Many years ago, I worked at a pizza delivery place. Because of recent robberies, we had a panic button in the walk-in refrigerator. The button was clearly labeled, “PANIC BUTTON,” in large letters. Pressing the button would silently summon the police.

One day, we were going about our business when the police showed up. They asked the manager if he had activated the alarm.

Manager: “No?” *Pauses* “Wait a minute!”

The manager turns to [Coworker].

Manager: “[Coworker]! Did you push the button in the walk-in?”

Coworker: “Yes.”

Manager: “Why?!”

Coworker: “I… I thought it would play music.”

The manager stared at him for several seconds before turning to the police and apologizing.

I work at a pizza delivery restaurant in a high-end neighborhood. It’s a slammed Saturday night with a forty-five-minute delivery wait at least, and customers are informed that larger orders are taking ninety minutes. We also explain that takeout orders are done in twenty minutes if the delivery wait is too long.

I am getting a lot of angry calls from customers asking about their pizzas, and one customer in particular, who ordered four pizzas, keeps calling.

Caller: “Why haven’t they arrived?!”

Me: “As we explained, sir, we are exceedingly busy tonight, and—”

Caller: “We have company to entertain with no food! We live literally down the street; we can see you from our house, and you’re obviously not working fast enough!”

Me: “Uh… sorry about the wait, but we did mention that takeout was faster and you could still pick them up…?”

Caller: “No! We will wait, but this is just taking forever!” *Click*

I work in a pizza chain that has $5 “hot and ready” pizzas. Basically, we make a couple of them depending on how busy it is and keep them in the heat box near the front. For every one that we make, we mark the time it was made, and after it’s been a certain amount of time, we consider it too old and send it to the back for the other employees to munch on or throw away at the end of the day.

It never fails that once we run out of them, somebody comes in wanting one.

Customer: “If they’re hot and ready, then why don’t you have any ready?”

Me: “Sorry, sir. We’ll just get those out for you; it’ll just be a moment.”

Customer: “Will I be compensated for waiting? They’re not hot or ready!”

Me: “While we try to make sure there are minimal wait times for the ‘hot and ready’ pizzas, sir, it is also dependent on how busy we are. But if you just wait—”

Customer: “This is what’s wrong with you workers these days! You’re all so slow and lazy! Back in my day…”

Perfect! A “back in my day” rant. That should give me easily a couple of minutes to collect and box up his pizza while he prattles on.

Customer: “…and that’s what’s wrong with you kids!”

Me: “Here’s your pizza, sir, both extra hot and extra ready.”

Customer: *Deflated* “Oh… oh, okay.”

I am taking a phone order that is being paid with a credit card.

Me: “Okay, and the card’s expiration date… and your name? Okay… and what is the zip code that the card is registered to?”

Caller: “I’ve been ordering from you for thirteen years!”

I’m pretty sure that store has only been open for six years at this point.

Caller: “Who are you to treat me like this?! I don’t need an interrogation! I just want my pizza!”

Me: “Sir, we don’t keep your credit information on file. I’m just going through the process for taking a card over the phone.”

Caller: “I want a [pizza], and I’m coming down to get it!”

He shows up, hands me a credit card, and just glares at me, daring me to ask for his zip code. When I take his card to slide his card through, he gets the most amazing “Aha!” look on his face and starts yelling.

Caller: “What was all that crap on the phone about my zip code? Trying to steal my identity, motherf*****?”

Me: “No, I asked for the zip code because if you’re on the phone telling me the numbers, you could be anyone with a stolen credit card. You might not know the zip code of the person you stole the numbers from, so the computer will not allow to me manually input a card without that information. Now that you’re here, I can just physically use your card.”

I then look at the card in my hand, and it is not signed.

Me: “Sir, as your card isn’t signed, do you have an ID that matches the name on the card?”

Caller: “No, I f****** do not! Just slide the card and give me my d*** pizza!”

Me: “Sir, you drove here.”

Caller: “Yes, because you wouldn’t let me f****** order over the phone!”

Me: “You drove here… without ID? Like your license?”

Caller: “…F*** you, I’m ordering from [Pizza Chain]!” *Storms out and illegally drives off*

I was delivering for one of the major pizza chains, and I took a delivery to two pretty young Latinas. They invited me into the living room. I wasn’t supposed to enter customers’ homes, but it was below-freezing outside, so I did.

They were chattering back and forth in Spanish and giggling a lot. One asked in English how much their total was.

Me: “Fifteen ninety.”

She turned to the other girl.

Customer: “Quince diecinueve.”

Me: “No, es quince noventa.”

Both turned white as a sheet. The one that didn’t speak English made a sort of “eep” noise and ran upstairs. The other clearly wanted to do the same. After an uncomfortable pause, she said:

Customer: “Um… We didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

Here’s the thing: I didn’t. I knew enough to take an order and conduct a sale. But my pronunciation was really good, so people often thought I was fluent based on that. I had no idea if they were saying I was cute or making fun of me.

Me: “I have no idea what you’ve been saying, but you should have some fun with your friend before you tell her that.”