A lady is shopping in our store.

Customer: “I want these sunglasses but in red.”

Me: “We don’t have that in stock right now, ma’am.”

Customer: “Well go find some for me!”

Me: “Ma’am, I will be unable to locate that specific color of sunglasses within our store, but I can—”

Customer: “—Do you know how much I spend here?!”

Me: “No, ma’am, but I—”

She pulls up her banking info and shoves her phone into my face.

Customer: “Look at this! Look how much money I have!”

A manager has to step in, and she tries to show him too! Like the amount you spend anywhere is magical and makes inventory appear on a whim…

I’m lying in bed, rewatching a popular TV show about the zombie apocalypse involving a small-town sheriff in the state of Georgia. My husband is normally squeamish and not into “horror” in any form, but he has become bored in the other room and come to the bed to pester me. Side note: I am of Spanish origin and he is a Native Canadian.

Husband: “What’s this show?”

Me: “[Show]. I’m rewatching it from the beginning. It’s only a few episodes in. Want a recap on how it starts and you can watch with me?”

Husband: “Eeeeugh, no, thanks. Not interested.”

Me: “Okay.” *Pauses the show* “Want me to change it?”

Husband: “No, that’s fine. I’ll just play on my phone.”

Fifteen minutes later:

Husband: “So, there are other people out there? They want the guns, but they belong to the sheriff guy? Why would he just leave them there?”

Me: “Oh, you’ll love this next part, but let me fill you in first.”

Husband: “No, no, no. I don’t wanna know. Forget I asked.” *Rolls over* 

I look at our mirror mounted on the dresser a bit later and notice that he has strategically placed his head to see the TV, but from my angle, it looks like he’s scrolling on his phone

Husband: “Oh, my God, they were acting so tough, but they had their ab-way-lah in there? Sheriff guy was right! What if they had shot them all?! The poor ab-way-lahs! They’d be alone!”

Me: “The what?! You mean abuelas?”

Husband: “You know what I mean. I can’t make the Spanish noises. The R comes out la-la-la-la.”

Me: “You mean rrrrrrrrrr.” *Rolling my tongue*

Husband: “Shush! I’m watching the sheriff man! Who is that guy? Where are they? How did they get into a city? Where’re the rest of them? Aren’t there some kids? Wasn’t the sheriff man in the hospital?”

Me: “Fill you in?”

Husband: “Fill me in.”

Customer: “Could I get a BLT sandwich, but… like… with every ingredient on the side?”

Me: “So, you’d like to assemble it yourself at the table?”

Customer: *Looking nervous* “Yeah… is that okay?”

Me: “I got you, mate! Tell me what you need.”

My aunt has OCD, so I have a good gauge of what this is. And when I say OCD, I don’t mean in an “OMG, I have to have my desk neat and tidy” kind of way, but more like “If the desk has the pen the wrong way around in its placement, I will be unable to function for the rest of the day” kind of way — real OCD.

I lay out all the items on the side for the customer on little plates, and he gets visibly more relaxed as we go. He thanks me profusely when the order is finished, and we chat for a moment.

He came in at a time when he knew we’d be quiet. His therapist encouraged him to try to order food out instead of cooking at home, and our “build your own sandwich” store seemed like a good place for him to start.

Customer: “Thank you so much for accommodating me. I usually get a hard time for it wherever I go.”

After he leaves, my coworker also thanks me.

Coworker: “That was great. It taught me not to immediately judge people.”

I have my grandfather and his much younger business partner as a client.

Partner: “Your grandfather’s Yahoo is broken.”

Me: “His Yahoo? Do you mean the email account has a problem, or is the website down?”

Partner: “Yes, his email. You have to fix it. Do you have a few minutes?”

Me: “I live in Toronto, remember? He lives over two hours from here.”

Partner: “No, I mean over the phone. You tell me, and I’ll call him and tell him what to do. I think Yahoo has a virus.”

Me: “You mean you think his email was hacked?”

Partner: “No, a virus. He can’t log into his email. You reset his password, and he can’t log in. I can log in using his email and password, but the Yahoo on his computer must have a virus. He took it to one of those shops, and now his Yahoo doesn’t work.”

Me: “Are you sure he isn’t typing his new password in wrong?”

Partner: “No, that’s ridiculous. It must be a virus. Can you, like, Google a virus?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. I’ll call you back.”

I have a coffee and check my schedule to see if I can fit a trip out of Toronto to see my grandfather over the weekend. When I call to see when would work…

Partner: “It works! Everything is fine. Problem solved, and your grandfather is relieved.”

Me: “Good! I’m glad the virus is gone.”

Partner: “Don’t be silly. It was the password. He wasn’t typing it in right. Your grandfather’s very old, you know.”

In this story, the author addressed a child by name because it was on a key ring on his backpack. I still remember when a cashier called little me by name in a toy store. I freaked out a little. I didn’t know her and  hadn’t told her my name; she was not supposed to know it.

It turned out that my name was printed on my portemonnaie (a wallet or pocketbook), which was hanging around my neck and visible.

I’ve heard that the opposite is a reason for not having your children run around with something displaying their name in public. If a stranger calls them by name, it can build up a little bit of trust that should not be there — “That person knows my name, so they must know my parents, so I don’t need to be that careful around them.”

On the other hand, a stranger only needs to listen in for a moment to learn your kids’ names (including uncommon pronunciations) and some statistics state that it’s a lot more common for “trouble” to come from people who already know your kids’ names, thus making “Stranger Danger” outdated in favour of “reasonable distrust”.

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Someone Here’s On The Naughty List, That’s For Sure