“No, no, no, dear, I want that wrapped in tissue paper.” Great, another middle-aged woman comes through my line and talks to me as if my IQ was that of a grade-school kid. When I first started working, it was simply a way to decrease the time I was grounded and make my parents happy. I never thought that a year and a half later, I would still be at Marshalls, waiting for this woman to get through my line.

I smile and say, “Oh sure, that’s no problem,” and continue to ring in her items. She bends over the counter to look at the computer and make sure I’m doing my job correctly. Her cashmere sweater grazes my hand and she flashes me a smile like she means well. I want to roll my eyes but instead I just smile. Ever since I started working here, I’ve tried not to let people like her get to me. And forget judging a book by its cover, because I have been proved wrong time and time again. The wealthy middle-aged women are far ruder than the teenage boys. At first, I was constantly surprised. Now, I try not to even guess how the person approaching my line is going to act, because it is never the way I imagine.

I never expected people to be so rude and at the same time nice. But for every rude person I see, at least five pleasant customers come through my line.

“Here you go.” I hand the woman her receipt and hope her $5 wine glass is wrapped to her liking. “Have a nice day!” I say through clenched teeth. And just as I think I’m fed up, the next customer comes through. “She had about one more minute and I was going to tell her to get out of line,” she whispers to me with a smile.