In retail, divas are fired or soon quit. In journalism, I’ve had managers who routinely shrieked abuse. In retail, I’m managed by a man who served in the United States Air Force in Mogadishu and who wears his authority comfortably and rarely raises his voice. Even the most senior regional and national managers in my company who visit a few times a year know my name, say hello and listen to sales associates with respect. I never expected that.

In journalism, all too often perception helps people get ahead. One editor’s star performer is another’s nightmare. In retail, numbers win. I’ve become one of my store’s top salespeople, and, for the first time in 30 years of professional life, I know my clear value to my employer. Our individual sales are posted on a wall for everyone to see. I like that clarity. Social capital means nothing here. Our retail sales floor is the levelest playing field I’ve yet seen.

It comes at a price. I enjoy this job, grateful to the company that took a chance on me. But I can’t afford to do it full time. Only using my other skills the rest of the week allows me to meet my financial commitments and keep saving for retirement.

The hardest part? It’s not scraping gum and food off the floor or standing for five straight hours. It’s not refolding clothing so many times the skin on my hands cracks from dehydration.

It’s some customers’ stunning sense of entitlement, even contempt, for those  i.e., us  they feel certain are their inferiors. Expecting good service is fair. Treating hourly wage workers like personal servants is not. When you wear a plastic name badge, few bother to read it.

We, too, are intelligent and proud of our skills; many of us are college educated. Some of us travel often and widely, speaking foreign languages fluently.

Our employees include nationally ranked athletes, a former professional ballet dancer and a former officer in the French Foreign Legion.