(I am at work on a particularly hot day, when my hands and ears start itching. At first I pay no attention to it, but eventually I start itching in other places, and I see welts appearing on my arms. Having never had an allergic reaction to anything, I have no idea what they are, but they keep getting worse and worse throughout the day, and then throughout the evening. Finally, my boyfriend drags me out to the car and takes me to the emergency room at the hospital nearby. The triage nurse appears very angry that another patient has showed up.)

Triage Nurse: “Help you?”

Boyfriend: “Yes, my girlfriend has these welts all over her, and they’re getting worse. She’s also having trouble breathing. I think we need a doctor.”

Triage Nurse: *without even looking at me* “It’s probably just heat rash. Fill out these forms and bring them back when you’re done.”

(She hands the forms to us, and I’m so out of it I have to have my boyfriend fill them out for me. He leaves me sitting in the waiting room to turn them in, and we settle in to wait. Nearly 45 minutes later, I’m gasping for breath and the welts have spread all over my chest, stomach, arms, legs, feet, hands, throat, and ears. Finally, we go up to the desk to see what’s going on; my boyfriend is practically carrying me.)

Boyfriend: “Look, my girlfriend is getting a lot worse while we’ve been sitting here waiting. How much longer is it going to be?”

Triage Nurse: *glaring at my boyfriend* “It’s just a heat rash; I don’t know why you two even came in—”

(Just then, a doctor happens to come out of the doors next to the desk. He takes one look at me, and then turns to the nurse.)

Doctor: “How long has she been here?!”

Boyfriend: “Almost an hour.”

Doctor: “Are you kidding me?!”

(The doctor calls to a couple of orderlies.)

Doctor: “Get her back here NOW!” *turns to the nurse* “What were you thinking, making her wait like that?”

Triage Nurse: “It’s just a heat rash!”

Doctor: “LOOK at her: does that look like a heat rash to you?! No, don’t answer that; I’ll deal with you once I’ve got her stabilized!”

(I’m taken back to be treated, and given several shots. At one point, I start to drift off to sleep and the doctor slaps me awake, telling me not to DARE go to sleep yet. Finally, I’m stable, and he sends my boyfriend in to sit with me while I’m recovering, and he goes to speak to the triage nurse. I can hear him yelling at her, and then he comes back in to us.)

Doctor: “Feeling better?”

Me: “Oh yes, much better. What happened? What were those welts?”

Doctor: “You had a really bad allergic reaction to something; those were hives. And your boyfriend saved your life. You wouldn’t have lived the night if he hadn’t brought you in, and to be honest with you, if that stupid nurse had made you wait longer, I’m not so sure we could have saved you, even in this short period of time! Next time you start breaking out in hives, take an antihistamine immediately, and then come see us right away if they get worse.”

(We thank him profusely, finish our paperwork, and leave. Ever since then, I’ve always been grateful to that doctor, and I always keep Benadryl on hand just in case!)

(I am working in a women’s clothing store. When an item is marked down, we put a red line through the barcode of the tag attached to the piece of clothing. A customer and her daughter in her 20s bring up a dress.)

Customer: “Hi, we found this on the sale rack.”

(I scan it. It comes up full price. Confused, I check the tag; there is a black line through the barcode, instead of a red one. Someone must have marked it down by accident, realized their mistake, and tried to correct it by drawing a black line over the red one, instead of just printing out a new tag for the dress. And then someone else misunderstood the black line and put it on the sale rack anyway.)

Me: “Ah. Okay, so I’m afraid this is actually full price—”

(The two customers’ eyes flash, and I know I’m in trouble.)

Customer: “But this was on the sale rack.”

Me: “I know. I’m so sorry for the confusion. I think what happened is, someone accidentally marked this down, but realized their mistake.” *I show her the tag* “See, we usually put a red line through it; this is black. It came up full price when I scanned it.”

Customer: “Well, that’s false advertising!”

Me: “No, no, it’s not. It was just a mistake someone else made when they put it back. I’m sorry about that.”

(The customer and her daughter exchange a look.)

Customer: “Well, it’s really your attitude that’s the problem.”

Me: *flabbergasted* “What attitude? I’m just explaining what happened.”

(The daughter laughs condescendingly.)

Daughter: “Come on. We don’t have time for—” *she gestures at me with a flick of her wrist* “—this little gnat.”

Me: “I was just—”

(Another customer at the other register chimes in.)

Other Customer: “It’s not you.”

(We all look over. The other customer is looking through her pocketbook for her wallet, but it’s clear she’s talking to me.)

Other Customer: “It’s not you.”

(My customer and her daughter shut up. They leave the dress on the counter and walk away. My manager walks up, and I wonder if I’m in trouble.)

Manager: “What was THAT all about?”

Other Customer: “It wasn’t you. Seriously, they were really mean.”

Manager: “Ah, okay. That’s what it sounded like. Don’t let them get to you.”

(To the other customer, thanks for putting in the good word for me! It made me feel less like a gnat!)

(I am a volunteer bartender at a big music festival. We are required to check everyone’s ID upon ordering a drink. It’s now late into the festival, and customers are already pretty drunk.)

Customer: “Can I get a beer?”

Me: “Yes, can I see some ID?”

Customer: *as he’s pulling out his ID* “Okay, but it’s fake!”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s fake. Will you still serve me?”

Me: “Absolutely not!”

Customer: *shoves ID in my face* “Does it look fake!?”

Me: “You just told me your ID is fake. I cannot serve you.”

Customer: “Fine! I’ll go over here!” *moves a foot over to the next bartender’s line*

Me: “I will tell them not to serve you.”

Customer: “Seriously!? WHAT THE H***! I JUST WANT SOME ALCOHOL!”

(At this point the bar manager has witnessed what has transpired.)

Manager: *to customer* “GET THE F*** OUT OF HERE AND DON’T COME BACK, OR I’LL CALL THE COPS!”

Customer: *whispering* “Faaaaaaahkew…”

(I am slightly ticked off by this. I didn’t say or do anything to the customer for him to say ‘F*** you’ unprovoked.)

Me: “What!? Say that again?!”

Customer: *whispering* “Vhaaaaaaaaaakeeew…”

Me: “Wait, are you asking where the vacuum cleaners are?”

Customer: *nods*

Me: “Right this way.”

(Sometimes, you have to be patient with customers.)

(We have a regular couple of customers: a mother and her young son. They come in predominantly to buy trading cards based on a popular hand-held game. The young boy is very polite and sometimes comes alone. The mother is loathed by most members of staff because of her critical attitude towards her son’s hobby and our stock.)

Mother: “This store is just ridiculous. Why do you stock such crap? Children wasting their money! Parents wasting their money!”

Me: “Well, if he’s saved his money up, it’s all his choice to buy these trading cards, isn’t it?”

Mother: “Yes, but it’s just rubbish! Stupid drivel for STUPID people!”

(My manager, who is nearby, and I are both irritated by this. This woman tends to bully her son every time they are here together. Her son is completely silent other than asking for what packs of cards he wants. As the receipt prints, my manager speaks up.)

Manager: “You know, my colleague here plays trading card games.”

Mother: “What? Why?!”

(Note: I’m 23.)

Manager: “So, by that connection, you’d be calling her stupid, for playing stupid games.”

Mother: “Well, yes!”

Me: “Stupid games that teach things like mathematical and tactical skills.”

Mother: “Well—”

Me: “And that you are, effectively, calling your money-managing, polite, patient young son stupid.”

Mother: “Well—”

Me: “Just remember that.”

(The mother goes white and apologizes profusely, before leaving the store. The son ends up talking to me about some of the card games, and now still does every time he comes back. The mother might still make disparaging remarks about our other stock, but she’s never called anything or anyone ‘stupid’ since.)