I am in an electronics store in 2023, getting my laptop looked at for some hardware issues. The employee looking at it has been professional, informative, and quick! I am browsing on my phone as he finishes up, and his manager comes out from the back.

Manager: “I heard you turned down a repair for a computer this morning?”

Employee: “Yes, I did. We couldn’t help her.”

Manager: “Times are tight, and I don’t think we should be turning down any work right now.”

Employee: “Her computer had a 5¼-inch floppy drive.”

Manager: “As you were.” *Walks to the back*

I work at a performing arts center, and at times, it seems as though our job consists of nothing but impossible demands. Coming out of the global health crisis, with the convenience and personalization of streaming service options, live entertainment venues can have a hard time meeting the expectations of every guest.

I had demands that I tell the forty-piece orchestra to play more quietly after the guest was informed that the microphone on stage was only turned on when the conductor was speaking between pieces, and no, we couldn’t “turn the volume down” for her. There was a similar complaint about the “light show” which was, in fact, the unchanging lights reflecting off of the moving instruments.

We often joke that we need to redesign our auditorium, replacing the two main aisles with at least a dozen more, turning the floor map into more of a spiderweb design. See, every caller requests an aisle seat, preferably kind of close to the stage but with easy access to the bathrooms… but a center stage view, please.

I recently had a guest who was angry that all of the information about the event listed on our website, as well as contained in their confirmation email, was not also printed on the three-by-six-inch rectangle ticket that contained the scannable barcode used to actually enter the event. They had ordered the ticket. They had printed the ticket. I had not been involved until they complained on the night of the performance… for ten full minutes.

During another concert, a guest approached three different venue employees to inform us that he didn’t feel that we had adequately advertised the show, spending more than half of the performance standing in the lobby rather than enjoying the music. After keeping us from our various tasks for an exhausting amount of time, he finally admitted that he wasn’t on our mailing list, didn’t receive our emails, didn’t see local advertising, and didn’t actually purchase his ticket, as it was given to him by a friend while he was visiting the area.

I love my job, and some of our guests seem so thrilled that live entertainment options are available again. But it seems that some have forgotten the social niceties involved in entertainment that doesn’t involve a remote control. Others seem oblivious to the fact that it takes a lot of work by a number of dedicated individuals to make every show happen. 

Please support your live entertainment venues, the artists, and the staff and crews who work behind the scenes. In the end, we are all doing it for the love of the show!

In my first career job in 2011, I was going on a business trip with a colleague who happened to have dark skin. It was my first time flying, so I had done some research, but I was curious what my colleague, a seasoned flyer, recommended.

Me: “How early are you getting to the airport?”

Colleague: “Two hours before boarding time.”

Me: “What?! I read online that you only need one hour for domestic flights.”

Colleague: “I have to make sure there’s enough time for the random selection.”

We kept talking. [Colleague] flies multiple times per year and has been randomly selected for a search about half the time. He explained his theory that his ambiguous, dark-skinned appearance makes him fit both “Black” and “Middle Eastern” profiles, and while he didn’t outright accuse anyone, he said that he had missed enough flights to learn to plan around the selection not being quite so random.

Our kitchen has a new line cook, and he’s working a little slower than expected.

Me: “What’s taking you so long to cover those dishes? Just get them in the oven!”

Line Cook: “But the foil only works properly if the shiny part is right-side up! Someone put these on all wrong!”

Me: “What? That’s not true at all. It doesn’t matter what side is up.”

Line Cook: “No! The shiny part has to be right-side up! That’s why it’s shiny!”

Me: “Who told you that?!”

Line Cook: “My mom!”

Me: “Sorry, but your mom is wrong. Either side is fine.”

Line Cook: “But my mom said so!”

Me: “Is your mom a cook?”

Line Cook: “Not professionally.”

Me: “Well, I am, and so are you. Your mom is wrong on this one.”

Line Cook: “Really?”

Me: “Really.”

Line Cook: “Well… okay.”

I am about to leave when he adds:

Line Cook: “Come to think of it, she does give us all food poisoning every summer…”

This takes place a couple of years ago in the heat of the global health crisis. I work at a popular pub in a big town. During the crisis, we are careful to space out everything, sanitize heavily, and wear masks.

Now, enter the guests: a man, his wife, and his daughter. To give a brief description of the main perp, the man is obviously a cop, complete with a crew cut, stiff posture, and an outfit that says, “I’m off the clock but still a cop.”

They take their seats, and I approach with my typical greetings. They order some drinks, and I ask the daughter for her ID. She sinks a little.

Daughter: “I forgot it at home.”

It’s clearly code for “I’m a minor.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you, then.”

The parents are aghast.

Parents: “Really?! She’s with her parents! She can’t have a drink? I can vouch that she’s of age!”

Me: “I’m sorry, folks, but I legally can’t serve her without proof.”

At this point, the man loudly scoffs and smirks at me while reaching for his wallet. He flashes his badge.

Man: “This mean anything to you?”

Did this guy really just try to extort me for a beer for his underage daughter?

Me: “No, that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Man: “Really? Nothing? Pull down that mask and let me see your face.”

At this point, I already know my tip is gone.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re in a [health crisis] with a mask mandate, and we take that pretty seriously here.”

Man: “Jesus, you got a manager I can talk to?”

I walk off to find my boss and let her know what’s going on. She listens to my story.

Boss: “This guy sounds like a f****** a**hole.”

I watch from afar as the man waves his hands around, the woman sits in disbelief that we won’t serve her daughter, and the daughter flushes a dark shade of red with embarrassment. They hash it out for about five minutes while my coworkers and I try our hardest not to stare at the meltdown this middle-aged police officer is having over his server NOT illegally serving his daughter a drink.

My manager returns and talks to us.

Boss: “F*** those people. We’ll give them dinner, but that girl isn’t drinking. If they say anything else to you, tell me, and they’re out. I can’t believe that guy is a cop.”

While we’re laughing at how ridiculous the situation is, a man from another one of my tables walks up behind us and interrupts.

Other Customer: “Hi, I have [My Name] as my server, too, and he’s great. That dude is an a**hole.”

The rest of the meal was tense and awkward. The parents were fuming, and the daughter seemed like she wanted nothing more than to leave. Nobody would look at me any time I approached, and I kept my service pretty stiff and formal. The cop asked a few more questions about my name, who my parents were, and what part of town I lived in, but I danced around them and avoided answering anything personal.

As expected, no tip. It feels a little ironic that I did the protecting and serving there that evening.