t speak a second language, let alone inebriated Espanol)
and then put his arm around me. Before I
could tell him to back off, the store manager was grabbing him by the collar
and escorting him outside.
Once I
purposely, by instinct more than courage, put myself in what could have been a
compromising position. I was standing by
my van when I saw a man harassing a teenage girl while she was filling up her
car. He kept asking her for change, she
kept telling him no. She finally nudged
her way into her car while the tank continued to fill, obviously hoping the man
would leave. He didn’t. I watched from a distance at first, optimistic
that the man had taken the hint and was getting ready to give up. A few minutes passed and I realized that the
pump had stopped, but the girl was too nervous to get out of her car and remove
the nozzle so she could go about her business.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked up over to the car and asked the
girl if the man was bothering her. She
didn’t say a word. I looked at him and
asked if I could help him with something.
Immediately defensive, he started to explain that he wasn’t bothering
her; he was just looking for change. I
told him that if he would follow me inside the convenience store I would be
more than happy to help him out. He
refused. Fortunately, during this time
the girl had time to get out of her car and replace the nozzle, and was driving
off before the man realized that she was gone.
He looked at me for a while, then walked over to his car, and drove
away.
Now, when I presented this story to
my colleagues, I failed to mention one minor detail… I gave an accurate
description of the events, but omitted the fact that I was knees-shaking,
heart-pounding, digging-deep-for-air-to-breathe terrified. Something about
the man, not his appearance so much, but his presence, was intimidating – he
just seemed “off.”
I walked back into my C-Store and
ran into the manager who was walking out as I was walking in. He asked if I was OK and said that he had caught
the tail-end of the incident and was coming outside to check things out. I explained what had happened, and assured
him that I was OK, finished the call, and went back on my way. Fortunately, this was my next to the last
stop for the day. My last call was a
hurried one where I spent a majority of my time watching the door, afraid the change-seeking
man had followed me across the street when I’d left.
Most recently, just Tuesday of last
week, I encountered a completely different situation than I am accustomed. While I was gathering product at my van, I
heard a man’s voice from a couple of feet away say, “You’re way too cute to be
stocking shelves.” My knee-jerk reaction
was to turn around and say something to the effect of “A.) I attended a private
university, have a pretty solid education, and DO NOT stock shelves, thank you very much; B.) I’m “too cute to ‘stock
shelves?’” Then what, prey tell, am I
cute enough to do?; C.) I’m a married mother of two and, therefore, am not AT
ALL interested.”
I turned to face the mystery voice,
expecting to see the usual suspect, but instead saw a very handsome, very
distinguished man with peppered black hair – probably in his early 40s – in a
business suit climbing into his luxury SUV.
I instantly felt more at ease.
Not threatened at all.
Flattered? Meh, not really, but I
didn’t want to throw up in my mouth like I normally do, so that was a
plus.
Surprised, I was almost at a loss
for words but quickly mustered up a smile and an “Oh, thank you?” It was definitely more of a question than a
token of appreciation. But I didn’t roll
my eyes and I didn’t feel like I needed to watch my back. I just went on my way. No harm done.
I let my guard down. And why?
Because the man who “complimented” me was dressed nicely, seemed successful,
and drove a nice car? Sadly, yes. Looking back, though, the guy could have been
a serial killer. Adversely, the drunk
man who put his arm around me may have been a perfectly harmless, albeit,
misguided man.
You grow up hearing clichés like “You
can’t judge a book by its cover,” but it’s easy to forget that along the
way. We’ve all been caught off guard and
found that looks can be deceiving and, likely, have all fallen victim to stereotyping
of some sort. I remember many occasions
in my last job that people immediately assumed I didn’t know what I was talking
about because I am a female. When I was
an intern in D.C., some of the women I worked with treated me like a child
because I was still In school. And, my freshman
year of college, I was placed with suitemates who told me up front that they didn’t
“like white girls.” Awesome.
I say all of that to say this… to
say that we don’t stereotype is naïve, ideal, yes, but definitely naïve. We’ve all done it. The trick is learning to accept the fact that
it happens, but just as quickly accept that in many situations there is no
merit to the preconceived ideas. We have
to hold our opinions until we can get to know someone, when conditions permit us
to do so, of course; when we aren’t granted that luxury, we have to go off of instinct and the
circumstances that surround us. And even
though I generally tend to be a bit naïve and very likely too trusting, it’s
probably best to ere on the side of caution – even if the subject in question
is wearing a suit.
