I work at a retail store that is known for its low prices. We kind of just get leftovers from all over. I am the main cashier on the floor, and with that comes a lot of extra things that I have to do. I am helping the other cashier newbies and making announcements to the REALLY long line to remove their hangers, in both English AND Spanish, all while ringing and bagging my customers in my own registers.

This one lady comes through with some fragile vases. I scan them through and ask if she would like them wrapped, to which she nods. I don’t think she speaks either language that I do really well. 

The transaction is pretty smooth. I don’t make an announcement or have to leave my register the whole time. I give her the total and she pays, and I gingerly hand her bags to her. When I look up, she is giving me the nastiest look you can over a mask.

I tell her to have a nice day, and I move on to the next customer after the lady walks away. When I look back over, she is marching back to my register, and she says:

Customer: “WHAT IS YOUR NAME? I’M CALLING CORPORATE!” 

I was too stunned to answer her, but she saw my nametag, said my name while shaking her finger at me, and then marched out. 

The customer still standing there asked what had happened, but I shrugged my shoulders and told her I had no clue.

I still have no idea what I did!

It’s the late 1970s in Australia, and barcode scanners have just been introduced. Because each item no longer has its own stick-on price tag, a lot of customers are very concerned that they’ll be charged the wrong price at the checkout and not realise it. In response, many of the large retailers have instituted a policy that if an item scans at the wrong price, you get the first one free and any others at the right price.

I go in to buy a full carton of cigarettes, and when I go to pay, it scans at a price that is considerably more than the price on the shelf.

Me: “Sorry, that’s the wrong price. It should be [correct price].”

Cashier: “Just let me check…”

After a short check, the cashier admitted that it was wrong but re-rang it at the lower price. I pointed out their policy, which was listed on a card above the checkout — that I should be getting it for free. She flatly refused, so I asked to speak to a manager.

After a long delay, the manager put in an appearance and (very rudely) admitted that I was right and gave it to me for free. Given that it was the equivalent of about $100 in today’s money, I can understand his reluctance, but I didn’t make the policy!

Shift forward about a day, by which time I felt that they’d had more than enough time to fix the incorrect price in their computers if they had any intention to do so. I went back and got another carton, which promptly scanned for the same incorrect price!

At this point, the s**** really hit the fan, with the manager loudly abusing me while I pointed out that I had done nothing except take advantage of their own store’s policy. In the end, I was given the second carton free and told not to come back.

And, yes, I have long since given up smoking!

Our manager retired recently, and a new manager was assigned to take her place. On his first day, he tries to meet with everyone, but it’s apparent that he’s doing so more to learn faces than to build connections, and he’s not putting in any effort to be friendly. Still, I decide to put up with him at first, knowing everyone else well enough to at least direct him when he’s looking for someone.

[Coworker], who is non-binary, is on holiday at this time (approved well in advance), which leads to this exchange when [Manager] goes looking for them.

Manager: “Hey, [My Name]. Where could I find [Coworker’s Full Name]?”

Me: “They’re on holiday today. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned—”

Manager: “They? It’s just the one.”

Me: “I know. They’re on holiday.”

Manager: “Who’s ‘they’?”

Me: “[Coworker].”

Manager: “Then don’t say ‘they’! Is it a him or a her?”

Me: “[Coworker] goes by ‘they’.”

Manager: “That’s not a valid answer.”

Me: “It’s not a valid question. [Coworker] goes by ‘they’. When you’re talking about [Coworker], you say, ‘They are on holiday,’ or, ‘They’ll be back tomorrow.’”

Manager: “Who the h*** are they?!”

Me: “[Coworker].”

[Manager] wrote me up for giving him attitude. I immediately informed his boss as to what was going on. By the time [Coworker] got back, we had another new manager.

I am working part-time in a drug store, running a register. I’m seventeen years old, but most people think I look significantly older — some have mistaken me for thirty! Having a full beard just adds to it.

This drug store is smack-dab in the middle of my school’s district, so all of the teenagers who shop there go to the same high school I do. I also see their parents, many of whom I recognize. Usually, I’ll say, “Oh, you’re what’s-his-name’s Mom/Dad,” and make brief small talk, and off they go.

One day, a lady comes in with a last name on the check that I recognize, but I can’t fully place it. When she shows me her ID, I see a small pic next to it with her and her two daughters, and I QUICKLY recognize them. One is in my graduating class, and the other is two years behind but has a class with me.

Me: “Oh, you’re [Classmate]’s mom! I thought you looked—”

She QUICKLY slams her checkbook shut with a horrified look on her face.

Classmate’s Mom: “How do you know my daughters?! They’re only high schoolers!”

It takes me a second to get over the initial shock of her reaction and another second for me to realize the reason; she’s wondering why this “old guy” is hanging around teenage girls, ESPECIALLY her daughter!

Me: “Uh, ma’am? I’m seventeen.”

We both had a good laugh about it. She learned not to jump to conclusions, and I learned I should SHAVE more often.

I pulled into a parking spot at the local grocery store and reached into my back seat to get my reusable bags. In those few seconds, a woman approached my car and rapped her keys against my windshield.

Me: “Yes?”

Woman: “Are you disabled?”

Me: “No, are you?”

Woman: *Offended* “Of course not!”

Me: “Okay.”

Woman: “You can’t park here!”

She pointed at a disabled parking sign in front of my car. It was facing the blue-lined space across from my car. I opened my door enough to look out and saw that I was in a white-lined space.

Me: “This isn’t disabled parking.”

Woman: “Yes, it is! There’s the sign!”

Me: “For that space, yes.”

I got out of the car, making sure to lock it.

Woman: “Move your car! Do you want a ticket? I’ll call the police! I’m tired of you lazy children!”

Me: “Ma’am, this is not disabled parking, so I will not be moving my car.”

I walked off. The woman followed me in the store.

Woman: “You want me to call the cops?”

Me: “I want you to f*** off.”

Woman: “Excuse me?!”

Me: “Look. If you’re so sure I’m wrong, call the police. Otherwise, I will call them for you stalking and harassing me.”

She stared at me for a moment before pulling out her phone and walking back toward the entrance. I saw her duck into a fast-food restaurant near the entrance of the building and figured she was waiting for the police to arrive.

I was wrong. When I returned, there was a milkshake poured over my car, particularly the driver door and the windshield.