The dispatcher kept me on the line for eleven minutes. She asked me everything. What he looked like. What the car looked like. Which way it went. What the child was wearing.
“Pink rain boots,” I said. “Purple raincoat with ducks on it. Her name is Quinn Vela. V-E-L-A. She’s about three. Her mother works somewhere in scrubs. A nurse or something. They come in every Saturday.”
“Ma’am, did you get the plate?”
I read it to her. Then I read it again.
“And you said you have photographs?”
“I have about two hundred of them.”
A patrol officer pulled up in the parking lot nine minutes later. Officer Raymond Tull. Young, broad-shouldered, with a kind voice. He stood under the overhang by the cart corral and scrolled through my phone with his thumb, and I watched his face get very serious.
“Ma’am, can you send these to me? All of them?”
My granddaughter had taught me that too. I sent them.
He got on his radio. He said a lot of numbers and codes I didn’t understand. Then he turned back to me.
“Mrs.?”
“Bixby. Loretta Bixby.”
“Mrs. Bixby, you did exactly the right thing. I need you to come down to the station and give a written statement. Can you do that?”
“I’m working,” I said. Then I laughed, because I realized how silly it sounded. “Or I was.”
Gary Darby was standing just inside the automatic doors with his arms crossed. He’d been watching the whole time. When Officer Tull drove off, he motioned for me to come inside.
He walked me back to his office. He shut the door. He didn’t ask me to sit down.
“Loretta, I gave you a direct instruction and you ignored it. You left your post. You had a personal phone on the sales floor, which is a violation. You confronted a customer. You followed him into the parking lot and photographed him without his consent. You called the police on a man who had presented valid identification proving he was the child’s father.”
“Mr. Darby, that baby was crying for her mother.”
“That’s not your call to make.” He slid a piece of paper across the desk. “This is a termination notice. Effective immediately. Please turn in your vest.”
I looked at the paper. Then I looked at him.
“You’re firing me.”
“Corporate has a zero-tolerance policy on customer confrontation. My hands are tied.”
I took off my blue vest. I folded it neatly, the way Harold used to fold the flag on Memorial Day. I set it on his desk.
Then I took the roll of smiley-face stickers out of the apron pocket and put that in my purse. Those were mine. I bought them myself at the Dollar General, four rolls for five dollars.
And I walked out of the ValuMart into the rain for the last time.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.