Scary Things

A Tip

I work as a bagger for a pretty popular grocery store chain. If you've ever been in the southeast United States you probably know of it. The company stresses customer service above everything else. The customer is always right, sure, but with us it's more like ALWAYS RIGHT. So we're required to offer every customer help out to their car as they leave the store. I don't mind when it's someone that obviously needs the help, like a frazzled parent with small children or an older person. It's the wealthy people with the giant SUVs that piss me off. I can always tell them apart from everyone else. They're the type that wears sunglasses inside, shorts and boating shoes, overpowering cologne or perfume. They're usually on their phones, too.

The only good thing about the rich people is that they usually tip. We're technically not supposed to accept tips, as it goes against company policy. Luckily for us, a lot of people think that's bullshit, so after we refuse they'll give us a nod and a wink and press some bills into our palms. I'm not complaining. I make minimum wage, so I welcome any extra income. If giving me three dollars makes you feel better about treating me like less than a person, go right ahead.

A few days ago I was bagging for one of my least favorite cashiers, so my day was already shitty. I looked up to see an older gentleman with his teenage daughter approaching with a cart full of expensive things. He looked like the type that would bitch at me if I so much as packed one bag a little too tightly. I sighed inwardly, gave them a smile, and started working. I noticed the girl staring at me out of my peripherals. I felt my cheeks flush. I'm not used to that kind of attention. She was beautiful, too. I almost forgot to resent her.

"Would you like help out with that today?" Of course they did. The father gave the cart a little push toward me, eyes locked on his daughter. He walked ahead, guiding her with his arm and leading me to their gas-guzzling vehicle. I thought it was kind of weird but I know some dads can be overprotective.

He opened the trunk and I started loading their groceries. As per usual for this type of clientele, he went straight for the driver's side door and got in without a thank you. The girl lingered, watching me pack. I heard him yell from inside the car, and she quickly reached out to grab my hand, pushing some cash into it. "Thanks," I said, shoving it into my pocket without a second glance. She gave me a weird look, like she was strained or going to cry. Then she got in the car and it drove away.

I didn't think much of it until later that night, when I got off my shift. I remembered the tip and gleefully removed it from my pocket, intending to squander it on something like candy or a soda. I was confused when I saw crumpled notebook paper instead of a one or a five. Curious, I opened it up, and my heart dropped to my feet. Hands shaking, I read the hastily scrawled script.

Not my father. Please help.