(I am an artist and this is about my first convention, about ten years ago — around 2010. I am very nervous and because I don’t know what to do the whole day, I decide to make an art piece, in the hopes it attracts people. It does and it helps my sales a bit. The piece I am making is A3 sized and I start it at 9:00 am. I finish at 4:00 pm. A few people visit me throughout the day to see my progress.)

Lady: “Oh, you finished! It looks wonderful!”

Me: “Thank you.”

Lady: “I saw you started this piece this morning and I was amazed you finished it this fast.”

Me: “The atmosphere really gave me energy.”

Lady: “Let me buy this from you.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, but I don’t sell originals. Only prints.”

Lady: “What? Don’t be silly! I’d pay a good price for it. Here, let me pay you 5€.”

Me: “No, ma’am, I really don’t sell my originals. Maybe you can find something on my table that interests you? The prints are quite affordable.”

Lady: “Oh, come on. I like this piece. How about 6€?” 

Me: “Ma’am, I worked all day on this. And I don’t sell originals. If I would, I couldn’t offer these affordable prices on the prints.”

Lady: “Then what do you want? 10€? It’s not worth 10€; it’s just a kid’s drawing!”

(I am twenty-six years old.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to sell this. I can have it made as a print for you and ship it to you, if you’d like that?”

Lady: “No, I want the original. It’s quite clear you don’t know how things work around here. You won’t make any money as an artist if you go on like this!”

(The lady left. I may not be a world-famous illustrator, but I do know my worth.)

(I’m waiting for my coffee at the end of the coffee bar when this exchange happens between the barista and another customer. The girl has just picked up her blended coffee and left the coffee shop seemingly content. I see her take a drink of it and turn around to come back inside to the barista.)

Customer: “Hi, this doesn’t taste like it usually does. I don’t like it; I can taste the coffee.”

Barista: “I’m sorry.” *takes back the drink she’s put down on the counter and looks at the order marks on the cup* “Did you want a blended mocha with an extra shot?”

Customer: “Yes, but I don’t like it. I can taste the coffee too much.”

Barista: “I’m sorry you’re not happy with it. Would you like me to remake it for you?”

Customer: “Yes, I don’t like it. It tastes like coffee.”

Barista: “Okay, I can make you a new one without the extra shot.”

Customer: “I don’t know why this tasted so much like coffee.”

(The barista just starts making the drink for her, this time without extra shots of coffee, and hands it to her, and she takes a drink.)

Barista: “Does that one taste better?”

Customer: “Yes, I can’t really taste the coffee this time. Thanks.”

(In high school, I contract mono. The worst of it for me is the sore throat; my tonsils are so swollen I haven’t really eaten in days. My dad and I are on the way home from the doctor, and we stop at the local ice cream place. They aren’t quite open yet, but I am getting weak and faint from the lack of food.)

Me: *somewhat hoarsely* “Hello?”

Owner: “Sorry, hon, we’re not quite open yet.”

Me: “I know, and I’m sorry, but I’m really sick and I haven’t had any real food in forever. Is there any way I could get a milkshake? I hate to be a bother, but I’m just really dying for some calories, and this is the only thing I’ll be able to get down.”

Owner: *backs up jokingly* “Whoa, whatever you want, hon. Just don’t breathe on me!”

(The owner pulls over one of the workers, a girl a little older than me, to make the shake, and then goes back to setting up the shop.)

Girl: “Here’s your shake.” *whispers* “I made it extra-thick, okay?”

Me: “Thank you so much; I really appreciate it.”

(They both said they hoped I’d feel better, and we left. Sadly, the shop has since closed due to some chicanery with the land lease, and everyone bemoans the loss of the nicest ice cream shop in the county.)

(I’m a young woman with an alternative, kind of gothic-like taste of clothing. Today, I happen to be at a kind of a “girly” store — the place where people generally least expect me to be — and I’m wearing black flared jeans that are covered with rings, chains, and straps. A little girl, about four years old, approaches me.)

Girl: *staring in awe at my jeans* 

Me: “Hi there. You like my jeans?”

(The girl rushes to her mom, pulling her shirt to get her attention.)

Girl: “Mommy, mommy! That lady wears weird pants! But they’re cool! Oh, Mommy, can I get those, too?”

Mother: “When you get older, hun. I don’t believe they come in your size.”

(She then smiled at me, and the little girl looked like I’d made her day. Well, she made mine by thinking I look cool! A welcome relief to all the usual loathing looks, that’s for sure.)

(The supermarket I work at is having a five-for-ten-dollar sale on twelve-packs of Coke products. We have a customer call the store regarding said sale.)

Customer: “I was in the store earlier and I was incorrectly charged for the soda.”

Me: “All right, how much were you charged?”

Customer: “Well, I bought five twelve-packs and I was charged two dollars each. I want them at the advertised five for ten dollars.”

Me: “Uh, ma’am, you were charged correctly. At five for ten dollars, each item will be two dollars.”

Customer: “No, it isn’t! Five for ten dollars is not the same as two dollars each! I want them for the advertised sale price! I want to speak to a manager!”

(At this point, I hand the phone over to my manager and he gets an earful from the customer.)

Manager: “No, ma’am, I can assure you that [My Name] was not trying to scam you. You were charged the correct price.”

(My manager gets another earful from the customer and he gives up trying to argue with her.)

Manager: “All right, ma’am. The next time you come in, bring your receipt to our service desk and they’ll fix it for you. I’m sorry for the confusion.”

(My manager hangs up the phone and turns to me.)

Manager: “The front end can deal with her when she comes in first thing tomorrow morning. I’m done dealing with customers.”