Hunting Down The Scavengers

, , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(The mall I work in has a No Solicitation policy. They also frequently have tween and teen groups doing scavengers hunts. Ten minutes after opening on a Saturday, a group of seven girls, around age fourteen, walks in with two adults. While I know they are on a scavenger hunt, there isn’t anything I can do until they actually out themselves and/or break store policy by taking pictures. As they look around the store, I can hear them whispering to each other about what products will work for items on their list.)

Girl: *holding up a pack of tissue paper* “How much will this cost?”

Me: “$2.95”

Girl: *to group* “Well, this would work for #5, since it’s pink!”

Girl’s Mom: “That’s a lot of money for one item… Maybe you can just get one piece?”

Girl: *to me* “Do you sell single sheets?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. They only come in the pack of eight sheets.”

Girl: “Do you have any swatches or samples we could have for free?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, and we don’t participate in scavenger hunts.”

(Mind you, I haven’t actually asked them to leave at this point; I’ve just made it clear that we won’t be participating.)

Girl’s Mom: “EXCUSE ME?! What makes you think this is a scavenger hunt?!”

Me: “I can tell.”

Girl’s Mom: “No, I want to know exactly why you’re refusing service to my daughter!”

Me: “Ma’am, you brought a group of teenage girls into a specialty boutique whose typical demographic is middle-aged women. They are holding a printed-out, numbered list, and discussing what they can get to qualify for those numbers. They asked for free merchandise. All of those are tell-tale signs of a scavenger hunt, which is, by the way, in violation of the mall’s No Solicitation policy. But do correct me if I’m wrong about any of this.”

Girl’s Mom: “I want to speak to your manager!”

Me: “Ma’am, I am the store manager.”

Girl’s Mom: “Well, how do you expect to do any business if you won’t participate in community events?!”

Me: “Your daughter’s birthday party is not a community event. And I expect to make a profit by not giving away merchandise to teenagers who are never going to spend a dime in my high-end store.”

Girl’s Mom: “Come on, girls; let’s go somewhere else!”

(I promptly called my buddies in the security office, and later saw the group being escorted through the mall, I can only assume to the exit.)

A Stupid Call By Any Metric, Part 2

, , , , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(I check out a customer purchasing a large exercise ball that measures 65 centimeters. I say hello and ask how things are.)

Customer #1: “Good. I’m hoping this ball will be big enough.”

Me: “Well, you can use Google to convert the centimeters into feet.”

Customer #1: “I’m an American; I don’t want to do that.”

(I stare in disbelief and finish the purchase. Then, the next customer comes up to my register; they have overheard what the first customer said.)

Customer #2: “Wow, what a great way to prove your ignorance.”

Me: “You heard that, too? I thought I just imagined it.”

Related:
A Stupid Call By Any Metric

Cookie Cutter Harassment

, , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(I work at an old bakery where my grandmother used to work. Most of my coworkers either worked with my grandma while she was still alive or frequented the bakery as children. I have an angel heart tattoo on my arm. Two male customers come in; one reeks of alcohol.)

Customer #1: “Hey, angel, give me something sweet and I might do, as well.” *wink*

Customer #2: “We’ll take five chocolate, and three almond cookies.”

Me: *trying to keep calm and handing them the order* “Okay, that’ll be [price]. Cash or credit?”

Customer #1: “That pretty face deserves a lot of cash. Here you go, angel tits.”

(I put on my best customer service smile and extend my arm to take the cash, but he slaps it away and tries to shove the bills in my cleavage. Keep in mind that I’m wearing a high-neck shirt.)

Me: “Okay, that’s enough, buddy. This can go one of two ways: you either keep your hands home before you lose them, pay, and get the h*** out, or… you get escorted out with no food and a harassment charge. What will it be, honey?”

Customer #2: “Just go sit in the car, man.”

([Customer #1] mumbles something and walks out.)

Customer #2: “You have to forgive him; he’s drunk.”

Me: “Being drunk doesn’t give him an excuse to act like a jacka**. Enjoy your cookies while they’re intact and please never come back unless both of you are sober.”

(He quietly pays and walks out. My manager approaches me, laughing.)

Me: “Am I in trouble?”

Manager: “H*** no. That reminds me of the times when [Grandma] was here.”

Coworker: “Except no one walked out with a boot tattooed on their a**.”

(And I thought my respect for Grandma couldn’t be any higher.)

This Job Can Be A Death Trap

, , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(My mother passed away suddenly and I am trying to get various services cancelled, including her cell phone. I call the company to cancel and get a lovely young man on the other end.)

Young Man: “We can cancel the contract without penalty and even refund a portion of your mom’s last bill.”

Me: “Really? That would be great!”

Young Man: “The only thing is, and I’m sorry to have to ask this, but you have to fax a copy of your mom’s death certificate to us.”

Me: “Oh, I completely understand why you need that. And may I say, I’ve had to make a lot of these phone calls during the past few weeks, and you have been very helpful, sympathetic, and great to deal with.”

Young Man:Wow. I was not expecting to hear that.”

A Medium Rare Scare

, , , , | | Right | June 17, 2019

(I work in a really posh town, and most of our customers are posh, upper-class people. Most are really nice and friendly, but some try to act posher than they actually are and treat the waiters like dirt. One regular who acts like this comes in and is, as usual, obnoxious.)

Regular: “This glass is dirty, boy. Get another.”

Me: “Sorry about that.”

(I go behind the bar and pretend to get another glass. As I take it over to him and his wife, I ask if they’re ready to order.)

Regular: “Yes, I’ll have a steak, medium rare.”

Wife: “That.” *pointing to what she wants on the menu*

Me: “Okay, I’ll bring your food out shortly.”

(When their food is ready I bring it over.)

Regular: “This is not done enough; your chef is crap.”

Wife: “And this isn’t what I ordered.”

Regular: “Kids like you should go back to the gutter where you belong.”

Me: “Sorry, I’ll get the head chef right on it.”

(Again, I bring out their food when it’s ready.)

Regular: “What the h*** is wrong with you people? This still isn’t right!”

Me: “I’ll go get the chef.”

Regular: “No! I want the manager!”

Me: “He is the owner, as well.” *calls over to the kitchen* “Hey, [Chef], someone has a problem with your cooking.”

(After a few seconds a figure appears at the doorway. Our chef is almost seven feet tall, and as he believes in trying all his food before it’s served, is a little well built. Plus, as he has just been chopping vegetables, he still has a long, sharp knife in his hand.)

Chef: “Sir, I have over forty years of experience cooking for Her Majesty, the Queen, all without one meal being sent back. Now, if my food is good enough for her, it’s good enough for your scrawny neck. And I can overhear everything that’s said to my staff, so the next time you open your mouth, picture me before you speak, you human question mark.”

(After that, no one’s had any trouble from those customers.)

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