| By :
Mark Etinger
I do not enjoy finding out that my things have been tampered with. It is not okay. I work at a local mini-mart/general store. All of us register jockeys and stock boys have our own "lockers" though these nooks in lack doors and locks that would make that an appropriate thing to call them. Not that I really minded. I was never too worried about someone fiddling with my price tagging gun or trying on my apron. Then the other day I came into work to a devastating, earth shattering, display of carnage. First off my pricing labels were scattered across the floor, torn and clearly stepped on with boot heals. It was like a filthy ticker tape parade in the employees' lounge and no one did anything about it. My apron was dangling onto the floor into a puddle from a can of soda I had hidden in my locker that had obviously hit the ground and exploded all over the place. Also in the puddle to my dismay was my beloved pricing gun. The gun was filled with soda and cracked in a few spots. I was angry and no one would give me a straight answer about what had transpired. What's worse, my boss did not seem to mind at all. He totally missed the gravity of the situation not to mention the fact that pricing guns are not cheap. It seemed so crazy that the culprit would go unpunished. I wanted to take the law into my own hands and avenge my broken price tagging gun, not to mention my soaked apron and spilled soda. I made a scene about the tampering with my personal affects and eventually some people came around. They knew what happened was wrong and would have hated if it happened to them instead. So I implored them to share with me any information they had about these crimes. After some significant cajoling I got the name of the person who did it. When I confronted old Pete King in the toiletries isle he was happily price tagging some diapers. He seemed so satisfied with himself as he put price tagging labels on those adorable babies' faces I wanted to just come right out and slug him. I didn't, instead I maintained my composure and kindly asked him what on Earth possessed him to go into my locker and ruin my life. After some brief protest in which he realized I would not be backing down he admitted that it was his fault. He relayed a story involving an errant rubber ball purchased from one of our twenty-five cent toy dispensers at the front of the store. The ball had apparently found it's way towards the can of Coke creating a chain reaction worthy of Mouse Trap. He apologized but offered me nothing in return. The next day I took his pricing fun into the parking lot and ran it over repeatedly. I was fired that afternoon.
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