I live in a small village in New York, and we have the “privilege” of having three prisons. The store I work in happens to be a twenty-four-hour gas station, so a fair share of our regulars are prison guards. They come in before and after their shifts for coffee, smokes, and papers.

Most are decent enough; they just want their quick bite, cheap coffee, or whatever before their shift. Some might be a little short with us, but their job is literally to oversee a subset of the population that they have to establish their authority over basically all day, so I don’t hold it against them. But there’s one who comes in that I loathe: [Rude Guard].

I have never met a more entitled, argumentative person in my life. How dare the rules apply to her?! How dare a lowly peon like me enforce them?! How dare I BREATHE in her vicinity without her express permission?! You get the gist. [Rude Guard] and I have had our fair share of encounters during my stay in this job, but this one really took the cake.

It’s going on midnight, and I see a familiar phantom pull into the parking lot. In walks [Rude Guard], and she shoots me a nasty look as she heads toward our beer cooler. I take a deep breath and prepare for war. That look is my one and only warning.

By the time she makes it to my register, there is a person in front of her, and a couple is directly behind her. As she places her beer on the counter, she sneers at me.

Rude Guard: “Do you need to see my f****** ID?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, our store policy is we have to ID everyone who is purchasing beer. Yes, even if we’ve IDed you in the past. It has to happen every time.”

I will admit it’s a rule that is a bit tedious, as we DO have regulars that we could technically confirm as being of age because we’ve seen their ID multiple times in the past. I’m quite sure the forty-year-old dude who buys beer every weekend will never one day suddenly turn sixteen. But rules are rules, and we don’t get to make common sense judgment calls in this job, no matter how many headaches it would cure or prevent.

Rude Guard: “You are so f****** rude! Here, see it?!”

She whips out her guard ID, which she KNOWS I can’t accept.

Me: “Ma’am, I need to see a state-issued ID such as a driver’s license, permit, non-driver’s ID, or even a passport.”

I’m gritting my teeth so hard I’m sure one is going to break.

Rude Guard: “This is a f****** state ID, you idiot! I work for the G**d***ed state!”

Me: “Ma’am, as I have mentioned many times, I cannot accept an employer-issued ID.”

She finally shows me her driver’s license, and I ring out her purchase.

Rude Guard: “That’s f****** bulls***! You’re just f****** jealous because I have a real d*** job and you work in a s***ty gas station.”

I’ll admit I finally lose my patience with this woman at this point.

Me: “A real job? So, the paychecks issued to me are fictional? The taxes I pay don’t go to the state? I work my butt off in this store thirty-five to forty hours a week and support a family of four on this non-existent job!”

Rude Guard: “It’s not a real f****** job if you only make minimum wage.”

Me: “Everyone in this store makes more than minimum wage.”

Rude Guard: “You’re a rude liar, and I don’t have to take this s*** from a welfare b****!”

Me: “You’re right. You can take your purchase and leave the premises, and if you ever talk to me or any other coworker that way again, I will ban you from the store.”

Rude Guard: “You can’t ban me! You’re a f****** cashier!”

Me: “Right now I’m cashiering on this shift because the store needed it covered, but most days I lead this store on the second shift. If I ban you, trust me, you’re banned.”

Rude Guard: “I’m gonna f****** call your f****** manager, you rude b****, and when she hears about this, she’s going to fire your stupid a**!”

Me: “Ma’am, I fully encourage you to call my boss and tell her that I did my job and properly ID’ed you, and that you caused a big scene, were using obscene and abusive language on one of her employees, and did not leave when asked to. That’ll guarantee you a ban from the store.”

Rude Guard: “Your f****** manager is going to fire you. You f****** stupid b****.”

Me: “Smile, you’re on camera!”

She turns, gives me a venomous look, and heads for the door.

Me: *In the most sickeningly sweet voice* “Have a wonderful evening, and thank you for choosing our store.”

I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head.

The next morning when the store manager came in, I told her everything that happened. She personally guaranteed me that if [Rude Guard] ever spoke to me again like that, not only would be she banned, but the prison where she worked would get a formal complaint. This was the best of the four managers we had during my stint in retail.

I am returning from a weekend in Vermont with a friend. We’ve been on the road for a few hours and have at least another hour to go. We stop for snacks, gas, and a rest break at an exceptionally popular and busy rest stop.

After taking care of the mundane, I roll over to gas up. I pull in behind a small car whose driver has just gotten started filling the tank.

[Driver] leaves (presumably to take care of other business) and [Passenger] stays to finish the transaction. The tank full and the bill settled, I wait for [Passenger] to get in and pull away so that I can take my turn at the pump.

Nope.

She starts washing windows. Okay, not unreasonable, but you usually do that while filling, not waiting until you are done, and you don’t do all of them. Then, she starts emptying trash, etc. I think perhaps [Driver] has taken the keys with her and [Passenger] is waiting for her return. Unusual, a trifle inconsiderate, but things happen, and without the keys, what are you gonna do?

Nope.

As this routine continues, I realize that the beads hanging from the mirror are blowing in the AC. This car is actually running! At this point, I start tooting (gently) to get her attention. [Passenger] keeps doing what she’s doing, largely ignoring me.

As I become more vehement in my protest, she starts looking pointedly at me as if I have some kind of issue — which, truthfully, I have started to develop. Eventually, [Driver] shows up, and [Passenger] puts the car in gear and rather truculently — if her expression is any gauge — pulls away.

At this point, both of them are glaring at me, as if I am some kind of demented fiend who just pulled in, insisting that everyone get out of my way now, rather than a guy sitting and waiting my turn to pump my gas.

I could have gone to another line, but all twenty pumps were full — it was an interstate on a Sunday afternoon — and I would have had to try to back out, circle around, try to find another pump, etc.

Really, ladies, it’s a f****** gas pump, not a car wash or parking spot. Fill it and be on your way; there’s plenty of space to pull over and clean out your car elsewhere.

Let’s go back to the year 2001. Cargo pants were fashionable and the penny was still in production. I was only fourteen years old, so I had no car, but it was fine; my parents lived close to the best ice cream place in town, which I walked to often. Amazing ice cream within walking distance? What on earth could be wrong here?

Well, to get to and from said ice cream, I had to walk past the gas station where an employee had taken to catcalling me every time I walked past. I could not get the yummy delicious ice cream without being treated to hollers of, “Nice t*ts! Why don’t you lick something else?” and so on and so on. For weeks.

Let’s just say it’s very stupid to harass people from your place of work; they know where to find you. And since I was only fourteen, I didn’t think to go to the manager of the gas station about his employee’s conduct, and I didn’t want it to turn into a he-said-she-said, no-harm-done situation. Because, again, it was the 2000s — how lame were security cameras? I was fourteen and angry and wanted my revenge to be painful.

So, I started my quest to collect pennies — as many pennies as I could get my hands on. You had pennies, I had nickels, dimes, and even quarters, and I would trade for them. It took about a week to collect just over $2 in loose pennies. People were so willing to part with them.

One ruined walk for ice cream later, and I knew my target was at work. Home I went to gather my hoard of pennies. Into those massive cargo pants pockets they went. One short jingling walk later — during which I wasn’t 100% sure my pants weren’t about to fall down due to the weight of 200-plus pennies in my pockets — I arrived at my destination and in I went.

I grabbed what I needed for a simple $2 transaction, a pack of Skittles and a red Gatorade, and to the till I went.

My target looked rather smug. I don’t know, maybe he thought his many unwanted invitations to [perform a sex act on him] had succeeded. That is, right up until I started pulling fistfuls of pennies out of those pockets and simply dropping them on the counter. They weren’t in a Ziplock. Nope, loose pennies all over the counter.

Of course, the right to refuse an overwhelming amount of coins is and was a thing. I believe anything more than fifteen pennies was considered excessive at the time and could be refused. And so he tried.

Employee: *Defiantly* “I don’t have to take that!”

But I was angry and my revenge would not be denied, so I shot back.

Me: “Oh, but you will. You clearly wanted my attention with all your hollering over the past few weeks. So, you’ll take those pennies or I’ll have a chat with your manager.”

And so he started counting, and I stood there repeating back all the “lovely things” he had been saying to me and interjecting random numbers in for good measure. He wasn’t smart enough to make piles of ten, not that I expected smart from a boy stupid enough to sexually harass women outside of his place of work. So I kept him there. His coworker opened another till to help other customers, but she made no moves to help him.

Once the transaction was finished, I took my purchase, and before I walked out the door, I told him:

Me: “If you ever catcall me again, it will be $5 in pennies, and I will be chatting with your manager.”

Ice cream trips were so blissfully free of catcalling after that.

I know that 99.9% of cashiers don’t deserve that mountain of coins. I just wanted to share my story of that 0.01% who got what they had coming.

This story is part of our Even-More-Highest-Voted-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) roundup!

Read the next story!

Read the roundup!

I work overnights in a gas station in a particularly bad part of town. So, from 11 PM to 6 AM I use a pass-through drawer to make transactions so I don’t get robbed. This one a**hole shows up a couple times a week and gets at least $20 in gas, and maybe $10-15 in other stuff.

How does he pay? By just dumping a handful of change into the drawer, making me pick it all up. Even if I have my hand out, he’ll go under my hand and throw it in the drawer.

This annoys like you wouldn’t believe, so I started being rude back to him. I don’t give him his stuff until I pick up each coin piece by piece and then count it all out and put it in the drawer. I’m talking like $30 in quarters and dimes and nickels, so it takes a good five minutes.

One time I was doing it, he says:

Customer: “Come the f*** on man, I’m in a hurry!”

Me: “Yeah?”

I just kept going while he huffed and puffed and swore and paced back and forth. 

After a few more times of this, he started paying only in bills.

CONTENT WARNING: Gross

We have a customer come in every morning and just destroy the male restroom. It’s not a medical issue, he is a sick man who likes to take a power trip over us lowly gas station staff by spreading his fecal matter all over the floor and walls of the restroom. It’s been a few weeks of this, and we know it’s him. 

One day I have had enough, and I corner him going to the restroom.

Me: “Sorry, sir, but there is no restroom today.”

Customer: “No, I need to use it.” *Then with a sly wink.* “You can close it after I am done.”

Me: “Actually, no sir, that will not be happening. We all know what you’ve been doing to the restrooms and you will not be allowed to deface them any longer.”

Customer: “You can’t speak to me that way! Where is your manager!”

Me: “I can fetch him for you, but he will agree with me.”

I fetch the manager, who has also been aware of the restroom situation and knows who this man is. The manager takes my side and the customer storms off. The next day the manager takes me aside.

Manager: “So, we have to let him use the restroom next time he comes in.”

Me: “What?!”

Manager: “Yeah… he called corporate, and said we were denying him access and discriminating and a whole bunch of other buzzwords that make the legal team nervous.”

Me: “And you told them that this man has been spreading his s*** all over the restroom every time he comes in and we’re the ones who have to clean it up?”

Manager: “They said if we can’t prove it’s him then there’s nothing we can do.”

Me: “What do they want us to do, put a camera in the restroom?!”

Manager: “Just… avoid him from now on.”

Me: “If he comes back and s***s everywhere again I am not going to clean it up. I’ll quit.”

Manager: “Well… we’ll see.”

Lo and behold, a few days later he is back, and this time he doesn’t just beeline for the restroom, but he makes a smug amount of eye contact with me as he heads in.

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a satisfied look on his face. I go and check the restroom and yup… he’s done it again.

I call the manager over and he has a pained look on his face.

Manager: “Look, I know you said that you would—”

Me: “Nope. Not cleaning it. If you won’t stop him from doing this then you’re the one cleaning it.”

Manager: “I have too much work on my desk. Look, clean it up and I’ll buy you lunch.”

Me: “Are you serious?”

Manager: “There’s nothing I can do.”

Me: “Well tough s***, because I quit.”

I walked out right there and didn’t look back. Losing the minimum-wage job was no biggie, but being the petty and vengeful person that I am I couldn’t let this a**hole just get away with it. I asked my coworker to call me when he came back for his sick power play, and as I lived just five minutes away I put something together.

He came back and I got the call. I literally ran over with a bag of cat poop that my little furry friends had been producing for me for a few days. I then took my gloved hand and smeared the crap all over this guy’s windshield and use it to spell out “we won’t take your s*** anymore!”

I take a seat in a nearby fast-food coffee place with a clear view of the parking lot and see him come out a few minutes later. He is appalled and disgusted and makes a scene. My manager comes out and tries to placate him but is unsuccessful.

After a minute or two of chuckling I walk past them, where he spots me.

Customer: “You! It was you that did this! You’re getting fired for this!”

Me: “I don’t know what you mean, sir. I’m just your average Jane Citizen going about her business.”

Customer: *To my manager.* “Have her fired at once!”

Manager: “She no longer works for us, sir. There’s nothing I can do.”

The customer stared back and forth between us and screamed in rageful defeat and drove off in his s***-covered car.

Manager: “You know I would have had to have fired you if you still worked here. He could also call the police on you.”

Me: “He might, but we both know the camera looking into the parking lot doesn’t work. So like Corporate said, it’s about what you can prove.”

According to my coworker, he never came back. My manager was still a weak Corporate guppy but I held him no ill-will. My new job is still minimum-wage (getting through college) but happily poop-free!