(One of my coworkers knows nothing about coffee, and usually makes our specialty coffees wrong. Even though we have a book that has step by step instructions, she never uses it and never asks for help. Today, one of my regulars is going through her register.)

Customer: “Hello! I’d like a large iced caramel mocha with one extra shot of espresso please.”

(My coworker rings it in correctly and goes to make the drink herself. After a moment, she comes back and presents the cup to the customer.)

Customer: “Um, that’s not right. I would like the iced caramel mocha with extra espresso.”

Coworker: “Oh! I think I made a caramel latte by mistake. Let me try again.”

(My coworker leaves the cup on the counter and turns to try again.)

Coworker: “Okay! So one small caramel mocha with extra espresso.”

Customer: “That’s almost right. I would like it large and iced please.”

(This time I follow my coworker to the drink station to watch. I find her making the wrong drink yet again.)

Me: “Uh, where’s the chocolate?”

Coworker: “Iced coffees don’t get chocolate, just caramel flavor.”

Me: “Well yes, that’s correct, but the customer ordered a large iced caramel mocha with an additional shot of espresso. The book says you put our chocolate caramel sauce on the ice, right here.”

(I motion to both the book and the bottle of chocolate caramel sauce. My coworker stares at me for a moment before walking away so I can make the drink properly. As I am doing this, my manager wanders up and sees all the other drinks sitting on the counter.)

Manager: “What is this?”

Coworker: “I kept making this lady’s drink, but she kept telling me it was wrong!”

Manager: “Yeah… none of these are correct. You know, I’ve shown you the book and you know you can ask someone if you can’t remember how to make a drink, but randomly making a bunch of coffees hoping you eventually get it right is not acceptable. You are banned from making coffee until you memorize the coffee book.”

(I am visiting my girlfriend at college. I am a chef by profession. I am buying a bottle of red wine to cook with for a few of her friends.)

Checkout Lady: “I need to see some ID for this wine.”

(I pull out a valid British passport. It shows I am 23.)

Checkout Lady: “Sorry, I have no idea what this is.”

Me: “It’s a British Passport.”

Checkout Lady: “What state was this issued in?”

Me: “It wasn’t. It was issued in England, where I live. I’m just visiting right now.”

Checkout Lady: “I can’t accept ID that isn’t American.”

Me: “Why not?”

Checkout Lady: “It’s corporate policy. It needs to be an American ID.”

Me: “That’s rather discriminatory; can I speak to a manager?”

Checkout Lady: “Well you don’t have to shop here!”

(A manager comes over.)

Manager: “Is everything alright here?”

Me: “No, I’m being told that because I’m not American, I cannot buy this bottle of wine to cook with. I have valid ID, it is just from another country.”

(The manager takes a look at my passport.)

Manager: “I’m sorry; this isn’t American, and we can’t accept this.”

(I have had enough at this point, and leave everything on the checkout counter without paying for it. I go across town to another store, and approach a staff member.)

Me: “Excuse me, but before I do my shopping here, do you accept passports as a valid form of ID?”

Employee: “Of course we do! Who doesn’t accept passports as valid ID?”

Me: “You’d be surprised…”

(It is fairly late, and the phone rings. My husband picks up it up.)

Husband: “Hello?”

Caller: *cheerfully, in a heavily accented voice* “Hello, this is [generic sounding American name] from customer service. Are you the person who uses the computer?”

Husband: “Okay, what’s this about? What’s the scam?”

Caller: *still cheerfully* “We steal money from people with computers!”

Husband: “…Excuse me?”

Caller: “Can we steal money from you on your computer?”

Husband: “No thanks. Have a nice evening.”

(My husband hangs up and laughs.)

Husband: “I wonder if it is it still considered a scam if the guy tells you upfront they are trying to steal your money?”

(There is a store a couple of blocks from my house that I go to fairly often. I apply to try and get a job but am turned down. Since then I have found a better job. After work, I swing by to grab something for dinner, still in my uniform and name badge. Immediately, I am pounced on by three customers from different directions. This is despite my uniform being completely different from the store’s uniform.)

Customer #1: “FINALLY! There are no workers anywhere! I need to know where the walnuts are! The baking aisle isn’t where it used to be!”

Customer #2: “No, help me first! There are no more paper towels on the rack! They are on sale and I need them!”

Customer #3: “When you can, please, I need 20 bags of ice from the freezer.”

Me: “Uh… I don’t work here.”

Customer #1: “Oh of course you do! NOW, WALNUTS!”

Me: “Aisle eight is the baking aisle now, after the reset a week ago. Walnuts will be with the other nuts right next to the frostings, third shelf down I believe, about halfway down the aisle on the right.” *I turn to Customer #2* “Paper towels? If the rack is empty you should check at the end of aisle 15, there was a display end cap for them I saw yesterday and there should be plenty left.”

(I then turn to Customer #3, a little old lady who needs the ice. I lead her to the frozen aisle, load her cart for her, and give her a polite salute when she says goodbye. Then I finally grab my dinner and make my way to a check-stand. The cashier happens to be the owner, and as he rings me up he frowns.)

Owner: “Why the h*** don’t you work for me?!”

Me: “Uh… you never hired me.”

Owner: “An inexcusable oversight on my part! I heard you helping those people. Still need a job?”

Me: *I show him my badge from work* “Nope! Thanks, though.”

Owner: “D***!”

This story is part of our “I Don’t Work Here” roundup!

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(I’m a teenager, although I look younger. My father owns a small, English-run shop, and I work some shifts there if I want some extra cash. My father can’t speak a word of Spanish, although I can since I go to school in Spain. Two customers walk in, talking in Spanish.)

Customer #1: “I hate this shop! It’s stupid, and they don’t even speak Spanish.”

Customer #2: “I know, right? I only come in here so I can mentally mock everything.”

(I’ve been listening the whole time, but they’ve only just spotted me.)

Customer #1: “Look! They’ve hired some low-life kid to help them out. I swear that’s illegal; I’m going to report it because it will be funny.”

(I’ve been keeping quiet, but now I get angry. I twist around, facing the men, and start talking to them in Spanish.)

Me: “Okay, listen up: I’m a teenager, and my dad owns this shop. In case you haven’t noticed already, I do speak Spanish, and I’ve heard everything you just said. So if you hate this shop so much, why don’t you get out?”

(We never see them again, which my father appreciates since they were always coming in without buying anything and he didn’t know how to say anything!)

This story is part of our Spain-themed roundup!

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