(I work part-time at a very large British supermarket chain and all employees have to wear a reasonably brightly coloured uniform that has the name of the supermarket written on it four times, and a name badge, also with the supermarket’s name as well as our own.)
Customer: “Do you work here?”
Me: *dies a little inside and puts on big fake smile* “…yes.”
(I work at a four-storey mall on the third floor. An elderly woman walks up to me, asking to double-check the price of the dress she is holding, which is on sale. I go to the cash register to check it.)
Me: “It costs [amount].”
Customer: “I don’t know if I have enough money on my credit card, but I want this dress.”
Me: “We have ATMs on the first floor; you can check your balance there. Meanwhile I can hold onto this dress so when you get back, it’ll still be here.”
Customer: “But I don’t want to go to the first floor. It’s so far away.”
Me: “Ma’am, the escalators are right around this corner. There are also elevators located there—” *I point to them* “—if you find that more convenient.”
Customer: “Can’t you check my credit card balance here?”
Me: “No, I can’t.”
Customer: “Isn’t there really any way?”
Me: “Well, if you try paying by card and don’t have enough funds, the transaction will be declined, but that’s not exactly checking the balance.”
Customer: “Let’s do that, then!”
(I see what kind of customer this is, so I try to avoid misunderstanding as much as possible.)
Me: “So you’ll try paying for the item?”
Customer: “Yes!”
(I take her to the cash register and scan the dress.)
Me: “It’ll be [amount]. Are you sure you’re going to pay now? You still have time to go to the first floor.”
Customer: “No, it’s fine. Let’s do this.”
(So she put in the card, inserts the PIN code, and presses the accept button. The transition goes well, I put her dress in a plastic bag, hand her the receipt, and thank her for the purchase. She just stands there with a blank stare.)
Me: “Umm, I’m sorry, ma’am. Is there a problem?”
Customer: “Did I… Did I just pay?”
Me: “Yes, you did.”
Customer: “But… I didn’t want to pay for it! I wanted to exchange my recently purchased dress for this one!”
(Our store doesn’t offer refunds. We only offer to change the items for something else of the same value, or to make a gift card for our store in the value of the item purchased.)
Me: “Sorry, but I warned you.” *I explained her our policy*
Customer: “So I won’t get my money back?”
Me: “No. No, you won’t.”
Customer: “Why didn’t you warn me I’m going to pay for the dress for real?!”
(I work as a cashier at a local retail store. While not often, every now and again the cash registers prompt employees to compare the signatures on credit cards to the customer’s driver’s license. An old lady in her 70s or 80s has finished her check out.)
Me: “All right, your total comes to [amount].”
(The customer proceeds to swipe her card. The cash register then prompts me to compare her signature.)
Me: “Oh, I’m going to have to check your driver’s licence to compare it to the signature on your credit card.”
Lady: *suddenly becoming very annoyed and suspicious* “What?!”
(I am stunned at her sudden change in behavior, having been extremely sweet during the beginning of the transaction, I politely inform her again.)
Me: “The register is asking me to validate your card’s signature, to make sure it’s yours.”
Lady: *starts fuming and in an utterly irritated and offended tone says* “Young lady, I have used this card for over eight years and not ONCE has it ever asked me for my signature! You can keep these d*** things!”
(She stormed out of there, leaving her cart right at the register, leaving me completely baffled.)
(My local museum has a refurbished antique carousel patrons can ride on, which is manned by volunteers. Before admitting any riders, the volunteer has a small speech they have to give — a short summary of the carousel’s history, followed by a warning that, because it’s an antique, there are several horses that no longer “jump,” and then moving on to the rules and whatnot. My friends and I are there and decide to take a ride, so we go to the carousel pavilion. The volunteer begins to speak, and it is obvious she is on the verge of losing her voice. My friends, and several other museum patrons, are trying to listen to her talking about the history of the carousel when a four-to-five-year-old boy runs over, grabs at the rope divider, and begins shaking it while loudly jabbering about the horse he is going to ride. I get his attention, put my finger to my lips, and point to the volunteer, who has started to explain the safety procedures as loud as she can, which, again, isn’t very loud at all. All of a sudden I feel a hand grab my arm. I turn and there is an irate woman glaring daggers at me.)
Mother: “Did you just tell my son to shut up? How dare you try to parent my child!”
Me: “I’m sorry; I just figured that letting this poor girl tell us the carousel rules, so that we can ride the carousel, was really important, and I didn’t want her to have to strain her voice doing it.”
(The operator thanked me afterwards; I gave her a couple of throat lozenges and told her to hang in there.)
Customer: “I want to return this plant. It suddenly died for no reason. I want my money back.”
Manager: “I’m sorry about that. Do you have a receipt?”
Customer: “No, but I know I bought it here.”
Manager: “Okay, when did you buy it?”
Customer: “Eight years ago.”
