My mother told me she never wanted me to waitress or bartend for fear I might meet what she called “crazies.”

So what did I do instead? Why, I did what any 16-year-old would do. I applied for a job in the wonderful world of retail, where I stayed for many years. Too long, actually.

One Sunday I was making my way through the women’s department when a bulky, middle-aged man approached me. He had squinty eyes, and one of those bowl haircuts. You know, the ones that look like they stuck a bowl on top of their head and cut around it. Hot, right? He informs me he’s looking for blue jeans for his wife so I guided him to a wall and began my search for size 9 jeans.

When I turned around to show him a pair, he was gone. Oh, but wait. My eyes darted to the ground where the man, his chest to the ground, laid staring at my feet. Yes, my feet. The man had a foot fetish. I had heard about him. We called him “the foot fetish guy.” Creative, huh? Perhaps we should have called him Footy McGee or Captain Hoof.

So he began to tell me how he liked my shoes, his eyes never left my feet the whole time he talked. Then it happened. He reached his hand over and stroked my heel. Now, to a guy with a foot fetish that’s first base. I let a man go to first base with me in the middle of the junior department. Now, what second, third or home bases are I don’t know. It probably has to do with toe-sucking or acts of that nature. I hate feet, so I’d rather not think about it.

Touching my foot was the last straw. At that moment, I was in the perfect position to send a pointy high heel straight into his forehead, but alas, I was working.

But I help people find clothes, not fulfill their sexual desires of stroking the feet of strangers. This was not part of my job description.

After I backed away, he got back on his feet and told me he was going to look at shoes as a gift instead, preferably ones like mine. Well, of course.

So sorry, Mom. The crazies still found me.