The tale of the Entitled Princess, the Vengeful Wage Slave, and the Fake I.D.
(Longish but worth it in abundance)
So I work at a frozen yogurt store, one of those self-serve places where you make your own and weigh it. It’s an easy job and aside from some occasional bullshit from upper management, it’s also generally pleasant. I also happen to live in a fairly wealthy area, and the vast majority of my customers are very wealthy folks, and while 99% of them are awesome, wonderful people, there are always bad apples.
Slightly rude or short with me is one thing, but once in a while we get a customer in who is well and truly an entitled monster, and on those occasions I wish for nothing more than the power to set people on fire with only my furious gaze. This young lady was one of those people.
The offense: It’s about 6-7pm, and it’s a busy day. I’ve been cutting up fresh fruit for the fridge and now I’m bringing it out for the customers to use. Entitled Princess (hereafter known as EP) and her friend - both would be about 16-17 - are getting their yogurt, and as I’m passing them, EP “accidentally” knocks a chair into me, causing me to fall and spill about 6 containers of mango all over the floor. I take a deep breath and ask the customers to please not walk on it while I grab a cloth and a cup to put the floor-mango into, and EP’s friend immediately begins to help me, getting on the floor and scooping it into a pile. EP leans down, laughs, and tugs friend to her feet announcing loudly “Ewwww Laura, don’t help her! That’s what they pay her for!” as she purposefully stomps all over the fruit on her way to the cash, making an already huge mess about 5x worse. Friend begins to protest, but EP is clearly queen bee and she relents, giving me apologetic eyes as they pay and leave. EP also made sure to run the yogurt all over the place while making hers, so the machines are also really messy and gross now.
The Revenge: So about 5 minutes after they’ve left, the store has gotten quiet. I’m going around doing some busywork, cleaning chairs and tables and doing a quick mop, when all of a sudden I notice a wallet lying beside the scale by the register. As is our policy, I open it up to look for ID (so that when they return I can verify that the wallet does indeed belong to them), and lo and behold, the wallet appears to belong to EP. But then, looking closer, I notice two driver’s licenses. I pull them out, thinking maybe it’s the nice friend’s wallet instead (and in that case, I would have slipped a bunch of dollar off coupons inside), but no, both have pictures of EP. One has a name and birthdate matching her health card (that says she’s 16) and the other has a totally different name and birthdate (that says she’s newly 20. I live in Ontario, Canada where the drinking age is 19). It dawns on me that it’s a fake I.D. and I chuckle to myself before putting the wallet away to return when she comes back, untouched. I’m not the kind of person to risk my job to steal from a forgotten wallet, even if the owner sucks.
But then it happens. About two hours after the wallet was found, EP returns with her spray-tanned, blinding-teeth-knashing, hair-helmeted and polo-shirt wearing dad in tow, both in a snit and clearly expecting the wallet to have mysteriously “disappeared”. Dad marches up while EP stands behind smirking at me, and declares that his precious daughter left her (very expensive, LV in fact!) wallet here and that she ABSOLUTELY must have it back this very moment. Well, this is like Christmas morning for me, because I realise that I get to completely shit all over EP’s day. I pull out the wallet and ask “Is this the wallet you left?” to which she snappily responds that it is, while jumping in front of dad and trying to yank it from my hand. I pull it back, open it up, and say, very calmly and with a poker face: “Can I get the name and birthdate on the I.D.?” Dad rolls his eyes like a dying cow and barks “OH FOR GOD’S SAKE (FIRST NAME) (LAST NAME) AND (ACTUAL BIRTHDAY)!” To which I respond, fake I.D. in hand, “That’s not the information I have here.” right before I swiftly reach over EP’s grasping fingers and hand the I.D. to Dad.
There’s a moment of horrible, fantastic silence while Dad takes in the I.D. in his hand. About 10-15 seconds later I break the tension by pulling out the real license and saying “Ooooh, silly me, here it is! That other one must be old or something!”, giving EP my best fake grin and holding out her wallet for her to take . EP reaches out to take it, but dad leans over and snatches it from me, shooting her a look that could peel paint and snapping “EP WE WILL TALK ABOUT THIS IN THE CAR!”
My boss almost wet herself when I told her the next day.
“I am a horseback rider. I have been since I was quite young and just about ever since I was old enough to ride my horse down the road alone, I have been cat-called by various men or groups of men in cars.
"WHILE ON A HORSE.
"As you can see the outfit is very alluring, what with the muddy boots and the mens polo and massive helmet concealing all my hair, not to mention I usually covered in hair, mud, dirt, etc. I did not realize that these elements were the secret to attracting male attention, perhaps I should change up my look and start riding my horse when I go to the clubs.
"Often there were “riding” related slurs thrown at me, whip comments, the innuendoes are countless (“Save a horse..” No). While being on a horse allowed for some sort of security, it still made my heart race, bones chill and stomach turn. And added bit of irritation was that after ogling and harassing me, these men would often rev their engines and step on the gas, which would spook my horse, who could already tell I was tense.”
Submission from Tess
“But What Was She Wearing?” is a project documenting what street harassment really looks like. Submit your own to firstname.lastname@example.org or via tumblr.