(The phone rings.)

Cashier: “Hello, [Name] Pizza… Oh, f***, not again.”

(She hangs up. A few customers come and go, and the phone rings again.)

Cashier: “Hello, [Name] Piz—  f*** this!”

Customer: “Hey, lady, problem with the phone?”

Cashier: “Some sicko keeps calling from a blocked number and making creepy comments.”

Customer: “Hang on. I gotta go find my friend.”

(He pays and leaves… and comes back with a 6’8″ NYPD police officer.)

Police Officer: *with a minor Russian accent* “I hear you’re having a problem with a caller?”

Customer: “No, no. Do the accent! Make it f***in’ scary!”

Police Officer: *in a deeper voice with a thick accent* “Excuse me. I hear you have problem with caller?”

(The cashier explains. The police officer orders a slice of pizza, and he and his friend sit and chat for a few minutes. Then the phone rings.)

Cashier: “It’s a blocked number!”

Police Officer: *on the phone, with the accent* “Hello… You are thinking my body is what? I am thinking your body probably very fragile. Very easy to— Oh, he hung up.”

(They stare at the phone a few minutes.)

Customer: “Problem solved?”

Cashier: *to the customer* “So… is your buddy there single?”

Police Officer: *in accent* “Boris have many women. All are love him!”

Customer: “You’re married and your name isn’t Boris!”

Police Officer: “Boris is name of accent. Has life of its own.”

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(I am ordering cigarettes behind our customer service counter while my coworker mans the desk. She is nearer our display of packs of cigarettes than I am, so I call out to ask her how many we have left of a particular brand.)

Me: “How many [brand] menthol blue’s do we have?”

(She looks at the display, confused.)

Coworker: “Uhh… which ones are those?”

Me: “The blue ones on your left.”

(She continues to look around the display with no success. She’s running her finger along the rows of tags, trying to find them.)

Me: “One row down, on your left.”

(She drops her finger TWO rows, and stares, lost.)

Me: “No, one row. Move one row up.”

(She does so, and then stops again. She’s on the right row, but on the wrong side of the display.)

Coworker: “Where?”

Me: “On your left.”

(She moves one single pack to the left. They aren’t even blue.)

Coworker: “These ones?”

Me: “Keep going… keep going…”

Coworker: “Wait, which way is left again?”

Me: *facepalm*

Me: “911, what’s your emergency?”

Caller: “If anyone calls about screaming coming from [Road], disregard it. I just had a bug on me.” *click*

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(Our theater has done a production of a Christmas Carol every year for many years. This happens the first year that I work the final performance of the run, mid-day Christmas Eve.)

Woman: *dragging three kids behind her* “Hi, we need uh… four tickets for the show today.”

Me: “I’m sorry, we’re sold out for this afternoon’s performance, but I ca—”

Woman: “Sold out!? You’re kidding me? Do you have any seats at all?”

Me: “No, like I said, we are sold out. However, I can pu—”

Woman: “So you don’t have four seats?”

Me: *trying to get the whole sentence out before she interrupts me again* “No, but I can put you on a wait list.”

Woman: “Okay. We need four together.”

Me: “I’m sorry. If we can get you in at all, I can’t promise they will be four seats together.”

(She huffs and rolls her eyes a bit, then gets on the list. Ten or fifteen minutes later another woman walks in with a little girl.)

Woman #2: “Hi, I know it’s Christmas Eve and it’s a Christmas show and everything, but is there any possibility of getting two tickets today?”

Me: “Unfortunately, we are sold out, but I can put you on a wait list.”

Woman #2: “Really? Oh, that would be good. We’ll take our chances. So you’re completely sold out? That’s nice for you guys.”

Me: “Thank you. Now I do have to tell you that if we can get you in, I can’t necessarily get you together.”

(She and her daughter exchange a few looks, and the little girl shrugs, then nods.)

Woman #2: “That’s fine. Thank you! We’ll be waiting!”

Me: “Good luck!”

(We get through all the tickets we have waiting to be picked up, and then seat a few people off the waitlist from seats handed back. At the last minute we get permission to sell house seats, late seats and handicapped seats, using EVERYTHING we have, packing the theater to full capacity. I seat the family of four together, they’re cranky and loud and aggravating. They complain about the seats they have, then wander upstairs slowly, even though I’ve told them they should hurry as the show is about to begin. The nice woman and her daughter are the last on the list, and at the last moment I get them a pair together.)

Me: “Ma’am? I have a pair of seats for you.”

Woman #2: *rushing to the ticket window* “Really?” *to her daughter* “We get to see the show!”

(Her daughter smiles and bounces on her toes, mom keeps talking quietly as I process their tickets.)

Woman #2: “Isn’t this great? Aren’t we lucky? You know, when I was little I used to come to this show with MY mommy. Every year we’d come here. So I think you and I should go and enjoy the show, and think of Grandma, yeah?”

Little Girl: “Yeah.”

Woman #2: “Good.”

Me: *trying not to show I’m almost in tears* “Here you are; enjoy the show!”

Woman #2: “Thank you! Merry Christmas!”

Little Girl: “Merry Christmas!”

Me: “Merry Christmas!”

(I think of them every year during Christmas Carol!)

(This happened about 5 years ago, when I was doing weekend work having just turned 18. A customer in his 50s approaches my checkout.)

Customer: “I’m sorry, but why aren’t you wearing your ring? That’s very disrespectful.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but what ring?”

Customer: “You know, your wedding ring?”

Me: “I think you may have mistaken me for someone else. I’m not married–I’m only 18.”

Customer: “When I was your age, I was married and my wife was pregnant with our son! How can you not be married yet?! It’s getting far too late for you! No one will ever want to marry you at this rate!”

(I love the idea of romance, and am very emotional, so I have tears in my eyes, even though I know he is wrong. A male coworker has been listening the whole time and speaks up to defend me.)

Male coworker: “I disagree, sir. I, for one, would like to marry her.”

(In frustration, the man takes his shopping bags and storms out the shop, all the while muttering. My coworker and I went out for drinks after work, and now, five years on, he really is my fiancé! I suppose I have a lot to thank that man for!)