It was a regular morning when I walked into the health food store, but little did I know, today would turn into a lesson I’d never forget.
As soon as I stepped inside, the scent of fresh fruits and herbal teas filled the air, wrapping me in that warm, comforting smell that had become so familiar over the past year. I tied my apron around my waist, a routine I had grown used to, but something in the air felt different today. Maybe it was just me, but I had a feeling that something was going to happen. Something big.
“Hey, Grace! Ready for another exciting day of juice-making?” Ally, my coworker, called out from behind the counter, her cheerful voice cutting through my thoughts.
I smiled back, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling. “You know it! Gotta keep those entitled customers happy, right?”
But as soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a knot twist in my stomach. There was always that customer. The one who made every shift feel like a battle.
We had a nickname for her—“Miss Pompous.” She was the kind of person who acted like she owned the place every time she walked in, her nose so high in the air she practically needed a telescope to see the counter. She was the embodiment of entitlement, and she had a way of making our lives miserable.
I pushed the thoughts aside as I started setting up my station. I needed this job. For me. For my family. My mom’s medical bills were piling up, and my younger sister’s college tuition was just as heavy a weight on my shoulders. This job was my lifeline. I couldn’t afford to lose it.
“Hey, Grace,” Ally whispered, leaning in close. “Heads up. Miss Pompous just pulled into the parking lot. Brace yourself.”
I sighed, my heart sinking. “Great. Just what I need today.”
The bell above the door jingled, and there she was. Miss Pompous, in all her glory, walking through the door like a storm waiting to happen. Her designer heels clicked loudly against the floor, a countdown to disaster.
She didn’t even greet me. Without a second of hesitation, she snapped her order. “Carrot juice. Now.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing a smile. “Of course, ma’am. Coming right up.”
As I started juicing the carrots, I could feel her eyes on me, burning into the back of my head. It was like she was waiting for me to make a mistake. My hands began to shake slightly under the pressure. Finally, I handed her the juice, hoping she would be satisfied.
“Here you go, ma’am. Enjoy your drink!” I said as cheerfully as I could muster.
She didn’t even look at me. Instead, she took a sip, her face twisting with disgust. A sneer spread across her face. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t going to end well.
“Oh no,” I thought. “Here we go.”
Before I could react, she hurled the entire drink at me. The cold liquid splashed across my face, dripping down my chin and soaking my apron. I stood there, frozen, unable to process what had just happened. My mind was a blur of disbelief.
“What is this watered-down garbage?” she screamed, her voice sharp enough to cut through glass. “Are you trying to poison me?”
I blinked, wiping juice from my eyes. “I… I don’t understand. It’s the same recipe we always use.”
Her eyes flared with anger. “It’s disgusting! Make it again, and this time, use your brain!”
My cheeks burned with humiliation, and the entire store seemed to go silent, every eye on me. My throat tightened as tears threatened to spill, but I refused to let her see me cry.
Just then, Mr. Weatherbee, my manager, appeared by my side, his brow furrowed in concern. But I wasn’t sure if he was worried for me or just afraid of losing a customer.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked, his voice calm but tense.
Miss Pompous immediately turned on him. “Your incompetent employee can’t even make a simple juice correctly! I demand a refund and a free replacement!”
To my horror, Mr. Weatherbee started apologizing right away. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am. Of course, we’ll remake your juice right away, free of charge.”
He turned to me with a sharp look. “Grace, please be more careful next time. We can’t afford to upset our valued customers.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “Just get the carrots from the fridge, Grace, and help me remake the juice.”
Miss Pompous smirked at me, her eyes gleaming with triumph. I felt smaller than the carrot peelings in the compost bin. For a moment, I considered quitting, ripping off my apron, and walking out of the store, never to return. But then, like a flash, the faces of my family appeared in my mind. My mom’s tired smile, my sister’s hopeful eyes… I couldn’t give up now. I needed this job.
So, I straightened up, forcing myself to stand tall. Miss Pompous thought she could break me. She thought she could trample on my dignity because she had money. But I wasn’t going to let that happen.
I wasn’t a doormat. And today, I was going to show her that.
A plan began to form in my mind. A bold, risky plan, but one that felt oh-so-satisfying. I wasn’t going to just take this. I was going to fight back.
When Mr. Weatherbee turned his back to answer a phone call, I seized my opportunity. I reached into the fridge, my fingers brushing past the neat, uniform carrots until they found what I was looking for—a massive, gnarled carrot, the ugliest one I could find. It was tough, and it looked like it had seen better days. Perfect.
I made sure Miss Pompous was watching as I fed the carrot into the juicer. The machine groaned and sputtered, struggling to process the oversized vegetable. Juice sprayed everywhere, covering the counter, the floor, and most satisfyingly, splattering all over her designer purse, which she had carelessly left too close to the juicer.
Her shriek of horror echoed through the store. “My bag!” she wailed, grabbing it and frantically trying to wipe away the orange stains. “You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”
“Oh no! I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said sweetly, my voice dripping with fake concern. “It was an accident, I swear.”
Her face turned purple with rage. “Accident? You deliberately ruined my three-thousand-dollar purse! I demand compensation! Where is your manager?”
I struggled to hold back laughter. Trying to keep a straight face, I gestured vaguely toward a group of customers near the aisles. “I think I saw him helping someone over there,” I said, my voice trembling slightly with barely contained amusement.
As she turned to look, I slipped away, ducking behind the stockroom door, heart pounding in my chest. From my hiding spot, I watched as she gave up and stormed out of the store, her bag dripping with carrot juice, leaving a trail of orange behind her. The bell above the door jingled violently as she slammed it behind her.
I let out a relieved sigh, but I knew this wasn’t over. Miss Pompous wasn’t the type to let something like this go. She would be back, and next time, I had a feeling she would come for revenge.
The next morning, I walked into work with a knot in my stomach. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had a feeling Miss Pompous was going to make another appearance. Sure enough, barely an hour into my shift, I heard the familiar jingle of the doorbell. She was back.
“Where is the owner?” Miss Pompous demanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
Before I could answer, Mr. Weatherbee appeared, looking pale. “Mrs. Johnson? Is there a problem?”
“I want to speak to the owner. Now!” she snapped.
And just like that, Mr. Larson, the owner, appeared. He was an older man, kind-faced, with a calm demeanor.
“I’m the owner,” he said gently. “What seems to be the problem?”
Miss Pompous immediately launched into a tirade. “Your incompetent employee ruined my expensive purse yesterday! I demand she be fired immediately, and I expect full compensation for my loss!”
Mr. Larson listened patiently until she was finished. Then, without missing a beat, he said, “Let’s take a look at the security footage, shall we?”
My heart sank. I had completely forgotten about the cameras. Oh no.
We gathered around the small monitor in Mr. Larson’s office, and as the footage played, showing Miss Pompous throwing juice in my face and my “accidental” spill on her purse, the room grew silent.
When it was over, Mr. Larson turned to her with a cool expression. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t offer you any compensation. What I see here is an unfortunate accident that occurred after you assaulted my employee. If anyone should be considering legal action, it’s us.”
Miss Pompous’s jaw dropped. “But… but my purse!”
“I suggest you leave now, Mrs. Johnson,” Mr. Larson said firmly. “And please don’t return to this establishment. We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone who mistreats our staff.”
With one last glare of pure hatred directed at me, Miss Pompous stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
As soon as she left, Mr. Larson turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, Grace, I hope it was just an accident.”
“Yes, sir. It was!” I said quickly, trying to hide my grin. “Why would I ever intentionally ruin a customer’s belongings?”
He nodded and walked away. Ally, who had been watching from the back, gave me a high five as I returned to the juice bar.
“Way to go, Grace! You stood up to the wicked witch!” she said with a grin.
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in months. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
It wasn’t just about the revenge—it was about standing up for myself. I had learned something that day: Miss Pompous didn’t have the power to crush me. And no one else would ever have that power again.
So, have you ever had to deal with entitled people like Miss Pompous? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments. After all, we’ve all got to stick together against the “Karens” of the world, right?
