The True Story of How I Got Fired
Loss Prevention Specialists
The entrance into the strangest work environment I think I’ll ever experience …
I.
“I don’t smoke that much you know.”
Beside me, in the drivers seat, she began tearing open a new pack of roll-your-owns.
“Sure,” Turning so she can’t see my raised eyebrows, I rolled down the window. The carpark was empty. Rubbish whipped up in the light summer breeze.
I should’ve probably said more by now. It’d been one month. And she was still chuffing away.
She coughed, groaned, “For fu-”
“Do you want me to roll it for you?”
“Could you?”
Below her shaking hands, brown rolling tobacco was splayed like a drunk man over her pregnant belly.
I always wondered who the father was.
Her mother was my boss.
I remember walking in on interview day; the operations room was squished into the far corner of a Pak ‘n’ Save, a budget New Zealand supermarket chain, in the middle of the poorest part of the city.
The first thing I noticed was her black-dyed fringe.
“You’re here for the interview?” She asked.
“Um … yeah; the one for … you know, secret shoppers?”
“We don’t use that term.”
“Uh huh.”
“We call ourselves Loss Prevention Specialists. It’s pretty clear really. We try to prevent supermarkets from unnecessary loss. Like … it’s quite unnecessary to steal, on a moral level.”
I nodded, and started slipping off my bag.
“You’re hired; if you want the job, so we don’t have to do the interview. You’ve got a degree, and you’re going for another one. Most of the people that apply here are dead-end beats.”
Across the desk, in her tiny room, papers stacked up and a bin full of confectionary wrappers beside her, she sat like an Admiral commanding an imposing fleet.
She leant forward, wiping the fringe from her eyes, and stared.
A large golden cross dangled from her neck.
The first few weeks were really interesting.
Her daughter trained me.
“You don’t want a trolley too full or too empty. A trolley too full is like, you know, hard to get around. If you want to like … uh, briskly walk after someone, you can’t maneuver it properly. A trolley too empty, on the other hand, is a bit suspicious after a while I reckon. If someone’s like, keyed-up you know, they’re gonna spot you. Like, why aren’t you filling up your trolley?”
The first day, she’d begun filling a trolley, and was half-way down a supermarket aisle in faux-investigation mode, pretending to read the health metrics on the back of a chip-packet. She whispered, “Only ever use your um … side vision, the side of your eyes?”
“Periphery?”
“Yeah, that’s it. But if you do need to look at them, you know - get a closer look - do this.”
Five-foot nothing and five-months pregnant, she swiftly angled the trolley to the other side of the aisle. Her eyes followed, and for a couple of moments, she left them aimed down the end of aisle.
“See?”
She was training me at the main supermarket in the city centre, busy, but not a thieves paradise; they averaged two people caught a week, she said. Her mother’s company was contracted by two other supermarkets, their head office - the Pak ‘n’ Save I described earlier, which, because of its location, averaged ten a day, and the Mosgiel supermarket, a small farming township on the outskirts of the city, that averaged only one a month.
Right away, I realised that as the daughter and I were close to the same age - and the same height - our cover was that we were shopping for our family.
It was a couple of days before we caught someone.
Her mother, who, I found out later, often hung out in the CCTV room, had forewarned her daughter about a woman who’d been trespassed several times.
We stood at the end of the aisle closest to the entry, fiddling with food. “Here she comes,” her daughter said.
She turned toward me, signaling for me to look over her shoulder.
A woman in her forties approached, slightly overweight. Scowling face, probably dated cats.
“Look at her bags.”
Slung over her left shoulder was a red supermarket shopping bag.
“The shopping bag?”
“Look closer. Bags.”
Narrowing my eyes, I noticed that underneath the red bag, was another flung over her shoulder, black, and camouflaged against her black tights. I nodded.
“She’ll put a couple of items in the red bag, and then, a couple in the black bag.”
“And she’ll only put the red through check out.”
“Yup.”
“Cunning.”
It was interesting the type of people who stole. Some you’d expect - children mouthing a sweet here and there, a semi-psychotic bum eating a pie straight from the bakery cabinet, and some where my surprise was woven with irritation.
I caught several middle-upper class European backpackers taking various things; more often than not, expensive food from the organic aisle.
They would stand, shoulders back, shocked, blinking pretentiously, denying until they realised I wasn’t fucking around. Here was the only time I reveled in any moral righteousness. Their parents were likely funding a trip across the other side of the world, to our beautiful New Zealand, and they were filling their hippy pockets with our food?
Capitalism = bad, I suppose.
One local woman tried to steal a bottle of shampoo.
Catching her, challenging her as I was happy to do, I sliced open her emotional façade; it poured out her eyes, all over her skin.
I led her to the security office, making sure to sidestep her gushing tears.
It was almost midnight. I let her go. The next day the mother scolded me, “Never let anyone go, okay? That’s not your decision to make!”
Sometimes I didn’t even have a choice.
One day, about midday, I was boring myself with reading the nutritional information on a packet of nuts, when a man walked past with his shoelaces undone and his pants halfway down his ass.
I followed him.
Within five minutes he’d filled a trolley full of meat. I’d been told in my training this was a tactic drug dealers and gang members often employed; they’d freeze the meat, then sell it to people they knew, half price. Sometimes, they simply swapped it for drugs.
It was clear this guy was not going to react to a, ‘Do you mind coming over here sir, I work for the supermarket …’ so, I stood by the exit, waiting.
As I expected, he bowled straight through the check out.
I commanded him to stop. He sprinted at me with his trolley full of meat, forcing me to dodge aside.
Ditching the trolley beside the exit, he began running through the carpark and into the city centre. As fast as he could. Which wasn’t much of a jog for me.
In these situations, protocol was to call the police - we couldn’t physically reprimand people. Like security guards in our country, we had no real authority.
The dispatch forwarded me through to the nearest patrol officer. I began updating the man’s location as we moved from street to street. By this time, he’d taken me in a circle, almost to where we had started.
“Stop -” the officer cut me off.
“He’s going towards the bus hub now; he’s going south.”
The officer groaned, “No son, stop updating me.”
“What do you mean?”
I heard some shuffling the background, “We don’t um … We don’t really have … Sorry son. We don’t have any cars in the area. No officers. I’ll note down his description. That’s all I can do for you.”
The Police Station was two minutes walk away. I could see it. We were running towards it. Several years later, May of 2024, a thirteen year old boy stabbed a sixteen year old boy to death in a brawl after school.
It was across the road from the same Police Station we were running towards.
II.
The mother often drove me home, after work. “You shouldn’t have to take the bus love,” she’d say to me, “Only rabble get the bus.”
Initially, she’d praise me, which quickly became weird, “You’re like, the ideal worker. I can’t say we’ve ever had someone like you. Happy to stand your ground, but not too aggressive, you know? No sick days either.”
She’d routinely contrast me with the other staff, “Daniel is like … not a good worker. You can see that, right?”
Daniel was their most experienced employee. He often worked at Pak ‘n’ Save, where on weekends one would have to catch over ten people a day. Shifts were longer, too.
“He’s just so fucking lazy,” she’d hiss, like the wheels of her vehicle as she zoomed through a yellow to red. “Thinks he’s so good. Like, stop being so entitled?”
The daughter, instead, said he was an expert. He had a great eye for spotting a thief. He had dyed blonde hair; she loved the way it waved when he chased after people.
“Don’t you think he’s attractive?” She’d ask me, on one of our breaks, where I’d end up rolling her cigarettes.
“Uh …”
“He kinda reminds me of Justin Bieber, if he was a detective of course. …
“Too bad he’s gay.”
I’d met Daniel once; I’d said hello.
About two months in, no longer was I blessed with these conversations - well at least with the mother.
I was about to start work in the city centre when I received a message to go to the operations room.
“Take a seat,” the mother said as I arrived.
She circled me; it seemed she’d been waiting for me to slip; waiting to engorge upon my psychological flesh.
“We’ve seen you slacking off on the job.”
I hid my snort, “What?”
“Yup, why don’t you just admit it.”
“Admit what?”
She snarled, “Listen: We’ve got evidence of you, okay. Just admit that you’ve been wasting our time.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Okay, well - I didn’t expect this from you; I expected you to be up front. Guess you’re not the young man me and my daughter thought you were.”
I couldn’t wait to get home from my shift.
Powering on my computer, I was certain I was going to win the argument we had had in the office.
I’d been accused of reading the nutritional information of certain foods for too long.
Standing and calculating calories, instead of fighting crime.
The first evidence she brought against me was that was all I talked about; health this, and health that. That her daughter had felt shamed when I had brought up that smoking while pregnant harms the unborn baby.
The second evidence was that she had seen it. At the Mosgiel supermarket, the farming community some half an hour via bus on the outskirts of the city, where you’d be lucky to catch one person a month, she’d watched me spend over ten minutes investigating one packet of nuts.
I wasn’t allowed to see the evidence, of course.
My argument was that even if that were true (which it probably was, to be fair; I was always trying to find a new brand of lean nuts to eat), the contract didn’t allow for CCTV spying on employees. In fact, in the interview, she had told me she would never watch me work over the cameras.
Hastily, I opened the contract. I reread it a few times, as if I was going to find new information disconfirming my initial fears.
Indeed, she was correct; my electronic signature was evidence I agreed to not only being surveilled by my boss, but that these recordings could be used against me in the event of termination.
I scrunched up my written warning and threw it in the bin.
III.
Supermarkets often sell limited runs of new and untested food products. In many cases, staff are given early access.
In the lunch room, there would be all manner of wonderous treats; chips from Chile, the flavour of the Andes; blueberry Tim Tams from our Australian brothers (a disgusting concoction I might add); and my personal favourite, spicy biltong from South Africa.
It was like Willy Wonka; if all the kids - the employees - instead ranged from early twenties drug addicts to mentally handicapped elder statesmen.
And me.
For the daughter it was the digestive delight of her day.
“Treats!”
We’d sit down, before her cigarette, that I’d finally refused to continue rolling, and she’d try the various products, especially the new ones.
“Here you go, come on! You have to try some of them.”
She’d push them toward me, and I’d wave my hand and point at my abs, “‘I haven’t eaten a carb since 2004!’”
“Really? That’s almost like 20 years!”
“No … I … it’s from a movie. Don’t worry.”
More and more, I was feeling like I was stuck in a Judd Apatow film. Except I didn’t have the brothers in arms to overcome our ludicrous hurdles.
I remember reading late one night and jolting upright at the flurry of gunshots. What the fuck was that?
I looked at my phone:
It was 00:00 on the first of January, 2020.
It was the first New Years since fifteen I hadn’t been black-out drunk with my best mates.
I had moved to my new town two months earlier; this was the first job that accepted me. I was trialing out the city, as it were; I had designs to complete my post-graduate study at the esteemed Psychology department of the local University, the place where Jim Flynn made his name.
“It’s a new start,” my mother said.
I had broken up with my girlfriend of course. I didn’t know why she was sounding so morose. I felt great; though there was no hard feelings between us, I was finally free of the pessimistic anchor that had plagued my dispositional openness and enthusiasm for so long.
And I had discovered that Tinder actually worked.
But I couldn’t get drunk with anyone. I didn’t know anyone. I had joined the local cricket team, but we’d had so many early season games washed out, I barely knew anyone one’s names.
I also joined the local tabletop wargaming club. I had what I was then told “a very pretty army” of cybernetic super solders, called Space Marines. But, as was obvious when interacting with these folks, they weren’t the types to tear up the town after drinking a whole bottle of spirits.
So I went to the gym; I played video games; I read my books; and of course, I continued going to work.
One may have been frustrated with what had happened. That stocky witch had lied to my face, spied on me, and thrown me to the wolves, which was simply her.
But I felt to be frustrated was probably even more small-minded.
I’d arrive at my shift, and there she’d be, standing by the security office, her eyes like darts beneath her black-dyed fringe, that golden cross shifting from side to side as she shifted from foot to foot.
Her attempted intimidation was as pathetic as it sounds.
The daughter, meanwhile, only kept her distance when her mother was working. Beside from that, she was the same; asking about sex, about men, while I tried change the topic.
I felt for her, honestly.
She had been raised alone, as I was come to learn, by a psychopath.
One night I was half-asleep on the couch, when a notification on my phone blinked me awake.
I had been sent a video over messenger from my boss.
Pushing myself up, I realised the video was of me. I was sitting, elbows on knees, in the small lunch room of new supermarket that had recently contracted out the Loss Prevention Specialists.
Jeez, I need a haircut, I thought.
And then, Wait, what the fuck is this?
In the video, I stood up and walked over to the table. Looking at what’s on offer, I picked up a packet of chocolate covered almonds and - no surprises here - began looking at the nutritional information.
Shrugging my shoulders, I took a few and sat back down.
This happened a couple of times.
My heart would have been beating faster, if the situation was any less absurd - why am I being sent a video of me eating almonds?
“You watch it?” She typed.
“Why are you sending me this?”
“Is that you in the video?”
“Yeah, of course; so what?”
“We have clear evidence of you stealing company property. A direct violation of your contract, and of course obvious criminal activity. Your contract has been terminated, effective immediately. You have two weeks, technically, but we don’t want you working for us. So you can stay home. See ya.”
Then she blocked me. I didn’t even get to say, “You’re fucking crazy.”
The next day I woke up relieved; my blessed conversations had ceased, and now my blessed facial interactions had ceased. It still felt strange to be fired though; I’d like to say I brushed it off, but it didn’t feel great.
I had been trying to call my mother. She was a lawyer and even though putting the past two months behind me would have been the smarter decision, I wanted to find out whether I had been fired illegally.
But she hadn’t been answering her phone. Usually - forgive me mother for saying this - she was very online.
Finally, I got through, but my Dad answered, “Your mother’s at the hospital.”
“What?”
“I said: She’s at the hospital. We were biking, the two of us. She hit a parked car. Snapped her femur. She’s in surgery now.”
She had only just recovered from the year earlier, where she’d had two artificial knee joints inserted. She’d always describe herself as the ‘bionic woman.’
“Will she be able to walk?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
About to get a bus to the hospital, I received a phone call.
It was my now ex-boss - she had blocked me over messenger, but not my mobile number.
“Hey!” She sounded chipper. “I need you to do us a favour.”
“I’m sorry, there’s -”
“We had someone call in sick today. So, as you are technically still on the pay-roll, we need to go out to Mosgiel; work a three-hour shift.”
“No, actually I won’t do that. My mother’s in the fuckin’ hospital: I’m going to see her.”
“Can you please work for us? We really need it. It’s just three hours; then you’re done! Don’t need to see us again. Please?”
I knew my mother would be ‘under’ for a while; I could just do the shift, and then come back to the city and see her after.
Be the bigger person, I thought, show them through action how one should behave.
I agreed, reluctantly, and instead got a bus out to Mosgiel, the farming community, which took half an hour.
I spent most of the trip questioning my decision. Should I have just said no? Are you being a fuckin’ bitch? Or, were you correct? Are you indeed holding yourself above this woman’s petty games and goals; her child-like power-tripping?
I strode into the supermarket with confidence and the heavy summer sun on my back; I had rationalised my decision as the noble one.
I would do the shift, and be done with them, holding my head held high while I did so.
I collected a trolley and was confronted by a man in work overalls. He was broad across the chest, a foot taller than me, but had a slender, feminine face. His voice shaked, “Hey! We’ve heard all about you. You little thief. We don’t want your kind working in our supermarket. Get the fuck out, now!”
He pointed to the exit, his arm shivering. Here was a man not used to confrontation.
Without even speaking, I knew I had the upper-hand. Despite my size, I had fought people orders of magnitude more intimidating.
My eyes showed it.
“Get fucked,” I shouted back. “I was asked to come here as a favour, you idiot. And whatever it is you’ve heard, it’s a fuckin’ lie. You actually believe that psycho bitch?”
“We don’t want you here! Get the fuck out!”
His whole body was shaking.
“No.”
He started to retreat. “Get out! Now!”
“Come back here you little bitch. You fuckin’ coward. Come back!”
His shouts, that were more like squeals, faded as he disappeared to whatever alley he’d snuck up on me from.
I stood there, my hands gripping the trolley handlebars, wishing they were gripping this man’s neck.
IV.
On it’s day, Dunedin’s a beautiful city.
Entering from the West, rolling green hills lined with high trees, give way to a wide valley speckled with humble homes and a series of bays that lead out to the dark blue expanse of the pacific ocean.
But four years ago, on a rickety shitty bus, a man to my right drinking from a bottle of rum, my head resting against the long windows, my new town had left upon me a very different impression.
I was as angry as I was perplexed with what had happened, not only that day, but over the past two months.
What had I done wrong? How could I be so naïve?
Of course, I’d quickly realised that I was set-up, that my psycho ex-boss had sent me all the way out to Mosgiel to humiliate me - and she’d get to watch the whole thing again and again over the security footage.
The bus nearing the city, my thoughts turned to my mother, and her surgery.
We were to find out it went brilliantly, though she’d be put through another grueling recovery, she wouldn’t be resigned to a wheelchair. That’s what mattered.
Over the coming years, I’d tell a version of this story, shortened of course, getting laughs and frowns as I did so. “What a crazy bitch.” People would say. “I can’t believe that girl was smoking while pregnant.”
And that’s all I really considered the story to be, a humourous bit of being fired from a job, operated and run by a couple of crazies.
But writing this now, I reflect back on the one thought I do remember having, as the bus docked at the same hub, where several years later a teenage boy would be stabbed to death:
Where were the men in these women’s lives?
Thank you all for reading.
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Chur, and have a good day and night,
The Delinquent Academic
The exit where the man-o-meat ran out of and gave me a tour of the city.
After going in a circle, I chased him down this road. Across the nearest intersection is the police station.
Great writing. Catches you and draws you in.
Very cool, I've had similar experiences. The first day I was helping out Mobil petrol stations in Wellington as a 'compliance inspector' (same 'secret shopper' kind of role), one guy straight up offered me a bribe. No artifice, no cunning, no tact. This pig faced guy just called me into the back office, told me he was too lazy to do what head office told him to do, and offered me $50 a week to lie on my reports.
I told him to stop being an idiot, and did the job for several months, but every time I went there he kept trying to get me to fudge data. So many times in my corporate jobs I've been asked by either my supervisor or a client to fudge data.
When it is for external compliance audits of reputable organisations, I normally present the fudged data, and then subtly point out the actual data points in the hope that the auditor can read between the lines. If standards don't improve then I just quit, and tell everyone I know not to work there anymore.