To quote a book I enjoy, Canada might be a bilingual country, but Saskatchewan is NOT a bilingual province. I’m a manager at a large supermarket, and the only one in the store who speaks fluent French. For whatever reason, we semi-frequently get customers who primarily speak French (read: ONLY speak French, or at least refuse to speak English), so I tend to get called on as a translator.

One day, the worker overseeing the self-checkout calls me over for this reason. I am greeted by [Worker] standing with a woman who looks somewhat awkward as I approach.

Woman: *In French* “Excuse me, do you understand French?”

Me: *In French* “Yes, I do. What is the problem, ma’am?”

Woman: *In French* “I saw this thing—” *points to [Worker]* “— kissing another man before he came into the store, and it turns out he works here! I wanted to tell him that his kind don’t belong working at a respectable business, but he doesn’t understand French. Could you translate for me?”

Me: *In French* “I most certainly will not!”

I’m given a volley of insults that aren’t worth translating here, and the woman picks up her groceries and storms out.

Worker: “What the h*** was that about?”

Me: “Looks like she wanted to scream at you for being gay, and… I guess she wasn’t comfortable doing it if you couldn’t understand her.”

Worker: “And she expected you to translate that?”

Me: “Apparently.”

Me: “Thank you for calling the box office. This is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I need to talk to somebody about my stove.”

Me: “Um… I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve reached the box office of [Performing Arts Center]. Were you trying to reach [Local Electrician with a sort of similar-sounding name]?”

Caller: “No. You’re over at the college, right?”

Me: “Well, yes, our facility is on the [Community College] campus, but we are a theater. We put on concerts and host the Symphony, plays, and—”

Caller: *Interrupting* “Yeah. And they teach classes on how to be electricians and fix stuff there, right?”

Me: “Yes, the college offers a variety of classes for various trade skills, but I’m not sure exactly what classes—”

Caller: *Interrupting again* “Right! So, they need to send some of those students over here to fix my stove. It’ll be a good lesson for them, and I need the burner fixed now. I can’t afford an electrician.”

I asked her to hold and transferred her back to the campus phone line to work her way through the automated options. I’m not sure how she found her way to me, or if she ever reached anyone on the educational end of things, but I sure hope she got her stove sorted out eventually.

I am the author of this story and this story.

The library I worked for was situated in my hometown, a small village with not much around. Everybody in this village knows where everything is; it is that small. My mother lives here still, and I go see her every other weekend. I don’t have my driving license, so I take the train. (It’s a twenty-minute ride.) I am a couch potato, so I always take the elevator at the station instead of the stairs.

Today, two people — a man and a woman — went into the elevator with me. The guy was asking questions in broken English, and the woman was hesitantly answering him — with equally broken English — looking uneasy.

Man: “So, where are you come from?”

Woman: “Around here…”

Man: “Where?”

Woman: “It’s hard to describe…”

Man: “And where do you go?”

Woman: “…To the shop.”

Man: “Can I go with you? I want to get acquainted.”

Woman: “Hmm… No?”

Man: “Why not?”

I had been on the receiving end of harassment enough to recognize it quickly. I guessed she was probably pretending to be an English speaker on the off-chance that he’d leave her alone if he didn’t speak English. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when the other person has some notions of the language.

Once the elevator stopped, I interrupted her right after stepping out.

Me: “Hello, miss! I couldn’t help but hear that you said you were from around here. So, maybe you can help? I’m looking for the library.”

Woman: “Oh… Well, I think it’s—”

Me: *Interrupting again* “I thought I saw on [App] that it was quite the maze from here.”

It’s not.

Woman: “…Right. Yes. It’s a bit complicated…”

Me: “I thought I had to pass by [Shop #1]. Is that so? Or was it by [Shop #2]? I’m confused.”

And so on. The guy tried to speak up a few times until he finally gave up and walked away. We both waited until he was out of sight, and then the woman said, in French:

Woman: “Sorry, I’m not from around here. I just said that to him so he’d leave me alone.”

Me: *In French* “I noticed. I don’t actually have to go to the library; I was stalling until he’d leave.”

Woman: *In a relieved voice* “Oh! Thanks, then!”

Me: “No worries!”

We talked a bit more to make sure the guy wasn’t coming back, and then she left. Prior to the event of this story, someone also followed me around — someone who “had just arrived in town,” “was looking forward to making friends,” and “just wanted to get acquainted.” Politeness and excuses resulted in the guy stalking me for three years. So, I was glad I was able to help this woman.

Related:
If You See Something, Seriously, Say Something
Glad The Strategy Worked; Hate That It Was Necessary
Pushing Your Friend Out Of The Path Of A Bullet

I’m the idiot in this story, and I’ve since learned not to assume. A woman with a round stomach comes into the coffee shop where I work.

Customer: “Can I get [Coffee]?”

This particular coffee has an ingredient considered dangerous to pregnant women.

Me: “[Coffee] has [ingredient], which pregnant women can’t have.”

Customer: *Stares* “…I’m not pregnant, just fat.”

Me: *Embarrassed* “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll make that for you right away!”

I made it for her as fast as possible, and my manager let me take off fifty percent for her as an apology for my stupidity.

Related:
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 13
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 12
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 11
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 10
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 9

I was waiting in a very long return line at a large retailer. I was probably the eighth person in line when a woman in a motorized cart came up beside me. She leaned forward to look around the corner and sucked her teeth. 

Woman: “Can’t be that busy today, can it?”

Me: “I guess.”

I glanced behind me and saw several people staring at us. 

Me: “Um… did you just cut those people?”

Woman: “I’m in a wheelchair. I’m disabled.”

Me: “And they’re all waiting patiently. You need to get in line appropriately.”

The woman waved me off. I didn’t argue with her or acknowledge any of her small talk. When “our” turn came, she started rolling forward, but I cut her off. 

Woman: “Hey! I was next.”

Me: “No, you weren’t. You cut off all those people and tried to make like we were together.”

Woman: “I am in a wheelchair!”

Attendant: *To me* “Can you please let her go first?”

Me: “No. She cut off the five people behind me too.”

Woman: *Driving into my back* “I am next!”

Me: “I will call the police!”

The woman backed up and left. The attendant looked at me. 

Attendant: “So… you need something?”

Me: “A return and your manager.”

I got both. I pressed assault charges with the local police. They knew who she was based just on the security videos. She was fined and banned from the store.