Back when I worked the register there was a dress code. Really. We were expected to wear heels and office attire. Even the men wore shirts and ties. Generally, because we were students, the idiot manager ignored us. Until rumours of an incipient union drifted by his particleboard desk. Then we were hauled in individually and questioned. He had cheap prints on the wall behind his pointy head. One was a farm scene with a wagon wheel in the foreground. The price sticker remained in full view, signaling its availability in case any of us Pinkos were overcome by art.
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