(I work in the lingerie department of a large department store. A man and his wife walk in. The wife goes to look at our clearance racks, while her husband comes up to me.)

Man: “What bra size do you think I am?”

(The man attempts to puff out his chest, which amounts to little as he is flat-chested. I’m kind of taken aback, but I go with it.)

Me: “I’m not sure.”

Man: “Well, you measure people, right? Measure me!”

Me: “Sir, I don’t know if that’s—”

Man: “Come on! Measure me!”

(I grab my measuring tape and ask him to hold his arms up. He kind of dances around a bit, but I ignore him. I go to wrap the tape around his chest, which is a little awkward since I basically have to hug him.)

Me: “You’re a 42 band size—”

(Suddenly, the man leans in to kiss me. I jump way back.)

Me: “Woah! Personal bubble!”

(By now, his wife has returned. The man tries to explain.)

Man: *to his wife* “It’s her fault! She’s giving me a look!”

(The man and his wife leave soon after, but not before his wife comes and gives me a quick apology for her husband’s behavior!)

My wife and I were driving from our home in Houston, Texas to Oklahoma City; my wife had business there. It’s roughly a seven-hour trip by car, and we realized around Dallas (roughly the halfway point) that we’d both left stuff behind in Houston — including my prescription medications. I had two major chain pharmacies’ apps on my phone, so I checked both of them to see which one had a twenty-four-hour pharmacy; by the time we made it to OKC, it’d be well after most normal pharmacies would be closed.

I found a [Pharmacy], went in, explained the issue to the pharmacist, and told him the literal number of pills I needed just to get me through the next three days. He tried to get a hold of my mail-order pharmacy to approve it, but at that time of night, their office was closed. He ended up telling me:

Pharmacist: “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna give you the exact number of pills you need to get through the next three days. Tomorrow morning, I’m gonna email the mail-order pharmacy and tell them what happened. The next time you get your actual refill, they’re gonna short you the number of pills I just gave you, but you’re gonna pay the same amount you always pay since that’s easier than me trying to figure out how to charge you for this very small number of pills. Fair?”

I agreed it was, so that’s what he did.

The next time I emailed the mail-order place for an official refill, when they sent me my refills, they also sent a note explaining that they’d shorted the pills by the amount the OKC pharmacy had given me. No harm, no foul, everyone was on the same page, my pills did get paid for properly, and all was well.

(I get a job at a video game store not long before ‘Grand Theft Auto V’ came out, and before and after its release many parents came into the store to buy their kids the game.)

Customer: “Hello, do you have this GTA game?”

Me: “Grand Theft Auto V”? Sure, we have them right here. Is this for yourself?

Customer: “No, it’s for my son.”

Me: “Is he under the age of eighteen? I just need to tell you the content of the game.”

Customer: “He’s 10.”

Me: “Okay, it’s of course completely up to you whether or not he plays this game but as it’s rated 18, I’ll have to tell you that it contains extreme violence in it and sexual content.”

Customer: “That’s fine.”

Me: “It really is quite bad. There’s a really horrific torture scene in it, and it contains a strip club that the characters can go to, and it has prostitutes, etc.”

Customer: “Yes, yes, that’s fine. This is the game he wanted.”

Me: “It also contains swearing.”

Customer: “What?! What kind of game is that?! I can’t believe he wants this! Well, he’s not getting it!”

Related:
Grand Theft Innocence, Part 10
Grand Theft Innocence, Part 9
Grand Theft Innocence, Part 8
Grand Theft Innocence, Part 7
Grand Theft Innocence, Part 6

This takes place back in the early 2000s when I was in my early twenties and frequently mistaken for a very innocent-looking young teenager owing to my short and somewhat skinny stature. At the time, I was working in an office. Every December before we closed for the holidays, the boss treated the entire office to a very nice dinner at a fancy restaurant down the street. All of the food at this restaurant was delicious, but I should mention that one of the things they were especially known for was their veal.

Stuffed and generally content, everyone was walking back to the office a block away to pack up and head home; due to my height, I tend to walk slower and had fallen a little behind the rest of the group. I heard a loud throat-clearing behind me but ignored it as I assumed it wasn’t directed at me. Oh, how wrong I was!

Woman: “YOU! GIRL!”

I glanced behind me, already annoyed by the tone and method of address, to find a very arrogant-looking woman entirely too close behind me looking mightily unhappy.

Me: “…Yes?”

Immediately, this woman launched into a tirade, having apparently seen my group exit the restaurant. Picture every self-righteous, holier-than-thou stereotype about vegans, and this woman was it. Didn’t I know what horrible things they DO to those poor animals to make the veal? How DARE I patronize such an establishment that profits from murder?! Have I no conscience? And so on and so forth. I can only assume she decided I was the easiest target to bully; why pick a fight with a group of visibly older adults ten feet ahead when she could browbeat what she probably thought was a young teen?

I wasn’t in the mood to argue; I just wanted to go home, enjoy my food coma, and start my holiday vacation. I simply wanted her to go away. I didn’t feel like getting into it with this preachy harpy that while the place is known for their veal, I had not had any of their veal dishes, nor did I feel like pointing out that her designer purse was most definitely leather. But I also knew that telling her in less-than-polite words to go sit on a cucumber was just going to invite more righteous indignation and extend our interaction.

Instead, I turned fully to face her and put on my best Kubrick stare and creepy slasher smile — unsettlingly wide, teeth showing to the gums, staring at her and through her over the top of my glasses, pretty much the opposite of what anyone would expect from a “young girl” being verbally harassed. In a tone of voice dripping with what I can only describe as “pure and absolute evil,” I simply told her:

Me: “Yessss… and I do so enjoy the taste of Pure. Suffering.”

She’d stopped short when I first turned around, and that one line and the look on my face were apparently enough that she visibly deflated, shut her mouth with an audible click of teeth, and started backing away quickly before turning and all but running as fast as she could in her heels. Mission accomplished: I was able to complete my trek back to the office in peace. I did have to explain to a couple of my colleagues who’d noticed the altercation what had happened and why that woman had fled looking like she’d just seen a horror movie murderer.

(It is a Tuesday late night, which everyone dreads, because of the infamous ‘Cat Lady’. She is a very lovely, quiet, but friendly lady but has one of the least pleasant aromas that I have ever experienced.)

Manager: *to Cat Lady* “Ma’am, I am just about to close. Please, can you go down to [My Name]’s checkout.”

(Cat Lady nods and smiles, and goes down my checkout. She places her few items on the conveyer belt and I can already start to smell her as she comes up to me.)

Me: *under my breath* “Oh my god, [Manager]. I can’t believe you did that!”

Manager: “Just wait, okay?”

(Cat Lady is about to reach me. Just as she does, my manager grabs a pot of fresh basil that had been left earlier that day and thrusts it into my face.)

Manager: “[My Name], smell this basil! It’s such a nice smell!

Cat Lady: “Wow, it’s so nice that you all appreciate the produce here!”