Box boys in grocery stores are the personal whipping boys of everyone else in the store. New box boys are the personal whipping boys of all the other box boys who have been there longer.
When I was sixteen I took my first job, a box boy at the local Lucky supermarket up the street. My neighbor next door was one of the managers of the place, and I think he must have pulled for me when my application came up. I was excited to have become a working man and jumped into my job full bore, busting ass to push more carts than anyone else, bag groceries more efficiently, safely, and speedily than all the others, and keep the store sparkling clean.
Moron.
What did I get for all my efforts? I wasn't allowed to accept tips, I was the one who was always given the job of cleaning up the broken bottles of gefilte fish and the busted bags of rotten vegetables and butcher offal in the back, and I was, more than once, the butt of a pretty serious practical joke. Sadly, one of those practical jokes led to an ill-conceived and poorly executed rebuttal on my part, which subsequently led to my near death inside a shopping cart, speeding down a loading ramp and into a crowded parking lot.
That's all I have to say about that.
