Tales From a 7-11: Gary

Gary was a tough guy to work with. He had some mental disabilities that prevented him from engaging fully in the idle banter that generally passed between co-workers. Most of the time he did his job just as well as if not better than the other employees, but his strength in this regard was also his weakness.

Gary was a real stickler for directions and procedure. As you might imagine, the operation of a 7-11 is designed to be pretty idiot-proof. There are simple instructions for operating everything and a checklist that every employee is supposed to follow on every shift. Of course, most employees neither used the checklist nor diligently completed all of their tasks, particularly the least popular ones. Gary, however, did everything just as it was supposed to be done every time.

That was all well and good when things were running smoothly. The problem was that Gary had no capacity for troubleshooting or adaptation. He was relieving me once at the end of a shift on the Fourth of July. When doing a shift change, each of the two registers needs to be closed down individually and its contents counted and verified by both employees. Generally this is to be done at a time where there is no line in the store.

That July Fourth was a hot, sunny summer holiday, and we were doing a booming business in ice, charcoal, ketchup, hot dog rolls, and other barbecue accouterments. A line of customers had wrapped halfway around the store since the beginning of my shift, and it was clear to me that there was never going to be a quiet moment for a shift change. We needed to just shut down one register and count the money as quickly as possible despite the line, but convincing Gary to cooperate with this was nearly impossible.

So here I am arguing with this guy who can barely express or comprehend a coherent thought while both of us are trying desperately to keep up with the burgeoning swarm of customers. A kid who looked to be about 15 asked for a pack of cigarettes. I was far from diligent about carding people, but in this case there was a store full of gossipy judgmental soccer moms and a co-worker who was somewhat likely to report me if he noticed, so I asked to see his ID. Plus, the kid looked like an asshole.

He handed me the license of a woman who was several years older than he and looked nothing like him. “Don’t waste my time,” I told him, thrusting the license back at him and turning my attention to the next customer. “Next!”

“What? That’s my license. Man, sell me some cigarettes.”

I didn’t even look up from my next transaction. “That was a woman’s license. Get out of here.”

“You better sell me some fucking cigarettes.” Now I looked up.

I didn’t feel the least bit threatened in a store full of people, but I didn’t want the kid to make a scene or waste any more time. “Do I need to call the police?” I asked, reaching for the phone.

“What the fuck?” he responded.

“Alright, that’s enough,” boomed a voice from several spots back in the line. “There are kids in this store.” The voice belonged to a burly guy with a leather jacket and a bandanna wrapped around his head.

The kid headed for the door, but turned back and shouted, “Man, fuck you both.”

“Fuck me? You meet me out in the parking lot, you little shit,” the guy boomed back. Needless to say, the little punk was not in the parking lot when the man left the store. And, I eventually got Gary to comply with the shift change, though he made clear that he was annoyed by it.