(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.)

(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!”

(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!)

(A routine call has turned into a nightmare. It requires new wiring, new equipment, and a bunch of software changes. After 12 hours at the job-site, and 16 hours on the clock, I go back to the office to find the boss still waiting for me.)

Boss: “I just got a call from the customer. He was really impressed that you were able to get everything back up before the night shift started, and he wants to throw a pile of business our way.”

Me: “Sounds great. Listen, can we talk about this tomorrow? The only reason I’m still standing is two gallons of bad coffee.”

Boss: “We’ll talk about it on Monday. Give me your company phone so I can cover any emergencies. You have a nice and quiet three-day weekend.”

(I go home and pass out, only to be woken by my personal cell phone at 3 am.)

Coworker: “Hey, I just got an alert. Is your company cell dead? The UPS at—”

(I explain that the boss should be handling it, turn my cell-phone to silent, and go back to sleep. At 5 am, my house phone starts ringing.)

Coworker: “I can’t get a hold of the boss. I’ve tried the office, his cell, your company cell, the on-call cell, his house, and, well, I’m still getting alerts. Would you mind letting me in to the office so I can fix it?”

(Pretty annoyed, I get dressed and drive to the office. When I arrive, the front door to the office is unlocked, all the lights are on, and I can hear ‘The Doors’ blaring from the PA. The conference room contains my boss, his wife—who is also the company lawyer—and four people I don’t recognize. They are all drinking and laughing.)

Boss: *to me* “Hey! The hero of the hour has returned. I’d like you to meet [Company Owner] and his night management.” *to everyone else* “Everyone, this is the fellow that spent all day yesterday saving your bacon.”

(My boss then gestures to the drinks they have been having.)

Boss: “Sit down, and have a drink. We were just discussing some more work that needs to be done, and I’d like to get your input.”

Me: “[Boss], can I talk to you a moment in your office? We’ve got a minor issue with one of the UPS systems, and [Coworker] couldn’t reach you. He’s meeting me here, but—”

(My boss starts laughing, and turns to the company owner.)

Boss: “I told you we take everything seriously, [Company Owner]. Remember the cell phone alerts I showed you a little while ago? When I didn’t shut them off, two of my best guys took it upon themselves to come out and investigate!” *to me* “What are you drinking?”

(I work at a big retail chain where I am working the self checkout. A customer comes over to the self checkout with an arm full of shirts. As she walks over, I see her pull all of the tags off and slip them into her purse. She then waves me over.)

Guest: “Miss, these shirts don’t have any tags. I’ve seen them on the sales table for $2 each.”

Me: “Okay, I will call the fashion department and ask them if they have a $2 sale.”

Guest: *face goes pale* “No, it’s $2 off, believe me.”

Me: “…or the price tags could be in your purse.”

Guest: “F*** you!” *throws shirts on the ground and storms away*

Coworker: “What happened?”

(I tell my coworker the story and he laughs.)

Coworker: “Oh yeah, she comes in here all the time and does it. Most of the time she bullies or screams until she gets her way, or gets kicked out. I can’t believe you had the guts to say that.”