I was 16 the first time I was hit on. I was working my first job at Randolph Market, my family’s Virginia grocery store, when an older-looking man walked in the front doors and made eye contact with me. I smiled, as I did to all customers, and greeted him: “Good morning! How are you?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to stare at me as he made his way into the store and disappeared into the aisles.

About five minutes later, he slowly walked to my register and plopped his groceries down on the conveyor belt. I greeted him again, then started to scan his belongings. He then leaned over so he was inches from my face and said, “What time do you get off? I want to take you back to my place for dinner.”

His breath smelled like cigarette smoke and garlic. I looked up at him and tried to remain calm. I didn’t want to make a scene because I didn’t know what he was capable of, and I was the only cashier on duty. So, I laughed and said no as politely as I could.

But he persisted.

He must have asked me back to his place ten times. He stayed in my line long after I was done bagging his items, giving him change, and handing him the receipt. But where could I go? I was the only employee in the front, so leaving my station could lead to someone stealing money from the drawers, or Jimmy the delivery guy not getting paid for restocking our breads, bagels, and donuts. I was trapped under this man’s beady gaze, heart racing, armpits sweating, and hands shaking uncontrollably.

Eventually, he left. I waited for the other cashier to return from the bathroom, then ran to the back of the store. I locked myself in the bathroom and let the tears fall. I never expected to feel so unsafe in the grocery store that I basically grew up in. I dreaded coming back to work for a while, but I luckily never saw that man again.

That was the first time I felt trapped by a man harassing me in the workplace. Luckily, my father, the owner of Randolph Market, was always ready to listen to his employees’ concerns, but the issue still lay in the hands of these types of customers. Over winter break, I experienced one of my co-workers being hit-on by a cop who has famously harassed every single underage girl in the store.

Historically, he starts by asking for the young, pretty cashier’s name. Then, he asks for her age, and laughs when she replies with anything under 18. When he leaves, he typically says, “You’re too young for me, but you’re beautiful.”

I will personally admit I was flattered the first time he complimented me, but he just kept doing it. He must have asked me how old I was four or five times within the same month— all while in his police uniform.

Over winter break of 2019, I witnessed him talking to another cashier named Kyra. When he came through the line, she flashed me a look when he did exactly what I said he would: name, age, and a creepy compliment to finish it off. After he left, we talked to another manager, Destiny, who was studying to be a social worker. She said he had done the same thing to her before, but that we couldn’t deny him from coming in unless he assaulted someone. This news was disappointing to me, especially since he had made us feel unsafe with his words alone. That night, Kyra, Destiny and I walked to our cars together to make sure we arrived safely— and avoided any creepy cops.

Today, I work at a Live Alive Organic Cafe in Boston. I was pleasantly surprised when we covered sexual harassment during the job’s orientation course, and I was assured that it would not be tolerated from customers and employees alike. I was even more surprised when I went through an entire month of working without being hit on. I was hopeful that the gross, creepy men who made me feel unsafe in Virginia did not exist in Boston.

But, unfortunately, they do.

Going to work should not be something we dread as professional women. Coming up to ask me for my name, my number, my life story, or commenting on my appearance are all inappropriate and disrespectful of my time, my hard work, and my hard-earned money. Instead of being creepy, try respecting me, my personal space, and my workplace by holding your tongue, placing your order, and enjoying the rest of your day.

Trapped Behind The Register