I work in a cannabis dispensary in a medical-only state. We recently opened in what used to be a bank. There has not been a bank in the building for quite some time, and the building itself was empty well before we opened. A lot of people still come here thinking it’s a bank despite the fact that the dispensary’s name is all over the building. We’re used to having to explain this to people, and it’s never been an issue.

A man walks up to the building and is greeted by security at the door.

Security: “Can I see your medical ID, please?”

Customer: “I just need to get some money.”

Security: “I can’t let you in without seeing your ID.”

Customer: “Since when do banks require ID to enter? Let me in so I can get my money!”

Security: “Sir, this isn’t a bank. It’s a dispensary, and I can’t let you in without a valid Medical ID.”

Customer: “That’s bulls***. Let me in now or I’ll call the police!”

Security calls me to the front and explains what is going on.

Me: “Sir, as security has explained to you, we are not a bank. The bank that used to be here is now down the street. You will have to go there.”

Customer: “Do you have an ATM I can use?”

Me: “Only if you have a medical cannabis card from the state and plan on doing business here.”

Customer: “That’s stupid! Let me use the ATM!”

Me: “No. Please leave.”

Customer: “I’m calling the police! You can’t keep me from coming inside! That’s illegal!”

Me: “The police have no power here, sir. You’ll have to call the department of health, but best of luck with that.”

We closed the door on the fuming man. He tugged on the locked door a few times before stomping away. We never did hear from the department of health or police on that incident, so either he never called them or the conversation didn’t go his way.

I managed a dispensary for a bit while the health crisis canceled college. We had this one patient, an old white lady who constantly called on the phone to ask for deals. We had daily deals that never changed — all the same on the same day of the week.

I told this lady that I would not substitute a deal for her. She didn’t like that. She instantly became a meaner person on every call thereafter.

The OWNER delivered to her place to make sure everyone was all good. Keep in mind, I didn’t ever see customers in person. I sat at a computer doing the orders and occasionally filling them in-house for our drivers to take.

I got another call from the lady. She started with a rant about the rude Islamic Irani who delivered to her house. (She was talking about the owner, a mostly white-passing man with a Japanese mother.)

Lady: “I want [White Coworker] to deliver to me, instead! And you didn’t have [Edibles], which are my favorite, so I want two of the cheaper ones for the price of one of the bigger ones!”

Still playing the kind part, I asked to place her on hold while I spoke to someone with more authority.

Lady: “You liar! I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me!”

And I was done.

Me: “Sorry, I am no longer offering you any deal outside of our daily deals. You can pick one of those or pay full price. I do not appreciate your tone, and I will not let you speak to me this way.”

Lady: “You know I’m spending over $100, right?”

Cue eye-roll.

Lady: “You guys haven’t stocked this in weeks! This isn’t good customer service! I won’t be placing my order.”

Me: “Okay. Goodbye.”

And with the owner in the room, I blocked her number and got rid of her account. Be rude, you don’t get your weed. Simple.

I work at a legal cannabis dispensary. When a customer or patient enters the building, the security people scan their IDs to make sure they’re legitimate. Cashiers check IDs again to make sure they’re current and that the visitor is of age to purchase the product.

A woman steps up to my register. I greet her and ask to see her ID. She holds it far enough away that I’m having trouble reading her birth date and the expiration date, and she starts to put it away before I can start squinting at the card.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I need to see your ID again.”

Once again, she held the ID far enough away that I couldn’t read anything, so I reached out to try and take the card so I could read it properly, which is pretty common for us to do. Not only did she not let go of the card, but she snatched it from my hand and told me not to invade her privacy. 

Before I could tell her that state regulations require me to thoroughly check her ID, OR that I see so many IDs during a day and would not remember any of her information if I tried, she marched off back into line and declared that she was going to wait for someone else to help her, never mind that any other cashier would need to see her ID, as well.

She eventually complained to our general manager, who didn’t know how to get it through to her that it’s legally required of us to check her ID.

Related:
No ID, No Idea, Part 42
No ID, No Idea, Part 41
No ID, No Idea, Part 40
No ID, No Idea, Part 39
No ID, No Idea, Part 38

(I work in a marijuana dispensary in Colorado, where recreational weed is legal. A couple stops in one night and they aren’t quite sure what they are looking for, so I have been explaining how different strains of weed work.)

Me: “So, one way to remember the difference between indicas and sativas is ‘indica is “indacouch.”’ They give more of a bodily high and are good if you need help falling asleep or just relaxing, whereas sativas are better if you’re doing something creative and need inspiration.”

Girl: *completely nonchalant* “Or if you want to have sex. Yep, that’s for us.”

(The three of us laughed for quite a while.)

(On my day off, I decide to head to the local pot dispensary to take advantage of their Fourth of July sale. When I pull into their parking lot, I see a group of four people — two men, a woman, and a child — standing around a car with the hood up. Note: it’s hovering around 100 degrees, a rarity in Oregon.)

Me: “Y’all need a jump?”

Older Man: “Nah, the car just overheated. We’re waiting for it to cool down a bit so we can open the radiator cap.”

Me: “Y’all got water?”

Older Man: “Yeah, we have some to put in there.”

Me: “Y’all got water for yourselves? It’s really hot out here.”

Woman: “No, we don’t.”

Me: “I always keep a six pack of bottled water in my trunk, for times like this.”

(I pop my trunk while the younger man, the woman, and the kid follow me over. The older man stays by their car. I pull three water bottles out of the pack, one for each of the three who seemed interested in the offer. They thank me, and I head into the dispensary.)

Woman: *overheard as I walk away* “See, Dad? I told you. Stoners are the nicest people!”

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