Tip or Bribe?

Sundays are my toughest workdays - I say this perfectly aware of my own spoiled nature, as Sundays are really my only workdays. Oh, I do several half-shifts per week, and I cover my coworkers' vacations a lot, but only on Sundays do I regularly report for work in the little hippie store in my hometown.

But hey, it's summer break, and I'm a lazy art student. I would probably complain about work even if I got paid to hammock in North Carolina and set up sound systems (ahem).

Here is one problem with working in a hippie store/smoke shop/sex shop in a small town:
People you know will always come in to buy items of a controversial nature. Often, they will be more nervous than you are (case in point: one boy today refused to touch the adult toys he was buying for his girlfriend; he just pointed and muttered "that one" over and over again as I pulled down the toys and put them in his bag), but sometimes, watching an ex-schoolmate of yours buy porn is just too much information.

Here is another problem:
You have to help people choose their products without breaking the law.

Let me explain - It is illegal to sell items for drug use. However, it is NOT illegal to sell these same items for tobacco use. If a customer uses the wrong terminology in the store, I am not allowed to sell them anything. We have a relatively lenient policy, which usually involves a stern reminder that "if you use those words, I am supposed to kick you out of the store," and most people shut up after that, but unfortunately some people aren't very good at taking the hint.

Today, for example, I was helping a middle-aged space cadet and his wife select a pipe. Even after I established the "tobacco-use only" rule ("Sir, I am not permitted to sell you a bong. These are all water pipes.") the couple continued to refer to their frequent marijuana use. When I had mustered the McGonagall to correct their terminology once more, they finally seemed to understand and changed their demeanor.

"Oh," the space cadet replied. He was the birkenstocks-and-socks type. "I understand. Thank you for all of your help." Then he dropped a crumpled dollar bill onto the counter. I stood there with my mouth open as they took their pipe to the front register to make the purchase.

And here, friends, is another unpleasant side effect of working in a slightly controversial shop: paranoia. It happens all the time:
Was that a fake ID?
Did I forget to lock the knife case?
Are they really going to light up right in the parking lot?

And, in this case,

If he was a narc, can he arrest me for accepting bribes as well as selling drug paraphernalia???

See? Utterly paranoid. Later, when I asked my coworker about this situation, she told me that he was probably just trying to tip me for my helpful service.

Oh, I thought. I guess I'd forgotten to consider the good in people.

I took my dollar to the gas station and bought a coffee.



Current music: We Were Promised Jetpacks.
Current projects: Doctor 4 scarf, Invasion, caffeine tolerance.
Current obsession: Dark haired geniuses with addictive personalities (L, Gollum)
Current denial: August. School. Samuel Beckett.