Customer: “I need gas.”

Me: “How much, and what pump for you today?”

Customer: “I need to fill up out there! What the f*** do you think?!”

He just points at the window and makes no attempts to be specific.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but here at [Gas Station Chain], we need to start with an amount when you pay inside, and also, which one was it again?”

Customer: “I just need to f****** fill it, g**d*** it! It’s the white truck out there! F****** bulls*** town.”

Me: “We could start the number a little high; whatever you don’t use, it puts right back on the card when you hang it up. And which white truck is it?”

Customer: “It’s right f****** there. Are you r****ded? Fine, put eighty on there.”

At this point, through the process of elimination, I have figured out which truck is his, and I proceed so I can get him out of the way.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, it appears your card has been declined. We can set it up again in case it was just a wrong PIN.”

Customer: “You pieces of s***. I come here all the time!”

In four years, I’ve never seen him.

Customer: “I know the owner!”

The president of the large corporate company is over two thousand miles away; I think I’m in the clear.

Customer: “Here! Just put twenty in cash on there! Can you f****** do that?!”

Me: “Absolutely, sir. You have yourself a fine day now.”

At this point, I attempt to wash myself of this man, but the jacka** has other plans. He pushes past my other customers, physically almost slams into the door, angrily sets up the pump, and then proceeds to think he’s gonna smoke a f****** cigarette at the pump.

I immediately hit the hard stop, go to the intercom, look straight out at him, and begin shaking my head, waving my finger, going, “Ah, ah, ah,” just like the guy from “Jurassic Park”.

Fuming, he comes back to try and lay into me, but my boss is there, and she has witnessed the entire thing.

Boss: *To me* “Go in the back.”

Customer: “What the f*** is your guy’s problem?! That little piece of s*** needs to come out here! I’ll kick his f****** a**!”

Boss: “Did you just threaten my employee?! What gives you the nerve? Do I need to call the cops? Get the f*** out of my store!”

The customer was both fuming angry and white as a sheet as he pivoted and went straight out the door. My boss immediately went and saved the camera footage for the inevitable Human Resources call, but it never came.

I got a Ph.D. placement abroad in Switzerland, but because I was starting directly after my Masters, I only got about three weeks’ notice that I had been accepted by the university. Of course, this meant that my choices in flat hunting were limited. I ended up renting a room in a flat with two other people both in their forties.

Things quickly started going downhill — things like being accused of not doing the cleaning when I had, not being allowed to use the kitchen if the main tenant was cooking (he was technically my landlord as I had the contract with him), and having to eat my breakfast while the main tenant was having his morning meetings at the dining table. While not terrible, it did make the whole situation awkward.

Finally, I’ve had enough, and I start flat hunting and find a nice place closer to the centre of the city. Once I have signed the contract, I arrive back at the flat to tell the main tenant I’m leaving with four months’ notice. (It’s May.) He starts speaking before me.

Tenant: “I’ve got a favour I want to ask you. Would you mind if you moved out during August so my daughter who is visiting can stay in your room? Don’t worry; you wouldn’t have to pay any rent for that month.”

I pause in shock for a second.

Me: “Um, no. I’m working over August. I need to use my room.”

Tenant: “Oh, but aren’t you going home for the summer?”

Me: “No, I’m working in the lab over the summer.”

Tenant: “But you’re a student.”

Me: “Yes, I’m a doctoral student. It’s a full-time job. I only get twenty-eight days of holiday, which I imagine is the same as you. I’m not going to put in for all my holiday just because you want your daughter to use the room.”

Tenant: “Oh. Really? Oh, in that case, never mind.”

At that point, I gave him the news that I’d found a new flat and would be moving out.

The next day, I had a thought. I’m young for a Ph.D. student in Switzerland. (I was twenty-two when I first arrived, and all of the other students in the building were three to eight years older than me.) It didn’t help that I have a baby face. I think that somewhere along the line, the “doctoral” part got dropped, and the guy thought I was an undergrad and based his respect on that. The whole situation made me so glad I’d already got a new place.

At our project kickoff meeting, I ask a client what method of communication he prefers.

Client: “Email is the best way to reach me and ensure that I get your message.”

I send him a project update via email two days later. After getting no response after two days, I query him again via email. He replies, also via email.

Client: “I get too many emails, so just call me here at the office.”

I call him the following week to get his approval on a design, and the receptionist screens my call. I try three more times over the next week, making sure to email with each call. 

On Friday:

Client: “Where are my proofs? We’re on a deadline.”

Me: “I called numerous times, but your receptionist wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

Client: “Yeah, I told her to screen my calls. Just call me on my mobile.”

I call his mobile three times the next week, leaving a message on his (generic) voicemail.

Once again, this brings us to Friday:

Client: “I just ignore my phone’s voicemail. Call my office or email me.”

I begin to do all three, in rotation, over the next week. After failing to reach him, I send him a certified letter to have him sign off on the final product.

He calls me three days later.

Client: “Why are you sending me a letter? It’s 2013, for God’s sake! There are better ways to get a hold of me.”

I was a fifty-five-year-old lady delivery driver. I had been doing it for four years or so at the time. This happened over ten years ago, so some of the particulars are a bit fuzzy, but I clearly remember that it was a horrible night — probably the worst night I had ever had.

The teenagers making pizzas were messing up. We were shorthanded. Addresses and phone numbers were wrong. I had to do a couple of redeliveries due to the wrong pizza toppings. The phone kept ringing, and no one was answering, so I had to delay delivering to answer the phone. It was busy, and they had trouble keeping up. It was just a truly bad night.

It was getting close to closing, and I had one delivery left. I was so looking forward to going home and chilling, and I was ready to forget that night.

There were three or four pizzas on the order, and it was going to an address I had never been to before. I hate new customers; you never know how nice or s***ty they might be. I got to the house in less than four minutes; thankfully, it was close to the shop. There were a bunch of cars in the driveway and parked in front of the house. Cool, party!

I went into the open garage since that’s where the party was. I put on my customer service smile, and then I heard:

Voice: “HEY! [MY NAME]! How you doing?”

OMFG! I recognized Mr. Favorite Regular, and he was waving me over with a beer in his hand.

Mr. Favorite Regular: “Hey, everyone, this is [My Name], the best driver from [Pizza Place]! -Here, have a beer!”

Now, this was not the first beer I had been offered when delivering, but it was the first beer I ever accepted. I got to meet Mr. Favorite Regular’s brother and all their friends and family, and all of them welcomed me like my butt was made of gold. I guzzled that beer like a man lost in the desert for three days guzzles water. There was joking, hugging, and backslapping, another beer appeared in my hand, and there was lots and lots of laughter.

It was absolutely FUN-DERFUL, but alas, I had to get back to the shop, and I was worried I might get stopped by our local officers with beer on my breath, so I said my goodbyes, hugged Mr. Favorite Regular and some of my new friends, and headed back to my car.

I had parked on the side of the street in front of the driveway, but my car was GONE! Oh, s***! I had left the keys in the car, and some suckface had stolen it!

Then, I looked back toward the party, and they were all standing in front of the garage laughing their a**es off!

Why? Someone had snuck out of the party and moved my car a block down the road. These f***ers thought they were hilarious.

And they were right! I laughed my golden a** off all the way to my car as I gave them the double bird they so richly deserved.

Best. Night. Ever!

I’m a sixty-ish-year-old woman wearing a knitted cardigan working the service desk of a library, with my hair up in a bun and reading glasses hanging around my neck. I am the stereotypical vision of an old librarian lady.

A young male customer walks up to the service desk and leans in for a whisper.

Customer: “So… I… uh… I got this drug test—”

Me: “I cannot sell you my urine.”

Customer: “How… how did you know I was going to ask that?”

Me: “You were here last month filling out job application forms. Here you are today reeking of weed. You got a job offer, and they have a drug test requirement. People like you also seem to think that either the library offers a lot more services than it really does, or we poor librarians are so poorly paid that we’d be willing to sell our own bodily fluids to make rent.”

Sadly, that last part isn’t too far from the truth.

Me: “Besides, my urine would be of no use to you anyway.”

Customer: “Why? It’s not like you could be pregnant.”

Me: “It’s cute you think my urine is free from illicit and mind-altering substances.”

I very sloooooowly curved my mouth up into a wide psycho smile, eyes wide. He backed away and I haven’t seen him since.

Related:
The Contrarian Ex-Librarian
The Contrarian Librarian: The DVD
The Contrarian Librarian Runs Out Of Time
The Contrarian Librarian: The Childhood Years
Softening Of The Contrarian Librarian