Working as a cashier means seeing every kind of person you can imagine—kind ones, rude ones, and sometimes people so full of themselves, you wonder how they sleep at night. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the woman who strutted into our store like she was walking a runway and acted like everyone around her was dirt under her shoes.
Her name was Veronica.
I’ve been working at this supermarket for over eight years. It’s not a fancy job, but it pays my bills and lets me watch human behavior up close—like some kind of social experiment. And let me tell you, Veronica was one for the books.
Every single Sunday, she would walk in, head high, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes, heels clicking so loud you’d think she was demanding attention with every step. Her outfit? Always expensive. Always designer. And always accompanied by a woman who moved quietly behind her, barely noticeable—until you really looked.
That woman was Alma.
I didn’t know her name at first. She was thin, quiet, and walked like her feet hurt. She always wore worn-out clothes and old sandals that looked like they’d fall apart any minute. There was a safety pin holding one of the straps together. She never said much, and her English was broken, soft.
Veronica, on the other hand, didn’t stop talking. Especially when it came to barking orders at Alma. She treated her like a servant from a movie set in the 1800s. “Pick up the pace!” she’d snap. “No, not that brand! Are you blind or just useless?”
Alma flinched every time Veronica spoke. And it wasn’t just once. It was every Sunday. Week after week, I watched Alma shrink smaller and smaller under her boss’s cruel voice.
One time, Veronica sneered so loudly even the guy bagging groceries next to me looked up. “If you can’t tell the difference between ripe tomatoes and rotten ones, then why are you even alive?!” she snapped.
I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to tell her off. But I was scared—I needed my job.
Still, the way Alma moved, so careful, her hands shaking as she placed items into the cart… it reminded me of my mom, who once worked as a housekeeper. I knew that kind of quiet pain. It burned in my chest every time I saw it.
One Sunday, something changed.
As they came to my register, Alma stepped away from Veronica and gently placed a few things on the belt—just rice, a small bottle of cooking oil, and a bar of soap. She looked down, not meeting my eyes.
I tried to speak kindly. “Do you have a membership card?”
She blinked, confused.
So I asked again, slower. Still nothing.
That’s when Veronica stormed up behind her, clapping her hands like she was calling over a dog. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She doesn’t understand you. English isn’t even her second language. Or third.”
I kept my voice steady. “I can help her sign up for our discount card. It only takes a minute. Or you could use your membership for her items?”
Veronica laughed. Not a warm laugh. A cruel, mocking one.
“For her? She can pay full price like the rest of the poor,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not wasting my time on this nonsense.”
“But she could save—”
“She’s not my child,” Veronica interrupted. “Why should I care? She’s lucky I let her shop at all! Maybe if she worked harder, she wouldn’t need discounts. People like her should stop being poor.”
My hands clenched under the counter. I wanted to say something—anything. But I just nodded and rang up Alma’s few items. The total wasn’t much, but I could tell she was counting every coin in her hand.
Then it was Veronica’s turn. Her cart was overflowing with organic produce, imported cheese, luxury snacks—probably over $700 worth of groceries.
She tossed her hair and said sweetly, “Okay, now I’ll sign up for the discount.”
I smiled. This was it. My chance.
I clicked around the screen and then gave her a look of fake sympathy. “Oh… I’m really sorry. The system is down. No one can sign up right now.”
“What?!” she screeched.
“Should be back later today,” I said casually. “But you didn’t want to wait earlier, right?”
Veronica’s face twisted. “Do you know how much I’m spending?!”
“About the cost of decency,” I muttered under my breath.
She didn’t hear me, but her glare was hot enough to fry an egg. She paid the full price, no discount, just like Alma. As I handed her the receipt, people behind her started whispering.
“Guess she’s not above the rules,” said a teenager behind her, elbowing his friend.
“Maybe next time she won’t act like she owns the place,” said a woman in yoga pants, arms crossed.
A few people chuckled. A cashier two lanes down giggled and told a bagger something that made him laugh so hard he had to turn away.
Veronica noticed. Her cheeks turned red. Her hands tightened around her designer bags like she was trying to crush them. Then, just as she passed the self-checkout area, she spotted a well-dressed man by the help kiosk. Mid-forties, nice blazer, holding a receipt.
Veronica marched over.
“Excuse me!” she barked. “You’re the manager, right?”
The man looked up, confused. “Me?”
“Yes, you. I need to report a cashier. Register four. That woman refused to register me for a discount! I spend thousands here and got treated like trash! She was sarcastic, rude—I demand she be dealt with!”
The man looked at her like she was from another planet. “Uh… I’m not the manager. I’m just buying waffles.”
Silence.
Veronica’s mouth hung open for a second. “Oh.”
Behind her, someone snorted. A wave of giggles followed as she stormed out of the store, red-faced, bags swinging wildly. Alma followed, carrying way too much weight for one person.
But then—just for a second—Alma turned back. She looked at me. Her lips moved softly.
“Thank you.”
I didn’t hear her voice, but I felt the meaning behind it like a warm breeze.
Later, Carlos, our Sunday packer, came over as he restocked paper towels. “You know she thought that guy was the manager, right?” he said, grinning.
“Wait—how do you know?” I asked.
“Alma told me,” he said. “I speak Spanish.”
That made me smile so wide it hurt.
Carlos was the one who finally told me Alma’s name, who explained more about Veronica and what went on outside of our little register world.
That day, I learned something important: sometimes, even in the small ways, standing up for someone matters. And sometimes, karma shows up disguised as a broken membership system and a man just trying to buy frozen waffles.
And that was good enough for me.