Working as a Grocery Store Clerk Meant Dealing with Drunks, Thieves, and Abuse

This article was originally published in Dutch on MUNCHIES NL

In 2012 I started working as a supermarket cashier in my hometown Renesse, a small village in the Netherlands—not because I had huge aspirations to scan laundry detergent and bags of green peas all day, but because I was planning to take a gap year in which I would sleep until late in the afternoon and watch TV all day long. My parents didn't think it was a good idea.

I applied and was hired immediately. I started the next Monday, scanning products, weighing vegetables, and selling tobacco. How hard could it be?

Looking back, the confidence with which I started the job makes me laugh. I had no idea about all the things that cashiers have to deal with. Although, I must admit that my experiences may not compare to the stories of cashiers in other towns and cities.

Renesse a special place, a small seaside town where many residents depend on tourism for income. During high season, the supermarket where I worked almost entirely depended on holidaymakers—including many young people who, away from parental control, liked binge drinking. Since then, things have changed, and nowadays the town is mostly visited by young families on holiday, but back then a constant flow of idiots passed my cash register.

During the first two weeks, I really got to know my hometown a lot better. I knew exactly who was an alcoholic and which beverage they preferred to drink, which elderly person consistently dropped cheese in the basket of their walker "by accident," and which customers made the same joke every week and expected me to laugh as hard and as sincerely as I did the first time.

I immediately discovered that many people assume you must be really stupid to spend your time behind the counter. Every day, people would say, "So you work here now? What do your parents think about that?" Someone once shouted right in my face: "You should have paid more attention in school and learned a profession," because they felt that I was too rough with their groceries. Furthermore, many customers found it perfectly normal to make unsolicited comments about my appearance: "You're such a pretty girl. Why do you put a ring in your nose?"

I remember vividly the incident at the end of a long day where one of my colleagues helped a customer who thought she had laid her purse on the conveyor belt between the groceries. When she couldn't find it, she panicked, and instead of searching properly, she accused my colleague of stealing her purse: "Give it back, girl. I know you have it. Don't try to hide it." Just when she wanted to call our boss, the boy in the queue behind her tapped her shoulder: "Ma'am, your wallet is in your shopping basket."

We didn't get a lot of respect from tourists, either. A colleague of mine once tried to help a client by telling him where the cash machine was. "I have eyes, cancer-suffering ho," he told her When she subsequently refused to sell him cigarettes, he threatened to kill her and went outside, where he smashed a window frame.

These were all things that I could handle. I was annoyed, but I could share it with two great colleagues (one of them even started the Facebook page, Frustrations of Cashiers, where many cashiers now go to laugh away their sorrow). Together we were known as the Three Musketeers.

Sometimes I was closer to crying than laughter, but as long as I could share my problems during my lunch break, I felt better right away. The lunch breaks were essential on days when people yelled at me because I refused to give them alcohol ("Bitch, do you want to ruin my vacation?"), or customers talked about me as if I could not hear them ("She is not very fast, is she? She probably thinks we have plenty of time").

I often caught people stealing, especially at the candy counter, where they stuffed their pockets with sweets. It got even crazier when I caught a policeman who just stuck a candy in his mouth. He defended himself with the legendary words, "It was just one!"

And I still do not know whether I should be grateful or disappointed that I did not have to work on the historic day that two people were fucking in the parking lot. When they refused to go and continue their adventure somewhere else, one of my colleagues decided to throw a bucket of cold water over them. That helped.

Sometimes it got out of hand. A drunken tourist once grabbed my tit while I was scanning cans of beans. I could hardly keep myself from dragging him across the counter, but instead pushed his hand away. "Sir, I am not amused that you just touched me. Keep your hands to yourself," I said. But he tried again. The man was banned from the store. Customers in line behind him just all stood there looking sheepishly when it happened, as if it was normal.

In total I worked there for about eight months. At the end of that period, my mouth was curled into a permanent, forced smile, and my dreams were haunted by beeping sounds and clients who forgot to weigh their fruits and vegetables. I decided to quit because the job was turning me into a bitter person.

Before I started my job at the supermarket, I had always been polite to staff, but since then I try to be even nicer than before. Please remember that it is not fair to demand great service when you treat the person that gives you that service like shit.