Back when I was still working retail, we had this program called The Star Performer. Basically, it was a group of employees handpicked by HR to be their "positive influence squad"— a.k.a. the undercover morale boosters. Think Secret Santa energy meets corporate cult vibes. We were supposed to inspire everyone else to care just as much as we did. Which, in my case, was a lot.
That summer, corporate launched a new challenge: whoever got the most customer recommendations through those post-visit surveys would win prizes. You know the ones, "How did we do today?" printed at the bottom of the receipt. Except this was still new, so people actually paid attention.
Technically, I wasn't even supposed to be on a register. I was a department lead. But I made a habit of checking people out anyway. (Interpret that as you will.)
I'd circle the survey on their receipt with a highlighter, write my name in bold like it was autographed merch, and smile my best "please validate my existence" smile. "Be sure to mention me," I'd chirp cheerfully.
Why? Because for every survey that mentioned your name, you got a $3 in-store coupon. For every 100 surveys? A $100 Visa gift card.
Yeah. Do the math. That's $400 worth of free stuff just for being your favorite cashier. And baby, I was everybody's favorite cashier.
I rallied the troops, friends, family, customers who owed me emotional support from years past. I had regulars asking for my register. I had old men calling me sweetheart and writing reviews like I saved their lives. I didn't just show up. I showed out.
But the thing is, the comments didn't come because I was hustling. They came because I actually cared. I made people feel seen.
Like the mom with twin boys fighting over who got the receipt. She looked exhausted, like she hadn't peed alone in six years. One kid whined, "I want it!" and the other screamed, "NO, I want it!"
So I just reprinted it and handed one to each of them.
The mom blinked at me like I had performed an exorcism. "I didn't know you could do that."
"Oh yeah," I said. "I have special powers." Peace was restored. Five-star review, secured.
Another time, a gentleman came in wincing with every step. Chronic pain. He picked up this little $20 bottle of pain cream and just stared at it. I saw him calculate what that $20 would cost him elsewhere in his life. Groceries? Gas?
So I said, "Try it. On me. If it works, come back."
He did. A month later. And again the next month. And again after that. That one act of kindness turned into a long-term sale, and more importantly, someone got to sleep better at night.
Then there was the envelope.
I was zoning my endcap display when I spotted something odd on the bottom shelf, an unsealed white envelope, kind of crumpled, like it had been stuffed away in a purse or pocket.
I picked it up, opened it, and nearly dropped it.
$600. In cash.
Crisp bills, no note, no ID. Just rent money, probably. Or maybe bill money. Or maybe someone's entire grocery budget for the month.
I turned it in immediately. Had the manager lock it in the safe. Hours passed. No one came.
And then, just before closing, this little old woman walked in, eyes wide, voice shaking. She asked about the envelope. She was near tears before the words even came out.
When I handed it to her and said, "It's safe, ma'am. We've been holding it for you" she broke.
She hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. She cried in my arms. Sobbing. Said it was her rent. Said she didn't know what she was going to do. Said she thought she'd lost everything.
I didn't get a coupon for that. I didn't get a gift card. But that moment? That mattered more than all the Visa points in the world.
They don't run programs like that anymore. They don't hand out surveys or care about human interaction. These days, they want you fast and replaceable. But back then? They wanted you to love your job. They wanted connection. And I did. People knew it.
I got Employee of the Month. They used to throw this huge dinner for all the winners in the district, like Retail Oscars. They put my face on the wall, gave me a plaque, even made a PowerPoint slide. I know that sounds cheesy, but damn if it didn't feel good.
And that survey challenge? I won.
150 glowing comments.
The highest in the store.
The highest in the district.
They threw a lunch in our honor. Read out our best reviews. Two of mine were featured. One said, "She made me feel like the most important person in the world." Another said, "Her smile made my whole day better." And yeah, I might've gotten a little teary. I was proud. I am proud.
Then came the GMM holiday event, General Merchandise Managers, not Gimme More Margaritas, though honestly, it felt like both.
They flew us out for a two-day corporate getaway. Free hotel. Dinner show. Swag bags. Drink tickets. It was like Retail Prom, and I was on the Homecoming Court.
I won a new knife block. And not a cheap one either, a fancy one with steak knives that could cut through your ex's soul.
And then… there was the t-shirt guy.
He was repping a collegiate brand at the event. Friendly, charming, giving away free shirts like a daytime game show host. We chatted. He offered me a second shirt. I said sure. He smiled and said, "I think you'd look really good in our stuff."
Was that… a line?
I pointed out a cute gold-and-gray one I liked and moved on. Thought nothing of it. Until two weeks later, when he personally showed up at my store and dropped it off.
I kid you not.
This man tracked me down. At work. With fashion.
So yes, I went into the breakroom and tried it on. Immediately. And then strutted out like Beyoncé in a clearance aisle. Because obviously, if someone goes out of their way to flirt and hand-deliver cotton, you let them see the payoff.
I am not above a little main character energy.
Some people think retail is just scanning barcodes and dodging Karens, especially the ones who think retail is rock bottom. But for a brief, shining moment, I made it something else.
I made people laugh. I made them feel seen. I made them write my name at the bottom of surveys like I was some kind of customer service legend.
And yeah, I still use that knife block. Still got the t-shirt. Still got the memories. And the glow of knowing that I was once…The Beyoncé of aisle nine.