At fifteen, I got my first official paycheck-paying job. I cashiered at an auto parts store. I thought this was the best possible job in the whole world. Boys liked cars and they needed auto parts to keep those cars running. Boys, cars, cars, boys, what could be better?
I envisioned meeting all of the hottest boys in town. I saw allot of them, but boys my age didn’t catch up to me until I turned thirty-seven. On the other hand, men ten or more years older than me, buzzed around like bees around a flower. Some had odd ways of exhibiting their attentions.
One such older man (relatively speaking, of course) worked with me. He ran the parts counter in the back of the store. During every free moment he had, he took the opportunity to pick on me. Six foot three, hulky, with brown curly hair and thick dark-rimmed glasses, he acted like a five year old, instead of twenty-five. He verbally pulled my hair every chance he got.
I put up with it for a while because I didn’t know any better. Then, I told him to stop picking on me. I let him know quite clearly that I had had enough and he needed to stop or he’d regret it. I have never understood people who don’t listen to me when I tell them what I want.
One day, I attached a very large cupped bra to the back bumper of his car. He never came back to work.