I’m working at the customer service desk at a store. I have given my two weeks’ notice, and it’s my last week working here. A customer comes up with a bag with the item inside and a receipt.

Me: “How can I help you?”

Customer: “I need to return this; it’s broken. It keeps making a ticking noise.”

I look into the bag, then at the receipt, and then at the customer. I look back at the item and then at the customer again.

Me: “Ma’am, it’s a clock.”

Customer: “Yeah, but it ticks too loud.”

I just threw it into the damaged returns pile and did the return. By that point, I didn’t care.

Our store was closing, so we started selling our fixtures. Once it was time for people to pick up their units, I called everyone and let them know when they could pick them up. If they didn’t, the items would be thrown away on our last business day. I called everyone who hadn’t picked up the last two weeks before we closed. Some were earlier depending on if the fixture was cleared out, and I would always update the sheet when an attempt was made to contact or any updates.

A middle-aged lady bought the fixture where our bagged candy used to be. Since it was the bagged candy section, the only shelves were the ones on the back end because there were some chips, maybe about five shelves total. I called her seven times. The first three times, her mailbox was full, for calls four through six, I left messages, and the last time, I spoke to someone who wasn’t her; they sounded like a granddaughter.

The lady finally came in on the second-to-last day.

Lady: “You guys never called me to pick this up!”

Me: “Actually, I called you seven times and left messages when your mailbox wasn’t full.”

She waved me off and kept complaining. Then, she got to the fixture.

Lady: “This isn’t the fixture I bought. I wanted to use this as a bookshelf; that’s the whole reason I got it. You guys took the shelves off.”

Me: “The only shelves this one had are in the back because it had bagged candy.”

Lady: “No, you’re lying.”

Me: “I’m not. I worked in this section for eight years; I know what this fixture used to be.”

We kept going back and forth. I finally left and grabbed my supervisor, and he told her the same thing. (He also mainly worked in that department.)

Finally, the general manager came over and just gave her ten shelves, which was about $10. He took them off of another fixture before I told him that it had been paid for by someone else.

She had another fixture to pick up and complained that the shelves were dirty, and we just shrugged. The liquidation company policy was final sale, as-is, and you’re responsible for loading items yourself.

I hated her so much and was so happy when she left the store. When I ranted to my supervisor, he said the general manager gave her the free shelving because the money from fixtures was going to another company and not the store we worked for, so he didn’t care.

For Christmas one year, we all go to my brother’s place in Chicago. Along with the holiday, we’re doing various tourist/wandering things and end up deciding to go to [Art Museum]. For various reasons, my dad drops my mom, my little brother, and me off at the doors while he and my other brother go try to find parking. The three of us get in line to get tickets, and we’re doing the math in our heads on admission.

We get up to the ticket booth and start asking a couple of clarifying questions.

Mom: “There are five of us total, but there’s one Chicago resident. I don’t know if he needs to be present. He’s helping park the car, so should we just wait for them to get here before buying tickets?”

Cashier: “You don’t have to wait for him. Do you have his zip code? I can verify if that qualifies.”

Me: “Yeah, I have it.”

I pull up his address and give the zip.

Cashier: “Perfect, and is anyone a senior?”

Mom: “Um…”

She takes a quick glance at the nearby board to check the age cutoff.

Mom: “Not yet.”

Cashier: “Okay. What about military?”

Mom: “Well, my husband is former military and my son is active.”

My little brother is a Marine reservist. He pulls out his ID and hands it to the cashier.

Cashier: “Thank you. You know what? Here’s what I’m going to do…”

He starts pushing some buttons and the total goes from around $120 to $0 and tickets start printing.

Cashier: “Here you go.”

Mom: “Um… thank you!”

Cashier: “No problem. My dad is a Marine, and he’d kill me if he knew I’d charged another Marine. Semper fi, Marine.”

Brother: “Thank you.”

Cashier: “Thank you for your service. Have a good day, folks.”

We took our tickets and stepped to the side while we waited for my dad and my other brother. My mom was crying a little. While covering admission wouldn’t have bankrupted my parents or anything, it’s still a decent chunk of change to drop on something like that.

I double-checked later, and while active duty military does get free admission, it only applies to the full party or family members during specific times of the year, and the day after Christmas was not one of those times. So, thank you to that cashier who didn’t have to do that!

A customer in her late teens or early twenties and a woman who I assume is her mother are in the store.

Customer: *To her mom* “It gets colder in Europe because it’s further from the sun. I need a thicker jacket.”

Customer’s Mom: “Let’s ask if they have winter jackets.”

Customer: “Oh, Europe has a winter, too?”

Customer’s Mom: “Uh… are you serious, dear?”

Customer: “I thought America invented the seasons, so why would we let Europe have them?”

Customer’s Mom: “Have you been watching the news with your father again?”

Customer: “News? Ugh, so gross.”

The customer comes over to me.

Customer: “I need a jacket for Europe.”

Me: “I can help you with that. Will it just be for casual walking through a city, or are you going to be outdoors a lot?”

Customer: “I’m gonna be drinking!”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re not.”

Customer: “Yeah, I am! The legal drinking age is younger there!”

Customer’s Mom: “It might be, but you’re still on a school trip, so they’re not allowing the students who have turned eighteen to drink. I signed the permission slip that said as much.”

Customer: “I’m an adult! They can’t stop me!”

Customer’s Mom: “Maybe, but then they’ll lose their insurance and I’ll be fined, which means you’ll be fined. The places you’re going to will know not to serve alcohol to the American students.”

Customer: “I won’t tell them I’m American. I’m more Amazonian, anyway.”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re Arizonian.”

Customer: “Whatever, geology is for mids.”

Customer’s Mom: “Just stop.” 

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 12
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 11
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 10

I once worked for a property management company whose owner would look for a hotel or motel with a good reputation and buy it. He would then lay off the workers until there was only a skeleton crew of minimum-wage workers, cut as many guest benefits as possible, drastically reduce the maintenance work, and overall spend as little on the place as possible. The reputation would bring guests in for another year or two until the bad reviews on Yelp overtook the good ones. It would get some more guests past that because he’d reduce the price for a stay to undercut all other places in the area.

Once it became so bad that people wouldn’t stay there at any price, he’d sell off the land and use the money he gained to buy two more hotels and motels with good reputations to start the cycle anew.

The hotel the author stayed at in this story would be pretty similar to the ones this guy owned in their final stages. He honestly didn’t care, as long as the amount he spent was as low as he could make it.

Related:
Five Nights At Freddy’s Fortress Of Frustration