I’m a librarian at a public library, and I have a patron come up to the reference desk to ask for help on a computer.

Patron: “I’m trying to make a Gmail, and I keep getting an error!”

Me: “Okay, let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”

I follow her over to the computer she’s using and see she’s entered a really long Gmail address, like “War and Peace” long. The error message says something generic, like “invalid username”.

Me: “I think I know what the issue is. Google has a limit on how many characters your username can have. I don’t know what it is off the top of my head, but I can go back to my computer really quickly and look it up, and then we can shorten your username and try again.”

Patron: “No, you’re wrong.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Patron: “That’s the username I want. Gmail has to take it. Something else is wrong.”

Me: “Um…I don’t think so, ma’am. I really do think that’s the issue. But let me check, and I’ll come back over and help you get set up.”

Patron: “I’m telling you that’s not the issue. This username should be fine. Something else is wrong. I don’t understand why you won’t help me.”

She’s starting to get louder, and I’m trying to figure out how to de-escalate the situation.

Me: “All right, well, let me go back to my computer and see what that error might mean so we can get this figured out for you, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

I go back to my computer. Sure enough, Google has a character limit for usernames. I print the information out and take it to the patron.

Me: “Hi again. Here’s what I found online. Google has a limit, and your username is too long, so can we shorten it up so it’s less than thirty characters and try again?”

Patron: “No. This is the username I want.”

Me: “Okay, well, that’s why you’re getting that error. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m happy to try to help you think of a shorter username.”

Patron: “I don’t know why you won’t help me and why you’re being so rude!”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, and I am trying to help you. If you pick a different, shorter username, I can help you get set up with Gmail; otherwise, there really isn’t anything more I can do.”

The patron then yells over to the circulation clerk: Can you help me? Since she won’t?

Clerk: “Um…”

Me: “No, ma’am, that’s not his job, and honestly, if you don’t want to pick a different username, none of us can help you.”

I go back to my desk. She stayed at the computer for a little bit, getting visibly more agitated, but she wasn’t being disruptive, so I left her alone. She left in a huff a little while later with a parting shot about how she didn’t understand why none of us would help her. 

Another patron who had overheard the whole thing piped up:

Other Patron: “Some people are beyond help.”

When I was a kid, my mom’s mother lived outside of Philadelphia, and we would usually go visit her in the summer for a few weeks. Near where she lived, there was a historic sports club known for cricket, indoor and outdoor tennis, squash, and bowling. It also had a fancy dining room, and my grandmother was a member because that was the thing to do if you were a well-off person of her generation.

We often would go there for dinner at least once per visit to my grandmother. On one such occasion, we were ordering dessert, and I chose chocolate mousse, as that was definitely not something I could get at home. When it was brought out, being a kid with a rather dry sense of humor I looked at the goblet and said:

Me: “If it’s a moose, where are the antlers?” 

The waiter laughed at that and produced a pair of lollipops that he stuck stem-first into it, to the amusement of everyone at the table.

When a customer places a pickup order, they can choose their pickup time on our system. We get a pickup order for 7:15 PM, and at 7:15 PM precisely, her order is done and is sitting under the warmer. 

The customer comes in at 7:30 PM to pick up her order.

Me: “Here it is, ma’am.”

Customer: “How long has it been sitting there?”

Me: “Well, you ordered it for 7:15 PM, so, since then.”

Customer: “My food has been sitting under the warmer for fifteen minutes?!”

The way she spoke, she made it sound like it was fifteen days.

Me: “That’s not a long time, ma’am.”

Customer: “I wanted my food fresh! Fresh! That’s why I ordered and set the time! You finished the food too early! You need to remake it!”

Me: “We’re not doing that, ma’am. You selected 7:15 PM, it was ready at 7:15 PM.”

Customer: “You should make it fresh for when I arrive! Now I have to wait for you to remake it!”

Me: “We’re not remaking it.”

Customer: “Then I’m going to complain online.”

Me: “Restaurant made my food too fast. Oh no, what will the people think…”

She grabbed her (still fresh) food and stormed out.

Manager: “Complaining that we were on time, that’s a new one…”

Caller: “Hello, I want to know if it will be snowing on [weekend].”

Me: “Sir, that weekend is six weeks away.”

Caller: “Yes, I know how calendars work. I want to know if it will be snowing on that [weekend].”

Me: “We can’t know what the weather will have in store that far in advance. I’d recommend you look up the weather for the area closer to the time of your trip.”

Caller: “Of course I know I can do that! But you live up there! You must know what the weather is like!”

Me: “Where do you live, sir?”

Caller: “Florida.”

Me: “Will there be a hurricane in six weeks?”

Caller: “How the h*** should I know?”

Me: “Well, you live down there. You must know what the weather is like!”

Caller: “That’s different! Hurricanes are unpredictable!”

Me: “And so is snow. Not even the weatherman and his Doppler can predict weather patterns further than a week out, sir.”

Caller: “But… you live out there!”

Me: “And I still have no idea.”

Caller: “But if I check the weather a week ahead, I’ll be doing just what everyone else is doing!”

Me: “There’s a reason for that.”

Caller: “Will your manager know if it’s snowing on [weekend]?”

Me: “No, sir. No one will.”

Caller: “This is so stupid! You charge an arm and a leg for people to go skiing, and you can’t predict the weather!” *Click.*

I was in the queue at the checkout with one man in front of me with a small basket of shopping on the conveyor belt. 

The shop assistant scans a bottle of wine and hands it to him, and both of them fumble with it: her handing it over, him taking it from her. In what seemed like slow motion, the bottle fell onto the little plinth the card reader sits on, *bounces*, tumbles gracefully in the air for a few feet, and then lands behind the checkout area with a massive smash.

Being British, we all go silent for a beat, and then everybody, me, the shop assistant, the man, other shoppers nearby who saw and heard it, start laughing.

There happens to be a store cleaner going past, who immediately starts dealing with the spill and glass shards, so it all looks like it’s quickly and easily dealt with.

Assistant: “Do you want me to get someone to get you a replacement? It might be quicker to get it yourself. It’s up to you.”

The man makes eye contact with me, and I shrug and smile: it’s up to him.

Man: “I’ll go get another one.”

He’s gone for about forty-five seconds, so that’s quick and easy too. He returns and seemingly, without thinking, puts the new bottle on the conveyor belt. Also, seemingly without thinking, the sales assistant picks it up and scans it.

Man: “There will be two on my bill now, can you take that off?”

Assistant: “Yeah, but you’ve had two bottles.”

Man: “But we dropped one of them.”

Assistant: “After I scanned it. So, it was yours.”

Man: “But I haven’t paid yet, so it was still yours.”

Assistant: “I’ve scanned it, so it was yours.”

Man: “It’s not mine until I’ve paid for it.”

Assistant: “I scanned it. What you do with it after that isn’t up to me.”

Man: “I’m not going to pay for two bottles and only get one, though, am I?”

Assistant: “I scanned both, so you have to pay for both.”

The man makes eye contact with me. Mine are like saucers at this point.

Man: “Call the manager, please.”

Assistant: “No. That’s £27.78 please.”

Man: “It bloody well isn’t, you know. Fetch the manager.”

Assistant: “He’ll only agree with me. You’re holding up the queue. £27.78.”

The man takes a deep breath, but at that moment, a manager appears.

Manager: “What seems to be the problem?”

The man and the assistant speak at the same time, both saying that a bottle of wine was dropped and a replacement obtained.

Manager: *To the assistant.* “Had you scanned the first one before it was broken?”

Assistant: “Yes.”

Manager: “Then I don’t see what the problem is. Sir, if you could just pay for both now, please, you’re holding up the queue.”

Man: “Goodbye.”

He leaves without his shopping, with both the assistant and the manager looking confused.

Manager: “I’ll void this off, and then you can help the next person.”

Me: “Yeah, no.”

I leave my shopping on the conveyor belt and also walk towards the exit.

Assistant: “And what was her problem?”

According to the customer services helpline, about an hour later, I was the third person to call in about the incident. Without asking for it, I got a £5 voucher added to my loyalty card and a promise that things would be changing at that store starting the next day.

I hope the man in front got more than a fiver, and I hope he got his wine from somewhere else. He deserved a glass or three.