LISA THALHEIMER
Opinions Writer

At 15 years old, most of my friends were trying to get jobs at restaurants or grocery stores. I, on the other hand, was hired to work undercover for the federal government.

My job was simply to enter stores in northern Saskatchewan that sold cigarettes to see if they would sell me a pack of smokes.

While a lot of people thought that my job was extremely sleazy, I loved every minute of it. I wasn’t doing the job to try and make the world a better place or any bullshit like that. It was fun, it was easy and the pay was awesome. If anyone — underage or not — wants to smoke, that’s their decision and I have no problem with it.

As a test shopper, there were many rules I had to follow just to ensure that we clearly were not tricking the cashiers. While inside any given store I was never allowed to carry any identification on me, nor was I permitted to lie about my age when someone asked. I always dressed in normal clothes, never wore makeup and by pure genetic fluke, I look much younger than my actual age. If a cashier was following the law, I didn’t pose any sort of threat to them. Therefore, if a cashier sold to me, it was completely their own fault or the fault of the store for having failed to properly train the cashier.

With the exception of my constant fear that someone would trap me in their store and force me to chain-smoke an entire pack of cigarettes, everything about the job was wonderful. My boss drove the car and I got paid to sit in the back seat and read books as we drove across Saskatchewan. The drives were always fun and relaxing, while the people and incidents that I encountered were unpredictable and endlessly entertaining.

Some people just seemed like they wanted a ticket. In one instance, there was a cashier who, after discovering that I was only 16, laughed and told me that just for being so honest with him he’d sell me the cigarettes. Even worse was the woman who asked for the year I was born. When I told her that I was born in 1990, which would have made me 16 at the time, she responded, “You’re only 13”¦ but that’s okay.” While a part of me almost felt bad for these people, their exceptional stupidity trumped any attempts at a kind gesture.

On the other hand, there were much wiser people who actually caught on to what I was up to. Besides the lady at the Confederation Mall Safeway who yelled at me and told me that people like me get people like her fired, small town cashiers seemed to be the ones with a knack for busting me on the job.

After all, I don’t think it’s especially common for a lone 16-year-old girl to appear in a tiny northern community looking only for a pack of smokes.

My favourite (and probably creepiest) incident happened after word had gotten out that I was in the area. After being rejected cigarettes at two nearby small town grocery stores, we drove up to a third — that unbeknownst to us had been tipped off. I hopped out of the car, ran across the street in the pouring rain and opened the door to the tiny convenience store. Before I could take more than two steps inside I noticed a man and woman, who were a pitchfork short of being the couple from “American Gothic,” staring straight at me. Without hesitation the man said, “You can’t have any cigarettes.” I got the hell out of there.

Even though I absolutely adored the job, once I turned 18 my adventure was over and there was nothing I could do about it. And now I’m working part-time jobs, making less money than I did when I was 15. How depressing.

God, I need a smoke.

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image: Flickr