My Nightmarish Experience As A Liquor Store Clerk
Deep down, I am a people pleaser. I’m also ridiculously type-A. As an employee, nothing makes me happier than getting approval from authority figures for a job well done. This is why I always get nervous when I start a new job. So far, my weird passion for endorsement has been used for minimum wage labor. (My first “real” job was supermarket cashier, and I actually threw up on my first day from being so uncomfortable).
I’m not 16 anymore (thank God) but I still get anxious when starting new job. You can’t blame me, given my bizarre résumé. Highlights include working for a borderline-psychotic woman with her own children’s party company, retail associate in a failing strip mall and camp counselor for preschoolers. My work history is enough to make anyone cringe.
I thought graduating from college would get me out of minimum wage hell, but I should know by now I’m not that lucky. At the beginning of the summer, my current job could only hire me part-time until availability opened up, whenever that would be. This ambiguity left me desperate to fill the open hours in my work week. I had no luck trying to get my old retail job back, since the company could barely afford to pay the skeleton crew already on schedule. I struck out on “gig economy” websites like Care.com, and there was no way in Hell I wanted to ferry around drunks as an Uber driver. Little did I know that I would be dealing with my fair share of inebriated idiots when I eventually scored my part-time summer job.
On my way home from the beach, I passed a building that housed both a nightclub and a liquor store. The club itself was sizeable, but the liquor store was the size of a dorm room. I’ve never been in the nightclub because it had a bad reputation dating back to my parents’ era. My dad told me his aunts rented a house facing the club’s back lot, and they used to sit on the porch and watch the drunks tumble out of the place. My friend’s parents grew up around here and told me that this club gave my town a reputation worse that Seaside’s. (Remember, Seaside is where Snooki & Co got famous. That should give you an idea of what this place was like.) None of this deterred my desperate self from answering the store’s HELP WANTED sign. A few days later, the manager set me up with part-time hours.
I assumed that the only thing I would have to worry about was making sure I didn’t lock myself in the walk-in freezer. And even if that did happen, at least I’d be stuck with all the beer. It also made me uncomfortable that during the day, I tended the store by myself. Multiple people pointed out to me that liquor stores are the most likely to get shot up and robbed. Thanks, everyone.
My solo day shifts were actually the least of my worries. My manager sometimes forgot to show up to unlock the store, and one day the AC broke (temperature: 83 degrees), but the store was rarely busy during the day. Other than stocking shelves and ringing up the few customers who bothered to come in to purchase overpriced beach booze, my days were uneventful. I did have the privilege, however, of working Friday evenings until midnight, when the line for the nightclub would snake around the building to the front of the liquor store. From my spot at the register, I had a front row seat to a Jersey Shore horror show.
One lady came into the store drunk and told me she got into a fight with her husband and wanted to keep drinking on her boat. She asked me about our “wine selection.” Lady, we are in a liquor store the size of a closet. Please choose from our finest selection of Barefoot or Yellowtail.
A few days later, another lady came in after being kicked out of a neighboring bar, in search of greener pastures and stronger cocktails. She managed to insinuate herself into the group of customers in front of her by bawling her eyes out and hyperventilating, and they ended up paying for her bottle of Cutty Sark just to get her to shut up and leave. For this, I was thankful.
These lovely ladies were nothing compared to my male clientele. They were usually finance bros from Hobo or JC renting weekend houses for the summer. These drunks were generally well-behaved, yet rowdy when they came in to use the ATM, flirt with me and try to buy hard liquor after 10 p.m., which is against NJ State Law. The only time I’ve ever felt legitimately threatened was when a guy came in after 10 p.m. to buy one of the bottles from behind the register. He tried charming his way, then offered to tip me. I’m sorry, bro, but the $5 you’re planning on putting in my jar won’t cover my state fines. He got angry and actually made a move to reach behind the register, but apparently my 4’10” physique was enough to stop him. That, and I told him the store is video-monitored.
Putting up with the customers was stressful, but at least they were (mostly) comical. The most uncomfortable thing about this job was the club’s owner. Just writing about it gives me agita. She looked like a zombified Dolly Parton crawled her way from the depths of Hell. She was notorious for being demanding and screaming at everyone and anyone, including her husband and business partner, who always wore a cowboy hat and probably hated his life more than I did. More than once, I had been on the receiving end of a tirade. I could deal with the crazy hours and the crazier customers, but outrageous management is when I start looking for employment elsewhere.
Even though I wasn’t thrilled with my other job, I had to accept their offer for full-time if I wanted to escape my liquor store nightmare. The only reason I took the clerk job was because they paid me $9/hour cash under the table, which is equivalent to $11/hour on the books. I worked a total of five weeks, and I hadn’t gotten paid for any of them, even though I reminded my manager multiple times. I was 100% done with this place, but only 50% sure if I would see my money.
My last Friday night at the store was (miraculously) uneventful. The only negative thing was that the management randomly made the staff wear “uniforms,” aka shapeless blue polo shirts with the club’s logo on it. I got a size large and wore it as a dress. At least it would keep the finance bros away from me.
After I closed out the store, I went upstairs into Zombie Dolly’s office so I could collect my pay and beat it the hell out of there. She sat at her desk surrounded by wads of cash, like something out of a cartoon. She handed me two envelopes with the previous two week’s dates on them. My heart shot into the back of my throat. Where was my pay for the first three weeks? With the greatest sense of dread, I pointed out that I hadn’t gotten paid for any of July.
“…And tonight’s my last night, so…” I trailed off feebly.
Zombie Dolly just blinked at me with her electric-blue eyeshadow eyes. “And you’re just telling us this now?”
“I reminded the store manager several times over the past — “
“No you didn’t!”
I may be a people pleaser, but I was also tired, pissed off and wanted my money. “I actually have been reminding the store manager for several weeks now, but I still haven’t gotten paid. And I work during the week when this office is locked, so I can’t just come in and take it.” I kept my tone level but my gaze hard.
She rifled around the office and through filing cabinets. “Why would the manager sign out your pay and not give it to you?” My teeth chatter when I’m nervous, so I clenched my jaw. “I swear I haven’t gotten paid.”
Still pissed, she asked how many hours I worked during the weeks I haven’t gotten paid, then cut me off when she found July’s schedule. I watched her calculate my first three weeks’ pay on a scrap of paper, then mentally counted as she peeled off twenties from a stack on her desk. I shook her hand, and got the hell out of there.
By the time I left, it was after 1 a.m. I had $900 untaxed cash stuffed under my sweatshirt. My stomach didn’t fully unclench until I crossed over the Main Street bridge and unlocked my dented sedan. I exhaled, laughed and rolled my eyes. The things I do to make a few extra bucks.
