My job at Hardee's was at the counter. I never worked the kill floor, or whatever it was they did back there. In those days it was rare to have a guy take your order, so just standing behind a cash register opened up a whole can of stigma.
One day the door swung open and a bunch of tough guys walked in. They looked like beat-up cinder blocks in flannel who just got back from a grease monkey fight, sponsored by oil.
One of the men, who I'm pretty sure had one eye, came up to my till. I just stood there in my cute little outfit, wondering how many seconds were left before the murdering started. I thought, There's nothing to defend myself with except meat. I suppose I could threaten him with high cholesterol but he'll probably order some anyway.
Then, in a crackly rumble that stopped the clock, he said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be a girl?"
I'm not kidding.