I work in a bar. A woman, out with her friends, orders.

Customer: “A virgin screwdriver, please. I can’t drink right now as I’m pregnant.”

Me: “Ma’am, respectfully, I can put that in as an Orange Juice and save you about six dollars. We charge two-fifty for an OJ and eight dollars for a screwdriver.”

Customer: “…But I don’t want an orange juice; I want a virgin screwdriver.”

Me: “Do you want it virgin or non-alcoholic? We do happen to have some non-alcoholic spirits we could mix in, such as Seedlip or Pentire. Is that what you would like?”

Customer: “Hmmm… No, I’d better not. My doctor said no spirits. I’d like a screwdriver without spirits or alcohol, please.”

Me: “Ma’am, I promise it will be the exact same thing but cheaper if I just bill it as an OJ.”

Customer: “I don’t want an OJ. I want a screwdriver, but without the alcohol and with no spirits.”

Me: “Very well.”

So, I got her her eight-dollar orange juice. Her “friends” patted her on the back and supported her for “standing her ground” as I got her beverage. At least she tipped.

Related:
When Your Explanation Runs Out Of Juice

I’m working at the checkout in a grocery store. It’s admittedly very busy and chaotic, but most customers are forming orderly lines at the checkouts. A customer cuts through a bunch of customers and stands ready for me to serve him next.

Me: “Sir, there is a line.”

Customer: “I’ve made a new line.”

Me: “Uh, no, sir, there’s only one line.”

Customer: “Show me where it says there can only be one line.”

Me: “Well… it doesn’t, but it’s generally understood—”

Customer: “So, there’s no sign saying I can’t do it? Well then, here I am. Serve me next.” 

I look over to the other three customers in line, all glaring at this guy. I start speaking to them all.

Me: “If you could all move two inches to the left to make an even newer line, I can serve you first!”

The glaring customers immediately smile and move an inch or so to the left — but still very much in the same line — and I serve them next.

Customer: “What are you doing? I was next in line!”

Me: “I made a new line.”

Customer: “But I made the new line! I was next!”

Me: “Show me where it says there can only be one ‘new’ line.”

The customer glared at me, threw his items to the ground in protest, and stormed out.

Related:
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 6
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 5
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 4
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 3
Not Even In Line And Out Of Line, Part 2

A customer came into the store stating that she had gotten a call that her order was in. I was the one doing the calling, and her name didn’t sound familiar, but I checked anyway. It wasn’t there. I also looked back at my desk to see if I had dropped it on the way to take them up front. Not there. I looked in our system for the order, and it wasn’t there, either. So, I had to ask if she had maybe ordered from a different location or different store entirely.

Customer: “No, that’s impossible. I only shop here.”

Me: “Okay. You said you got a call. What was the name of the person who left the message?”

Customer: “Well, I didn’t get the call myself. They called my husband.”

Me: “Can I call your husband?”

Customer: “Okay.”

I call and identify myself as being from [Location #1] to ask if he recalls getting a call about an order.

Customer’s Husband: “Sure, I remember that. But I ordered it from [Location #2].”

Me: “Thank you.”

I hang up. I advise the customer that her husband says he ordered it from [Location #2], so it should be there.

Customer: “Oh, that’s right. We were shopping there last week.”

Cue face-palm.

I am a woman working in a hardware store, so I am sadly very used to male customers thinking they know my job better than I do. I have this one regular, an older gentleman, who seems to be keeping himself busy in his retirement by working on a never-ending list of home improvement projects and odd repair jobs around the house.

Regular: “Hi, I’m looking for some lighting.” 

That’s it, just “lighting”. 

Me: “I can walk you over to our lighting department, but it’s a big department. Did you want bulbs, LED strip lighting, fixtures, or lamps?”

Regular: “Oh, I just want lighting for [very niche and specific project].”

Me: “Oh, I can help you there!”

I try to describe what he needs and help explain some common mistakes people can make with these types of products.

Me: “Usually, it’s okay with [specific power output], but if you—” 

Regular: “Oh, actually, I was just going to plug it into the regular outlet. I wired them myself, so it should be okay.”

Me: “I wouldn’t recommend that. I’ve done something similar at home, and I’ve used [specialized item] to ensure—”

Regular: “No, no, I’ll be fine.”

As I am trying to help him, another regular, who also seems to enjoy explaining my job to me, approaches.

Other Regular: “Actually, you’re both wrong. What you will need to do is [long rambling explanation of something completely irrelevant to what we were talking about].”

Regular: “Actually, what you should be doing, is [yet even more rambling explanation about his project that showcases his spotty knowledge of the subject].” 

As the regulars are trying to explain things to each other, a coworker sneaks up behind me.

Coworker: *Whispering* “What are you doing?! This is your chance!”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Coworker: “A mansplainer is trying to one-up another mansplainer! They’ll be at it for hours! You can escape, and they won’t notice!”

Oh, my God, my coworker was right! We simply both walked back to the store entrance and continued with our regular duties.

It was two hours before I saw either regular again.

This story reminded me of why I used to drive fifteen miles past three other grocery stores to shop at my favorite one.

My son was five years old and not exactly the best at remembering anything. For example, he’d forget he was clutching one of his favorite toys, or he’d forget that we don’t live in the grocery store.

We were about to check out when he said:

Son: “I left Mr. Mouse on a shelf.”

Me: “Which shelf?”

He just shrugged. Terrific.

I asked at the customer service desk if anyone had turned in a palm-sized stuffed mouse with half of a plastic Easter Egg on its head. (What can I say? My child was creative.) No one had. I looked through the aisles where we’d gone, but the mouse never turned up.

As I was leaving, they asked me if I’d found it. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Well, they seemed genuinely concerned because they WERE genuinely concerned.

Whatever transpired next in the store must have involved an aisle-by-aisle search with walkie-talkies and storewide announcements, scouring the place from top to bottom, hunting for Mr. Mouse. By the time I got home, I had a message on my voicemail. Mr. Mouse was secured, orange helmet and all.

We put away the groceries and returned to the store. I made sure my son thanked everyone he could.

Related:
My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14