Customer: “I want a large soda with a mix of everything on the fountain.”

Me: “Everything?”

Customer: “Everything. I want the Coca Cola, Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Cherry Coke, Sprite, Mr Pibb, fruit punch, and pink lemonade.”

He orders, pays, takes one sip, and says: 

Customer: “Ah… the Sir Mixalot. That’s what I’m talking about!”

Way back when, before flying cars and cell phones and when people still lived in caves, there were several families who lived on the same dead-end cave-path as me.

All the caves on this street had kids who were between four and seven, except for the one nine-year-old bully-brat who lived in the cave with the BMW parked in front of it. My own two kids were exactly within his objective age range, so they were prime targets.

These neighborhood kids could all play together until Bully-brat showed up, then he’d take charge of the entire situation, mess up the game, take toys, or do whatever he could to disrupt an enjoyable time for the other kids.

Any time Bully-brat’s dad was told about the offensive behavior of his spawning, he’d laugh it off with, “Boys will be boys, best to let ’em sort it out on their own.”

Of course, if another parent chased off Bully-brat, then dad would come over raising hell, telling other parents to, “Quit picking on my son and stay out of it!”

One day several dads got together in my car-cave and over the course of a few six-packs we decided what we needed was a bully tougher than Bully-brat.

That was the start of a plan: one of the other dads had a twelve-year-old nephew who played catcher in Little League. Everybody chipped in a few bucks, and it was decided we’d offer Little League $30 to spend the weekend with his uncle and show Bully-brat what being picked on was all about. This was not an insignificant amount of money at that time, especially for a twelve-year-old.

The hired gun showed up on Friday afternoon, and all the other parents had their phone number. If we saw anything, we’d call, describe the situation, and Little League was to come over and act like he’d witnessed the whole thing and would punish Bully-brat accordingly. He couldn’t really hurt him, but he could rough him up and send him on his way.

It worked perfect.

Bully-brat was spotted taking a ball from a six-year-old girl and throwing it across a fence. Little League showed up within two minutes and made Bully-brat climb over the fence to get it. I think there were a couple headlocks involved before the message was properly received, but no injuries were sustained.

Another time Bully-brat tossed some rocks in a driveway where kids were learning how to skate. Little League showed up and made him pick them all up, put them in his pockets, and throw them in his own driveway.

This went on all weekend and on Sunday afternoon Bully-brat’s dad caught Little League chastising his kid for another infraction. Little League responded with, “He’s picking on my friend! Leave us alone and let us boys be boys! We’ll sort it out on our own!”

He had remembered all the sound bites. Dad called his brat inside.

Any time after that, when Bully-brat started his crap with other kids, they’d threaten to get Little League over here to teach him some manners.

Illegal? Highly likely.

Satisfying? You bet.

Best $30 plan a bunch of cavemen ever came up with over beer.

My coworker announced that she was pregnant with her third child. This would be my first time working with her while she was pregnant, so when the discussion came about whether we should pool together our money for some baby gifts, I was excited and was all in. We also decided to turn it into a small party, and we would each make a dish for lunch.

The tricky part of this is my coworker is allergic to many things — dairy, gluten, shellfish, tree nuts, tomatoes, certain fruits, and many more things. We have talked about her allergies before when discussing what to get for takeout lunches, but we hadn’t committed the list to memory. Over the course of two or three weeks, we would try to have her allergies naturally come into conversation, and someone not talking to her would write down the good foods and the bad foods. When we were pretty confident that we had gotten enough, we shared the list with everyone in the office.

The day of the party arrived, and we set up the table while my coworker was on her morning break. When she came back, we led her to the table, and she was surprised by all of the gifts. Once she opened the gifts, we started to bring out lunch. We went around the room explaining our dishes and what ingredients were included and/or excluded. She realized we had all made the dishes specifically to fit with her diet, and she burst into tears, saying that it was one of the nicest things that had happened to her.

It was a rewarding feeling, to be able to do something so small as make lunch for someone and get that reaction.

Going forward, we don’t make everything without her allergens, but we do make sure there are at least a few dishes she can have, and we prevent cross-contamination whenever possible.

A customer is buying three items in a deal where you get three for the price of two.

Me: “That’s $70, please.” 

Customer: “That’s not right!”

Me: “The deal is to buy three for two, and they’re $35 each.”

Customer: “Yeah, that’s why I got three!”

Me: “Yes, and you have to pay for two at $35 each.”

Customer: “Yeah, so that’s, like, what, $27?!”

Me: “How… wha… how can one be less than the price of two?”

Customer: “Don’t be a snob! Not all of us went to business school!” 

Me: “I work as a cashier in a grocery store.”

Customer: “It’s a business, ain’t it?” 

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 18
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 17
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 16
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 15
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14

A client called me at 11:30 pm and left a voicemail. Though parts of it were drowned out by the sounds of people and traffic, I could make out:

Client: “…serious issue we need to discuss.”

First thing the next morning, I called the client to clarify his issue. When no one answered, I left a voicemail. I also sent him an email to let him know I had received his message but could only make out parts of it. I told him to call me, return my email, or clarify when we meet at our bi-weekly meeting the next day.

Unfortunately, I received no messages, and the client simply didn’t show up for our meeting.

Concerned, I sent another email, made another phone call, and sent him a text.

Three days later, at 6:00 am, I received a phone call from him.          

Me: “What was the issue you needed to discuss?”

Client: “Oh, yes. We need to talk about how difficult you can be to reach.”