I was 19 and worked at the restaurant/bar in my hometown of Winston-Salem, N.C., the summer before I was a junior in college. I came by one afternoon to pick up my check.
The manager, who was a middle-aged man with a potbelly, said, “Hey, come in the back and see the new T-shirts I ordered.”
I was very trusting then and followed him. I remember seeing boxes of red T-shirts with the restaurant logo on them on the floor.
Before I knew it, my manager shoved me up against the wall and began to kiss and fondle me. I would like to report that I reacted immediately, kicked him in the nuts and then called police.
But I didn’t. I was so shocked that it probably took me 10 seconds to collect my wits, force-wriggle myself out of his grasp and get the hell out of there. I never came back and never got my last paycheck. Class act.
He didn’t even waste a stamp to mail me my check.