A Summer Job

One summer in high school, I worked at the Holy Hill gift shop in Washington County. (No, I don’t have the tax receipts to prove it.) 

Most Sundays at the shop, buses of tourists would stop in and they’d frequently purchase statues of various saints that were on display. The statue they would actually take home was boxed up in the back room.  The manager had told all of us we were NEVER to open the box in case it was broken. That way, the customer wouldn’t realize it until they got home and it would be too late to ask for a new, unbroken statue. 

I knew the manager was the authority.  I also knew it was wrong.

One Sunday, a couple came in and decided to buy a statue of Mary. I went to the back room and opened the box. The statue was broken. Of course, at that moment, the manager walked in and asked me “What do you think you’re doing?” 

My stomach in knots, I lied and said the customers had specifically asked that I check to make sure their item was in good condition. 

Glaring at me, she screamed, “That’s not true! They said they never asked you to open the box! Now we have to take the loss!” 

The rest of her rant is foggy now, but what I remember most is the sick feeling in my stomach. 

That horrible ache of knowing in your bones the person whose authority you are supposed to respect is deeply and fundamentally WRONG. 

Still, I hung my head and took the verbal beating because I was a teenager with no power or experience and I knew I had lied and that lying was wrong too. (This paragraph alone should give armchair analysts a field day. Have fun!) 

She didn’t fire me and I didn’t quit. School was just weeks away. For the time that remained, I was watched and never allowed in the back room alone lest I open another box and find a broken statue. 

And I learned that while we all want to be the hero that stands up in front of blatant wrongdoing, circumstances sometimes dictate that the only way to do the right thing is when no one else is watching. 

Like the voting booth.