I am a male, working in a large unisex clothing store. I am currently restocking our female jeans section. A group of younger customers and their mother seem to be having trouble figuring out what all the different cuts mean.

Me: “Hi. I can help if you’re trying to figure out what our names for the different cuts of jeans mean.”

Younger Customer #1: “Eww, no thanks.”

Customer’s Mother: *To her daughter* “Don’t be so rude!” *To me* “Thank you for your help. When it says ‘skinny-fit’, what does that mean?”

Younger Customer #2: “Ha! Like he would know anything about being skinny.”

Yes, I am fat. And yes, I am used to people pointing it out.

Customer’s Mother: *To both her daughters* “Seriously! What’s gotten into you two?!”

Younger Customer #1: “Seriously, Mom, look at him. He’s got boobs!”

Customer’s Mother: “And what? Are you jealous?”

With that, both girls turn bright red and immediately shut up.

Customer’s Mother: “That’s it. I’m leaving. Your dad can have you for the rest of the weekend, and you both just lost your new summer wardrobes. It’s obviously him you’ve been getting this obnoxious sass from.”

The mother winks at me as she leaves the teens behind. 

Customer’s Mother: “You look wonderful, my dear!”

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My store has savings cards. For every $20 you spend, you get a stamp. When you get five stamps, the card is filled up and you can redeem it for ten dollars off a purchase of ten dollars or more.

A lady came up to my register with a card that had three stamps on it. So, she needed two more stamps to be able to use the card to get ten dollars off of her next purchase. She handed me her stuff, and I rang it up.

Her total was somewhere around eighty dollars, which she didn’t want to spend, so she asked me how much each item was, even though the prices came up on the PIN pad screen as I scanned them. After I listed the prices, she told me to take two $10 pajama sleepers and a $7.99 dress off her purchase, which put her total somewhere around sixty dollars.

Customer: “Okay, now what do I need to fill up my card?”

Me: “You need a minimum of forty dollars, so you’re good.”

Anything between forty and sixty dollars earns you two stamps. She was in the clear.

Customer: “No, take something off. I need to be at exactly forty dollars so I can use my card on my next purchase.” 

Me: “Um, you actually don’t. You’re still in the clear where you are now.”

Customer: “No, it needs to be exact!”

Me: “…oooookay.”

What she was buying consisted of two bathing suits that were $18 each ($36 together), and three outfits were each $8, so no matter which way I put the stuff together, it was going to be OVER forty dollars.

I pointed this out because she asked the price of each item eleventy-million times, but she didn’t really seem to get it. So, I rang up the bathing suits and one of the eight-dollar outfits, bringing her total to $44.

She was not having this, no matter how I tried to explain it. And here, folks, is where I got upset. She started using her I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-deal-with-someone-this-stupid voice.

Customer: “I need you to make my total forty dollars. Can you do that, or do you need me to do it? Can you do that?”

This transaction had gone on for way too long already. A line had already formed behind her — AND had dispersed when they realized that this lady wasn’t going to budge for a while. To add frustration to injury, I had the proverbial cherry on top of her being unable to do math while at the same time being condescending to me.

Me: “…I can do my best.”

I voided all her items off my screen to start over. I rang up her bathing suits again, which brought the total to $36.

Me: “Okay, these two together are $36.”

Customer: “Okay, that’s fine. Keep going.”

I then picked one of the eight-dollar outfits and rang that up, making the total exactly the same as before.

Me: “That made your total $44.”

This entire process was verbatim from the FIRST time I did it. The numbers (shocker) came out the SAME.

Customer: “I guess I have to do your job for you and make a total of $40.”

I was desperately hiding the fact that I was seething by now.

Me: “Knock yourself out.”

She rummaged through what she had brought up but was unable to make exactly $40 with any combination. I spent my time catching the eyes of people who tried to join my line and giving them a grimace and a warning shake of my head. Praise be to all retail gods, the rest of the population caught on very quickly and relocated to another line as the woman muttered to herself and kept switching around the items. I watched person after person get checked out and leave while she muttered, shuffled, combined, then recombined, then took an item out, and then added it back in.

Finally, it got through to her that I wasn’t stupid and that there was NO way for her to get what she wanted with her selection. I expected her to get high and mighty again. Instead, she thought for a second and said:

Customer: “That’s fine, thank you. Stop there.”

I gave her her stamps and finished her transaction: two bathing suits and an outfit. Her other selections were strewn a bit haphazardly on my register, and I carefully bagged ONLY the three items she paid for; if she was a time-wasting scammer trying to confuse me, she had failed.

Her savings card was now full, and she could use it on another transaction. Her other two eight-dollar outfits would be $16 together, which was enough to get the ten-dollar discount but not enough to earn another stamp for a new savings card.

She decided that she wanted to get something else to make her total over twenty, so I grabbed the two sleepers and the dress.

Customer: “Wait, the dress wasn’t on there?”

She was surprised that the dress wasn’t on the three-item purchase of two bathing suits and an outfit.

Me: “No, you told me to take it off.”

Customer: “Oh. Well, how much was it?”

I took a deep inhale because she had asked me this many times already AND it had an extremely visible price tag.

Me: “$7.99.”

Customer: “Oh, then I’ll take it.”

I rang her up again, took off the ten dollars, and gave her a new card.

Done. Finally. She walked away, leaving the sleepers behind, and I deeply wished for a cooler I would walk into just for scream therapy.

Related:
The Gift Card That Keeps On Giving, Part 27
The Gift Card That Keeps On Giving, Part 26
The Gift Card That Keeps On Giving, Part 25
The Gift Card That Keeps On Giving, Part 24
The Gift Card That Keeps On Giving, Part 23

A girl who looked anywhere from twelve-to-fourteen years old approaches my register with about $75 worth of clothes and accessories. After I ring her up and provide her total, she hands me a slip of paper.

I recognize the format of credit card number, cardholder name, and expiration. All are written with pencil, and it seems hastily so.

Girl: *Confidently.* “It’s my dad’s credit card info.”

Me: “Oh.”

I hope my face remained a mask of professionalism even while I was laughing incredulously in my head.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this—”

Girl: “—He said it was okay! He doesn’t feel comfortable letting me carry his card around, so he wrote down the information. You don’t think I would write it down behind his back, do you?!”

Well, yes, that is exactly what I thought.

Me: “Unfortunately, we need the actual card and cardholder present.”

Girl: “But he said it’s okay! You can even call him! I’ll give you his number”

Now, I may not have been the worst kid growing up, but it wasn’t hard to imagine a more mature voiced friend being on the other end of whatever number I called. Even if it was her actual dad, he still needed to come in with his card. I say this to her.

Girl: *She intones:* “My dad is a very important businessman. He doesn’t have the time to come to the store, but when I get home, I will tell him how you refused to help me. You’re going to be sorry when you see him!”

I didn’t ask how he doesn’t have the time to come to the store yet would make the exception to make me sorry. I did ask if she wanted me to hold the clothes until closing if her dad was going to come in. 

Spoiler alert: he never came in. There wasn’t even a call to my store or corporate. What a twist.

I used to work at a clothing store, run by a woman who would buy vintage and high end items, repair them, and then sell them in the store. We didn’t have multiple sizes of things and the only bulk items we bought were little trinkets and soaps, sometimes jewelry.

One day, when the owner had gone out to get more supplies, a couple walk in. The wife was on the wrong foot the moment she opened her mouth. She seemed to think we were her slaves, that she was queen of the world, and everything had to be in her size.

Her husband would grunt and repeat what she said in a more nasally aggressive voice. It was the longest two hours of my life.

We had everything organized by size, and did not have extras in the back. After explaining that for what felt like the hundredth time, I was about to throw a purse at her head.

Wife: “This is not my size. Why don’t you have my size?”

Me: “Maybe look at a larger size rack?”

Wife: “No, no, no! I am a two. I have always been a two. I was a two when I had my kids. I am a two now!”

Husband: “No. She is a two. A two. A two!”

The owner came in while the happy couple was shopping and asked me what the problem was because I had “that look.” I explained the woman was being picky.

Eventually the wife stormed up again, with a pair of pants, demanding I read her the size.

Me: “That is a six.”

Wife: “I am a two not a six. Why do I fit into these?”

Owner: “Those are a six. If you fit into them, then you are not a two.”

The wife got silent, turned to her husband, and waved the pants around.

Husband: “Now, listen here, I don’t like the way you guys have been helping my wife. She asks questions and gets attitude. You should use your eyes and actually look at the tag and see if there is a problem. She wants to know the size, tell her the size.”

Owner: “Sure. I will take a closer look.”

She puts the pants on the counter, pops out her glass eye, and holds it close to the tag.

Owner: “Still a six.”

The couple sputtered, waved their hands around like blind birds, and storm out. They left a huge mess I had to help clean up, but only after I spent twenty minutes laughing about it with the owner and the other cashier. 

She was the best boss I ever had. I was sad when I had to move for college.

Customer: “Hey, do you have [item]?”

Me: “Sorry, we’re sold out.”

Customer: “Do you have any in the back?”

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t.”

Customer: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Yes, I am sure.”

Customer: “When will you guys get more?”

Me: “I’m not sure, I’m not in charge of ordering merchandise, and when we do get shipments there’s no guarantee we’re getting every item in it.”

Customer: “But your website says you have it!”

Me: “Our website doesn’t say our store stock, it shows our online store.”

Customer: “How can they have it, but you guys don’t?”

Me: “The online store is a warehouse; they have a giant location to store every item in boxes. We’re limited in space.”

Customer: “But I came in on [past date] and you guys had it!”

Me: “Chances are it sold out in that time. We’ve had many customers shopping here since then.”

They’re insistent so I speak to the manager, and it turns out we can get their item on the next shipment truck, that very same day!

Me: “I spoke to my manager, and they said we can have this item in the afternoon once the shipment truck comes.”

Customer: “I can’t wait that long. I came from [Other City]. Today’s the only day I’m in town. Do you know if [Competitor] has the item in stock?”

Me: “I’m not sure, you could check and find out.”

Customer: “Don’t you know what they have?”

Me: “No… I don’t work there.”

Customer: “Aren’t you affiliated with them?” 

Me: “No? They’re our competitor.”

Customer: “But they sell the same things, don’t they?”