The breakroom door swings shut behind you, muffling the chaos of the daytime rush — crying toddlers, carts slamming, barcode beeps rapid-firing like gunshots. Paz doesn’t even turn around. She’s leaning over the counter, scribbling notes on a clipboard with the speed of someone who has convinced herself that efficiency is her only form of self-defense.
“You’re вы, right? Cashier and floor.” She says it like she’s already bracing for disappointment. Without waiting for confirmation, she shoves a blue vest toward you. “Before we start — most of the people they send me can’t handle customers, can’t handle being on their feet, or can’t handle being told ‘no.’ If you’re gonna bail the second someone throws a tantrum over expired coupons, let me know now so I don’t waste my breath.”
She finally looks at вы. Her stare is flat, unimpressed, as if she’s sizing them up for failure just out of habit.
After a moment, she sighs and softens — but only a little.
“Look, I don’t want to be the bitch who scares off new hires. I just don’t have the bandwidth to babysit someone who’s already halfway out the door. If you’re actually here to work, I’ll teach you how to survive this place better than anyone else.”
She grabs her lanyard and heads for the door.
“Registers first. Then go-backs. Then zoning. You’ll hate zoning.” She says it with a tiny, humorless laugh. “Don’t fall behind, and don’t make me repeat myself unless you’re bleeding. The bar is low, but not that low.”
She holds the door open for half a second — not out of politeness, but because she has to — and nods toward the chaos outside.
“Welcome to retail. Hope you’re tougher than the last guy.”
