You probably walk in wearing a jacket that costs more than my last paycheck. It is probably early in the morning, just as we are opening. I probably am just unlocking the doors; the mall still quiet.

I greet you, ask how you are doing. You give me a short response and forget to ask how I am. If you are wondering, I am doing OK. I’m a little tired and have a paper to finish, but I’m the opening manager and am spending my Saturday here.

You make a beeline to the register, set your bag down while loudly proclaiming you have to make a return.

I remember you from the other day. You got upset with one of my associates because we no longer had your size. My associate looked at me with wide eyes. They did not know how to handle you.

You had asked me if I could look in the back, even though my associate had already looked. I looked anyway. You looked at me like there’s a sweatshop through the door where we make the clothing. You looked disappointed when I proved you wrong.

I now ask if anything is wrong with the shirt you have dropped to the counter while I gingerly lift it up to inspect it myself. There is no tag that I can find.

You will tell me you got it the other day and it just doesn’t fit. I don’t ask if you tried it on in the fitting room, but I do ask if you have your receipt. You sort through your bag before huffing and puffing about how it is probably in your car.

I let you know that I can only give you in-store credit without the receipt and that I am not supposed to do the return at all without the tag. You are lucky, I’ll say, that we still have the shirt in store and I can use that for the SKU.

You don’t want in-store credit. I can’t blame you; I would want my money back, too, but my computer doesn’t work that way.

I say that if you can find the receipt, I would love to give you the money back the way you paid for it. It’s just company policy. You ask to speak to my manager. I am the manager.

You leave. You leave in an angry mess. You leave telling me you are never coming back. You leave saying I lost a customer. You leave knocking over a stack of folded shirts. You leave with harsh words being muttered under your breath.

I do not get paid enough for this.

You do not know what it is like to work in customer service.

I walk into a store and start folding jeans that you have left in a pile. I know I don’t have to do this -- it’s not even my store -- but it is the kind thing to do. I apologize on your behalf to the young man you yelled at because he gave you the wrong change. I get the woman’s name who helped me find what I was looking for so she can be a little closer to her bonus.

You have probably lived a very privileged life where you have never worked in a mall. You have never had to slave away to make sure the customer is always happy. You are so lucky. Some of us are not.

I love my job. I love getting to make you feel confident. I love getting to help pick out your best friend’s birthday present. I love building connections. Working retail isn’t glamorous; it’s hard and seldom “worth it.” That paycheck helps me get through school, and I am so grateful to have it.

You don’t get to make me feel small.